"Stephen is a fine, talented boy. But you are too young to limit yourself."

"Daddy, quit treating me like a baby. I'll be twenty-one tomorrow."

"That's still too young to --"

"Mother was sixteen when you met her."

"Times were different then."

"What are you trying to tell me? That you don't want me to see Stephen?"

"I just don't want you to get serious with one man right now. Someday you'll get married, to the right man. But now, you're too young to know what you want."

"I'm not too young to know what I want," she said. "In fact, that's what I came to talk to you about. I want a job. Here at the Times."

Adam sighed wearily. "I thought you put that crazy idea out of your head."

"It's not a crazy idea," she said. "I've got my journalism degree now. I want to work with you."

"No, absolutely not."

"But why not?"

"I told you. My daughter does not have to work for a living. I don't want you working, especially on a newspaper."

"But it's what I want to do. Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be a writer."

"Then be one. Write poetry."

"I want to write for a newspaper."

"You have no idea what it means to work on a newspaper."

"Then teach me!" Kellen felt tears threatening.

"Please, Kellen, not now." Adam closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them and took her hand. "I remember when you were born. I looked at you and thought, what in the world am I going to do with a little girl? But your mother knew what to do. She raised you to be a lady. And that's what I've tried to do, too, because I know that's what she would have wanted."

"But I want to do something," she said.

"The most important thing you can do," he said, "is to find the right man and mean as much to him as your mother meant to me."

Slowly, Kellen withdrew her hand from Adam's grasp. She leaned back in the chair, her energy draining away.

Adam saw the look on her face. "You know I can't stand seeing you look like that." He smiled slightly. "Why don't you and a girlfriend go off on a little trip? Hawaii, maybe. I haven't given you a graduation present yet, have I?"

"No, you haven't," she said flatly.

"Well, then you pick a place and make the arrangements. And buy all the new clothes you need. Would you like that?"

She didn't answer. Ian came into the office. "We need to go over this, Father," he said, handing Adam a doc.u.ment.

Adam took it and glanced at Kellen. "I'll see you at home tonight. And I want you to think about that other thing we talked about."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

Kellen walked slowly down the hallway. A man got off the elevator, and she brushed by him, lost in her thoughts.

"Kellen?"

She looked up. It was Clark Able. He was dressed in a finely tailored gray flannel blazer and slacks, and an outrageous pink and charcoal silk tie, all in keeping with the dandy image he had cultivated. During the last three years, he had become a celebrity because of his gossip column, "Of Cabbages and Kings." Adam had engineered his rise within the city's social circle, and Clark was a frequent dinner guest at the house. Kellen had found in Clark a kindred free spirit, and they had become good friends.

Kellen managed a small smile. "How come you haven't been to dinner lately?" she asked.

"Your old man's been pretty busy in recent weeks. Haven't been able to get through to him."

"That makes two of us," she said, punching the elevator b.u.t.ton.

"You know, I think your father's working too hard." Clark said. "He looks tired lately."

Kellen didn't say anything.

"Kel, what's wrong? You know you can tell me."

For a moment, she thought about telling Clark about the conversation with her father. She needed to talk to someone. But then she decided he probably would not understand. No one could, not Clark, not even Stephen. The elevator opened, and she got in. "No, everything's perfect," she said softly.

Before the elevator closed, Kellen caught it. "Clark, why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow night?"

He paused. "Well, I haven't been invited."

"Well, I'm inviting you. It's my twenty-first birthday. Josh and Stephen are coming. I'd like you to be there to help me celebrate. We'll all have a great time, just one happy family," she said with an ironic smile as the door closed.

The next night, everyone gathered in the living room for drinks before dinner. The day had been cold, and even a blaze in the fireplace did not seem to dispel the chill in the air. Josh, Stephen, and Clark sat talking quietly by the fire. Ian, dressed in a dinner jacket, drank his scotches too quickly, annoyed about having to obey Adam's order to stay home for dinner. Adam seemed strangely dispirited and distracted.

Kellen began to wonder if Clark was right about Adam's health. Upon reflection, she realized that he had seemed depressed in recent weeks and had lost some weight. He was, she decided, working too hard.

She went over to him and sat on the edge of his chair. "I didn't thank you yet for the birthday present, Daddy," she said softly. She fingered the pearl necklace Adam had given her earlier then kissed his cheek. She stood up and held out the folds of her gown. It was Victorian, old velvet, worn to the softness of violet petals. She had found it in an antique store and had been saving it for a special occasion.

"So how do you think it looks with my new dress?" she said, smiling down at Adam.

Adam barely glanced at her. "I give you money to buy clothes and you run around in old rags. You should dress more like a lady."

Kellen's smile disappeared, and she reddened deeply. Her hand went up instinctively to the gown's provocative low neckline. She could feel everyone's eyes on her.

She stared at Adam, too stunned to move. He looked away, finishing his drink in a quick gulp. He rose from the chair.

"Let's go in to dinner," he said to no one in particular. He went alone toward the dining room.

Stephen came up behind Kellen. "He didn't mean it the way it sounded," he said quietly. "Something's bothering him. He was edgy all day at work."

"I know what's bothering him," Kellen said. "I am. Everything I do lately seems to make him angry." She glanced at Stephen. "He doesn't think you're good enough for me, Stephen. He wants me to find a nice Catholic boy and stay at home and raise little red-headed leprechauns."

She swept by him before he could answer. He followed her into the dining room. During dinner, the conversation was stilted and filled with pregnant pauses. Ian and Stephen got into a heated discussion about the Times' problems in attracting suburban readers. Adam appeared to half listen. Occasionally, he glanced down the long table to Kellen, who was sitting in the chair Elizabeth had always occupied. Kellen was stifling her anger by drinking her wine too freely and doing some strange mockery of a social grande dame, turning to Stephen on her right and then to Clark on her left, laughing and chatting with exaggerated charm.

At eight, the governess brought Tyler in for Adam to say good night. The boy was dressed in pajamas, his freshly washed blond hair slicked to his head. He stood by Adam's chair, staring up with wide blue eyes.

"Can I stay up a little later, Father?" he asked.

"No, Tyler."

"But I want to watch the end of 'Johnny Jupiter.'"

"Go to bed, son." He bent low and Tyler kissed Adam's cheek. The governess led the boy away.

Again, the room was quiet. Dinner was cleared and a maid brought in a birthday cake and set it before Kellen. With a smile, Kellen blew out the candles and Josh, Stephen, and Clark applauded.

"Best wishes, Kel," Clark said, kissing her cheek.

Kellen turned to Stephen. "Happy birthday," he said softly. He started to kiss her cheek, but she turned and kissed him fully on the lips. She looked back down the table in time to see Adam staring at her.

"Well, I hope it's chocolate!" she said, turning from his stare. She cut the cake, pa.s.sing plates down the table. Kellen noticed Adam was still staring at her strangely.

"Daddy, Stephen told me something really interesting about the Times," she said, meeting his eyes. "He said you're going to hire a European correspondent!" She laughed and turned to Clark. "My G.o.d, Clark, that's my dream job! I'd kill to get it!"

Kellen glanced down the table to Adam. "Of course," she said, "my father doesn't want me dirtying my hands on the Times. He'd rather I be one of those women who put on little white gloves before they read their newspapers so the ink doesn't rub off on their precious hands."

Josh shot her a look, which she ignored.

"My father's a bit old-fashioned, Clark," she went on. "He thinks that women -- excuse me, ladies -- don't work."

Everyone was staring at Adam now. "Kellen, this is not the place," Adam said quietly.

She ignored him. "Clark, you know a lot about rich ladies," she said. "What is it they do, exactly?"

"Well, Kellen..."

"C'mon, Clark, I need some help with this. I'm officially an adult today, so it's time for me to become an official lady. Let's see, the ladies I know give nice little teas but they nip scotch during the afternoon. They buy subscriptions to the opera but they give the tickets to the boring, long ones to their hairdressers. And, of course, they all seem to have the right husbands and the wrong lovers."

Kellen glanced at Adam. "My father wants me to be a lady, Clark," she said. "The problem is, I can't figure out just what in the h.e.l.l it is that a lady does."

Adam slammed his fist down on the table. "A lady respects her father!" Adam said. "And she does not sneak men into her bedroom behind his back!"

Kellen went white with shock. She looked at Stephen, who was stunned. Then she saw the look on Ian's face and knew in an instant he had told Adam that she and Stephen were sleeping together.

"There's nothing wrong with what Stephen and I do," she said. "We love each other. And we're going to get married."

Stephen grabbed her arm. "Kellen, stop."

Josh and Clark sat watching in dazed silence.

"You're not marrying Stephen," Adam said, oblivious to everyone's embarra.s.sment.

"Why not?" Kellen said. "Isn't he good enough for your precious daughter? What's the problem, Daddy? Isn't he rich enough?"

"Kellen!" Adam shouted.

"Oh, it's not the money? Well, what is it, then? Is it because he's Jewish, Daddy? That's it, isn't it? Maybe he doesn't quite fit in this nice-little-lady life you've laid out for me."

She rose suddenly. "Well, I can't do it! I can't be what you want me to be! I'm not Mother. I'm sorry, but I'm not."

She ran from the dining room. Stephen started to go after her, but Josh held his arm. No one said a word.

Finally, Josh rose. "I think we'd better leave," he said quietly.

"I'll be getting home, too," Clark said.

Adam didn't even look at them. Josh followed Stephen and Clark out of the dining room. At the last minute, he stopped at the door and glanced back.

Ian was sitting silently, his hand resting on Adam's arm. But Adam didn't seem to feel it. He sat motionless at the long empty table, staring at Kellen's chair.

PART THREE.

Kellen, 1966.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

It was Monday, the morning after Bastille Day. The tall man in a business suit pushed his way along the crowded sidewalk of Boulevard St-Michel. The gutters were still littered with paper and bottles from the celebration of the night before, and the man marveled anew at Parisians' capacity for back-to-back revelry and work. Last night, the streets had been filled with drunken, dancing people. Now everyone was going back to work, sweeping the stoops of shops, unfurling awnings, and carefully stacking tomatoes.

It had been a tremendous party. He had sat at his window table at La Tour d'Argent, half-listening to the murmurings of his business a.s.sociates as he watched a young man below on the quay march through the parade brandishing a dummy's head on a spike in symbolic memory of the politician Foullon who had been beheaded for saying of the Parisians, "If this riffraff has no bread, they'll eat hay."

The man had smiled to himself, thinking about Foullon as he had turned his attention back to dinner. In all his years of coming to Paris, he had learned one truism: You could insult a Frenchman's wife, his honor, or his country, but you could never question his cuisine.

Which is why the man had kept quiet about the pressed duck he had been treated to by his hosts. After so many rich meals, he had longed for something simpler, like the plain old fish and chips from the shop he frequented on Waterloo Road back in London. But he said nothing. And when the fireworks began, lighting up Notre Dame and eliciting polite oohs and aahs from the restaurant patrons, he found himself looking wistfully down to the people kissing in the street.

Now, at nine in the morning, he was prowling the streets of the Latin Quarter, looking for some place that sold chips.