Stephen saw her looking at the newspapers. "Kellen, you can't afford to be sentimental," he said.

"I'm not being sentimental. I just can't stand the thought of losing one of those papers." She picked up the Lifestyle section. "Selling one newspaper might seem like a good sacrifice but it's a loss we can never make back. Once a newspaper is gone, it's gone forever." She shook her head. "I can't do it."

"Kellen," he said, "you know you let your heart rule your head. Well, you can't this time."

"No," she said quickly. "Sometimes you have to use both."

Stephen looked at her for a moment then ran a hand over his eyes. "All right, Kellen," he said. "I don't want to fight you on this. Or your father either."

He went to the door.

"Stephen," she called out.

He turned, waiting for her to say something.

"We'll find another way," she said.

CHAPTER SIXTY.

Kellen sat at her dressing table, finishing her hair. "Stephen, you'd better hurry," she called out. "We're already an hour late."

"I don't see why I have to go to this," he said, putting on his tie as he came out of the bathroom.

"It's for Tyler's sake," she replied. "He asked me to invite you and I didn't want to disappoint him. How often does someone open his own art gallery?"

She turned her attention back to the mirror. An art gallery. She still couldn't believe it. She had been so surprised last week when Tyler called to tell her about it. She had not talked to him in two months, since that night in the bar.

She figured he was upset over her reaction to his announcement about being gay. But when he had called, he was friendly and excited about the gallery. He told her he had a business partner, a brilliant young sculptor named Michael Bierce.

"I wonder where he got the money?" Stephen said.

"His trust fund payments are pretty generous," Kellen said. "And I'm sure his partner put up something."

She finished the tie. "Thanks for coming with me."

He smiled slightly. "We'd better get going. The sooner we get there the sooner we can leave."

They drove down toward Fisherman's Wharf, to the foot of Hyde Street near the cable car turnaround in Victorian Park. Stylish silver lettering on the window of the brick storefront announced the Landon Gallery. Kellen noted that Tyler had chosen to use his middle name instead of Bryant.

Inside, the room was crowded, the people fighting for s.p.a.ce with the sculptures -- colossal-sized bronzes of nude men. There was soft jazz playing, barely audible over the loud buzz of conversation. Kellen paused at the door, looking for Tyler. The gallery was tastefully done in soft cream and mauve, with spotlights over each sculpture.

She turned her attention to the nearest bronze. The ten-foot figure was poised, as if hurling an imaginary spear, its muscles overly defined to the point of grotesqueness, its teeth bared in an agonized grimace. The sheer size of it was oppressive. There were six others in similar poses stationed around the room, and nothing else.

Kellen searched again for Tyler, finally spotting him in a far corner. She and Stephen made their way over.

Tyler's face lit up when he saw her. "I didn't think you were coming."

She kissed his cheek. "I told you I would," she said.

"Sorry we're late," Stephen said. "It's my fault."

Tyler was holding a gla.s.s of champagne, his face flushed with excitement. "So, what do you think of the place?"

"It's beautiful, Tyler," Kellen said. "Who did your decorating?"

"I did. I hired people to do the work, of course, but I thought of everything." He nodded toward the sculpture. "The lights really set Mike's work off nicely, don't you think?"

"Where's your stuff?" Stephen asked.

Tyler shrugged. "Didn't get anything finished in time." He smiled. "Besides, Mike's the real talent. I'm the brains behind him."

Kellen and Stephen exchanged a subtle look that was lost on Tyler. "I want you to meet him," Tyler said. "Wait here." He took off through the crowd and returned with a tall man in a tweed jacket. Tyler introduced Mike Bierce and pa.s.sed out gla.s.ses of champagne.

Kellen sipped hers as she listened to Bierce talk, with much bravado, about his sculpture. She watched Tyler, who was in turn watching Bierce worshipfully. She wondered if Tyler and Bierce were lovers.

"There's the critic from Art Digest," Tyler said suddenly. "Come on, Mike, I'll introduce you. Excuse us."

Kellen and Stephen stood there, staring up at one of the bronzes. "This is creepy stuff," Stephen said finally.

Tyler was across the room, standing in a semicircle of people, next to Bierce. He was laughing and talking animatedly. She had never seen him looking so happy.

"Whatever you do," she said, "don't tell Tyler that. He needs a success right now."

Stephen shrugged. "Well, I'm no expert. It's probably a lot better than I think." He put down his champagne gla.s.s. "I'm going to get a scotch and water," he said. "You want something else?"

Kellen shook her head and watched Stephen make his way to the bar. She turned toward the nearest sculpture and circled it slowly. Stephen was right. There was something disturbingly macabre about the bronzes. She didn't like them either. They were like Bierce himself - something she didn't like but couldn't exactly say why.

"I've never seen such garbage."

"It's strictly derivative."

Two men were standing nearby, staring up at one of the bronzes. Kellen recognized them as the art critics for the Times and the Journal. She moved so she could eavesdrop without being seen.

"So what are you going to write about this?" the Times critic asked the other.

"That the guy's a no-talent who certainly doesn't deserve his own gallery showing. Looks like he found a good thing, and now he's sucking it dry, so to speak."

Both men laughed. "You're sick, Harris, you know that?" the Times critic said.

"I have no qualms about slamming people who really deserve it. Especially some rich little gaybo who thinks he can buy success for his boyfriend."

"At least you can call it like you see it," the Times critic said. "I don't have that luxury. Tyler Bryant decided to open a gallery and I d.a.m.n well better say something nice about it."

"You get pressure from the family?"

The man shrugged. "I can't take the chance these days. Ian Bryant interferes in everything, always sending down memos to the editors about coverage on his sacred cows." The critic sighed. "At least when the old man was around you could always count on the paper having integrity. Now, the daughter's back upstairs and who knows what she's going to do or how much say she has over her husband. We're a bunch of nervous cats that don't know which way to jump. So I pull my punches. I'm too old to start biting the hand that feeds me."

Kellen eased away from the two men. She had always suspected that some people in the newsroom felt the way the critic did, but it was Tyler she was really concerned about.

She saw him in the crowd and her heart went out to him. He was riding so high, and she didn't want to see him get hurt. She went across the room to him. He was struggling to open a bottle of champagne.

"Need some help?" she asked.

The cork gave way with a loud pop, and Tyler laughed. "No, I'm doing fine!" He began to fill some gla.s.ses.

"Tyler, there's something I want to say to you."

He held out a gla.s.s. "First, a toast. To me," he said with a broad smile.

Kellen clinked her gla.s.s against his. "To you," she said softly. She set the gla.s.s aside. "Tyler, remember that night you took me to that bar?"

"Of course."

She paused. "I may not understand what you're doing but I want you to know I love you."

Tyler sobered. "That's a good start."

"I just want you to be happy, Tyler."

"But I am happy," he said. "I finally feel like I'm doing something, Kellen. Something of my own. It feels good." He paused. "How about you. Are you happy?"

The question caught her off guard. She thought about it for a moment but found she couldn't think of an answer that didn't sound falsely upbeat. Before she could answer, she saw Ian coming across the room. Lilith and Clarisse were trailing behind. At the same moment, Stephen came up to Kellen's side.

"What are they doing here?" Stephen said.

"I invited them," Tyler said. "But I never thought they'd show up."

Ian approached with a grin and thumped Tyler on the back. "Tyler, old man. Looks like you have a success on your hands here."

"Thanks, Ian. h.e.l.lo, Lilith, Clarisse."

Lilith gave him a tight smile. Clarisse was preoccupied with checking out the crowd. Ian's eyes traveled around the room, taking in the people and the strange sculptures. "Quite a night for the Bryant family," he said to Kellen. "We should be proud of our little brother here."

"I'm not so little anymore, Ian," Tyler said.

"No, I suppose not," Ian said. "Soon you'll be twenty-one and your name will go on the Times masthead, right below mine and Kellen's." He smiled at Kellen. "Hard to believe, isn't it. The three of us, running the paper together. Just like Father wanted."

Kellen stayed silent.

Ian turned to Stephen. "We have a vice presidents' meeting next week, don't we?" he said. "Should I expect any surprises from editorial? Or should I ask Kellen?"

"No, nothing," Stephen said tersely.

Tyler picked up on the tension and quickly offered a tray of fluted gla.s.ses. "How about some champagne?"

For a moment everyone just stood there, holding their gla.s.ses, staring at one other, saying nothing.

"Well, someone make a toast, for heaven's sake," Clarisse said.

"But not to the gallery," Tyler said. "If I hear one more of those, I'll start thinking jinx."

There was a long pause. Kellen cleared her throat. "The San Francisco Times turns one hundred next month," she said.

Everyone looked at her in surprise, except Clarisse, who looked just bored. "So I'll make a toast," Kellen said. She raised her gla.s.s. "To my father."

Lilith raised her gla.s.s higher. "To my father."

For a moment, no one took a drink. Then finally Tyler did, and everyone followed. Ian drained his gla.s.s with a quick gulp and set it down. "Well, Tyler, we have to be going," he said. "We're on our way to the club for dinner, but we just wanted to stop by. Are you ready, Mother? Clarisse?"

"I'm famished," Clarisse said and started toward the door without saying good-bye.

Lilith brushed Tyler's cheek with her own. "A marvelous opening, dear." With a final look at Kellen, she swept off toward the door.

Ian shook Tyler's hand and was gone. Kellen, Stephen, and Tyler stood there for a moment without saying a word. Stephen finally let out a long breath, so empty sounding that she turned to look at him. He looked tired.

"I think we'd better get going, too," she said to Tyler.

They said their good nights and left the gallery. As the drove, Stephen was very quiet. At home he went right up to the bedroom but Kellen detoured to the children's rooms.

Ben was sleeping soundly, and she bent low to kiss his warm cheek. In Sara's room Kellen stood over the bed staring down at her daughter's face. Her brows were knit in a small frown, as if she were in the middle of a bad dream. Kellen gently caressed her forehead until the small lines of tension were gone.

As Kellen stared down at Sara she thought how much the child reminded her of Garrett. Sometimes, it pained her even to look at her daughter, because her resemblance to Garrett was becoming stronger with each pa.s.sing day. Finally, Kellen crept out of the room.

Stephen was lying in bed, arms raised up to cradle his head, staring at the ceiling. He didn't even look at her when she came in. She undressed and slipped into bed beside him.

"Stephen, don't let Ian get to you," she said softly. "That's what he does, plays these little mind games."

He said nothing for a moment then leaned over and kissed her. "Good night, Kellen," he said. He turned away from her.

She switched off the light and lay there, listening to Stephen's even breathing. It mixed with the foghorns and familiar soft noises of the house as it settled into night. Usually, the sounds lulled her to sleep. But tonight, she could find no comfort in them.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE.

It was nearly one in the morning, and Tyler was pacing the floor of his apartment, still riding an adrenaline high. He had left the gallery only a half hour ago, after ushering out the last guests. He was so euphoric that he didn't even mind when Mike announced he wanted to go home alone to his studio to do some work. Mike often worked best during the early morning hours.

But now, Tyler couldn't sleep. He wanted to do something special for Mike. But what? He had already done so much -- bought him the studio in the Embarcadero and supported him so he could concentrate on his art. And he had given him the gallery showing that would launch his career. What else was left?