"What do you mean exactly?"

"In the last quarter, the Journal showed a circulation gain for the first time in ten years," Josh said. "Ian doesn't care but I think he's being short-sighted. And now that Adam's gone, I think he's going to cut back the suburban operation. He and Stephen are at each other's throats about it."

Kellen ran her hand through her hair. The gesture made Josh realize he was probably overloading her with information.

"These suburban editions," she said. "You said they are expensive to run."

Josh nodded.

"But they're important?" she asked.

"Your father thought so. He was a visionary, Kellen. He could see things others couldn't."

"I wanted to help," Kellen said. "Why couldn't he have seen that?"

"When it came to the newspapers, your father looked to the future. But with his own family, he looked to the past. And in that world daughters had a certain role to fulfill."

Kellen was quiet.

"But I think if he could see you now, he'd be very proud at what you're trying to do," Josh said.

Kellen stared at the newspapers spread out on the conference table and at the ma.s.s of financial reports. The confidence she had felt only hours ago when she walked out of Ian's office was dissipating. The task now before her was overwhelming. How could she possibly learn enough to run the newspapers? And how could she learn enough to counter Ian? She thought suddenly of Ian and how he had looked sitting behind her father's desk.

"I have to do it," she said. "I owe it to my father."

The next night, Kellen accepted Stephen's invitation to dinner. It was the first time they had had a chance to be alone together since Kellen's return from Carmel. The conversation was polite and filled with strange pauses. Finally, Stephen reached over and took her hand.

"Why are we acting like this?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"Like strangers. It's me, Stephen." He smiled and maneuvered their fingers into a grasp that ended with him tickling her palm. It was the secret handshake of their childhood.

Kellen laughed, and suddenly the ice was broken.

"I missed you, Kellen."

She felt the years slip away and a feeling of security washed over her. "I missed you, too, Stephen," she said softly.

Over dinner, they talked. Kellen told him about Paris and the Trib but sketched over her personal life. Stephen talked eagerly about the suburban coverage but glossed over his problems with Ian.

"We have our differences," he said simply.

"Ian doesn't really care about the newspaper, not the way Daddy did," Kellen said. "Or the way I do."

Stephen looked at her strangely. "How involved with the Times do you intend to get?"

"I'm going to run it. The way my father wanted it run."

Stephen sat back in his chair. "Your father had very strong ideas about newspapers. He taught me all that I know. I respected him very much, and I've tried to carry on as he would have wanted."

Kellen realized she had hurt Stephen's feelings. "I know that, Stephen," she said. "So did my father. That's why he made you editor. And that's why I will need your help." She paused. "You'll help me, won't you?"

After a moment, Stephen smiled. He leaned forward, took her hand and kissed it lightly. "I'll help you," he said.

For a moment, her thoughts flitted to Garrett, but she pushed them aside. It had been fantastic but it had been just one moment, and she wasn't going back to Paris. Her future was here now, with the newspaper.

She stared into Stephen's eyes and didn't pull her hand away.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.

For the next month, Kellen immersed herself in trying to learn how the financial, production, advertising, marketing, and circulation divisions of the newspaper worked. She tackled the reports that Josh sent to her. At first, the reports made no sense but she persevered. She pestered Josh and the vice presidents with her questions. She attended department meetings where she drew stares from the men.

Her schedule prevented her from dwelling on Adam's death. It also gave her little time to think about Garrett. She knew she would never see him again.

Then, one morning late in September, he called. She was shocked when Adele told her who was on the phone. The connection was poor but his voice immediately brought him back, as if he were right there in her office.

"You remember me, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes." Her heart was pounding. "How did you know to call me here?"

"I called the Trib. They told me who you are. Why didn't you tell me yourself when we met?"

"It didn't seem necessary," she said, knowing how weak it sounded. "I thought it was only going to be one night."

He was silent. The line crackled with static. "I heard about your father's death," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

The line hummed, and Kellen could hear the ghostly voices of another conversation. The connection was terrible.

"I want to see you again," Garrett said.

Kellen closed her eyes. She could see his face and feel the touch of his hands on her body. "I'm not going back to Paris," she said.

"Then I'll come to you."

"When?"

"Soon. As soon as I can."

There was a loud burst of static, and she lifted the receiver away from her ear. When she tried to listen again, she realized the line was dead. He didn't call back, and she somehow didn't expect him to. But she was left with the same rush of antic.i.p.ation she had felt that first night in Paris.

Three weeks went by and Kellen did not hear from Garrett. Every time the phone rang she expected it to be him. Finally, she was left with only a simmering anger that he had injected himself into her life and then just left her hanging.

She immersed herself in work.

In just one month, she had learned much about the company, but her enthusiasm was buckling under the reams of information still to be digested.

She picked up a report from her desk, but the figures began to run together in a blur.

"d.a.m.n," she said, tossing it down. "There's got to be more to it than this."

She jumped up and went to the door. "I'm going down to the newsroom," she told Adele.

Downstairs, she went through the city room. Heads swiveled. Necks craned. Many of the employees stared because they knew who she was. Those who didn't simply gawked at the sight of a tall, beautiful redhead in a black suit making her way through the newsroom.

Stephen looked up in surprise when he saw her. He motioned her inside his gla.s.s office. "What are you doing down here?" he asked.

"I'm tired of sitting upstairs reading reports," she said, sitting down. "I needed a dose of reality."

Before Stephen could say anything there was a rap on the door and two men came in. Kellen waited while they conferred with Stephen about a potentially libelous quote in a story. Kellen watched Stephen carefully. She had never actually watched him at work before and now, as she listened to him referee the debate between the reporter and editor it was as if she were seeing him in a totally new light. His calm nature, something she had been so quick to make light of when she was young, now seemed like a shining a.s.set. Stephen brought the discussion to an end, and the men left.

"Sorry," Stephen said. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying that if I intend to really run the Times then I need to understand how the editorial side works," Kellen said. "You said you'd help me. Where do we start?"

"Well, what do you want to do exactly?"

"Help you run the newsroom."

Stephen smiled. "I have a managing editor for that."

"Stephen, it's not like I don't have some experience. I worked in Paris and --"

"You wrote a weekly column, Kellen." He paused, seeing the defensive look creep into her eyes. "Now, don't go getting angry with me. Look at it from my perspective. If you suddenly showed up down here at my side trying to run things, how would it look?"

"I don't care how things look, Stephen."

"I know. You never did. But think about this. It would look like the owner's daughter suddenly decided to do a little slumming. To the staff, I'd look like a puppet and you'd look like a debutante trying out the new toy."

"You're treating me like a child. Just like you used to."

Stephen shrugged. "All right, it's your paper. Do what you want. But I'm going to give you some advice whether you want it or not. Don't make the same mistake Ian made. Twenty years ago, your father brought him in to learn the business. My father once told me that the employees hated Ian because he never made any honest attempt to learn. He just came in and started playing heir apparent." He nodded toward the city room. "The people out there still hate him. Even the new ones who've never even seen him."

Kellen stared at Stephen. She was angry and embarra.s.sed, but she understood what he was trying to tell her. "I want to run this paper the way my father did," she said. "What do you suggest I do?"

"Learn the way everyone learns -- from the bottom up. You can start on the copy desk Monday morning."

She nodded. "What time do you want me in -- eight?"

"Nope. The shift runs three a.m. to nine a.m."

Kellen stared at Stephen. He was not smiling, but she could tell he was enjoying this, retribution maybe for all the times she had teased him when they were growing up. He was throwing out a challenge, thinking she wouldn't be up to it.

"Fine," she said.

"Good. Chauncey needs some help with the bulldog edition. He's the morning desk editor, over there." Stephen pointed to a man out in the newsroom. "See him. And be here on time. Chauncey won't cut you any slack."

"I don't expect any."

Kellen said good-bye and left Stephen's office. As she headed to the elevator she spotted Clark Able and went over to his desk. He was hunched over his typewriter, pecking at the keys with two fingers. An unlit brown Gauloise cigarette was clamped between his lips and his straight brown hair hung down over his gla.s.ses. He wore a spotless white shirt with French cuffs and small antique gold cuff links. A silk tie was knotted at his throat.

"Hey, Clark."

His head jerked up and he squinted at her. "Kellen! Sit down. I'll be done in a minute." He tore the paper out of the typewriter with a flourish. "Elliot! To the desk!"

His young a.s.sistant sprang up from his desk, grabbed the paper and marched off down the aisle. Clark leaned back in his chair and looked at his watch. "A new record -- twenty-two minutes, forty-five seconds. I'm a genius. But tomorrow, column number two thousand five hundred forty-five will be kitty-litter liner." He sighed. "No one appreciates me, Kellen."

She glanced at the stacks of mail and phone messages on Clark's desk and at the photographs on the wall of Clark posing with various celebrities. Clark had been writing his column for nearly nine years and in that time had become the most recognizable man in San Francisco. Everyone, from the mayor to Market Street cabbies wanted to be mentioned in "Of Cabbages and Kings."

"Everyone loves you, Clark," Kellen said.

"But no one loves me," he said, smiling.

Kellen knew that was a reference to his latest broken love affair. His girlfriend of two years had just ended the relationship and moved to New York.

"I love you," she said.

"At least I can count on that." He lit his cigarette. "So, what brings you down to the snake pit?"

When she told him about her new job on the desk Clark roared with laughter.

She smiled wanly. "In Paris, that's what time I used to go to bed."

He blew a small smoke ring. "I hope you're not going to let Stephen convert you into a drone for his hive here."

"I won't let that happen."

He snuffed out the cigarette in an over-flowing crystal ashtray. "Listen, I have an idea. One last blowout before you become a happy little do-bee. Come with me to the opera tomorrow night. There's a party after."

"I don't know, Clark. I haven't been out since the funeral."

"It will do you good." He paused. "Besides, the Bryant box has been empty for some time now. It would be nice to have someone in it."

She had been to the opera only once -- with her father, taking her mother's place in the box when Elizabeth had been too ill to attend. Kellen had vague memories of the music and of the soft black wool of Adam's tuxedo as she held his arm.

"You're right," she said. "I'd love to go."