The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  “Suits me better, don’t you think?”

  He studied her. She wasn’t what he remembered, that she knew for certain. Growing nervous under his scrutiny, she said, “Let me show you what I’m going to do.”

  He hesitated, the barest indication of the war within. He didn’t want to care; she knew him well enough to understand that. But he hadn’t been able to stay away; she’d hoped that would be the case.

  “If they let you.”

  “They can’t stop me.” It was a boast, an empty one. He would probably realize that. But it would strike a chord with the old Paul Lyon. And that man apparently wasn’t as dead and gone as he believed, for he took off his slightly shabby fedora and gestured to the door.

  She led him down the corridor, past the broadcasting booth and the control room. She led him to the locked door that sealed the station from the rest of the warehouse, which had been used for storage by a local appliance store for as long as Margaret could remember. She opened the padlock and they entered the back of the building. It was empty now, a long, narrow space. The concrete floor was marked off in chalk.

  He studied the chalk marks. He could see it, too, the plans she’d drawn for the new television studio. She knew he could. Suddenly enthused again, she took into the room with a sweeping gesture. “We’ll need another control room. More engineering space. A studio of course. And a newsroom.”

  “A newsroom?”

  She paused, amused by his confusion. “Of course. You don’t think I want a television station just so we can entertain people, do you?”

  “But news? Local news?”

  “That’s what I know best,” she said. “That’s what you taught me, you know.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. People might stay home from the movies to watch Milton Berle or Jack Benny. But news?”

  He wanted to be convinced. She was sure of it. Her heart raced, as it always did when she talked about her dream. “City Council fights. Murder trials. Police corruption. You know, things haven’t gotten any better in this city.” She clutched his coat sleeve. “Paul, one day we’ll be reporting live from all over the parish. We’ll be able to tell people instantly about the threat of hurricanes. We’ll be on the air all night reporting election results. One day, we’ll be broadcasting twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  He smiled, the tolerant smile people reserve for the slightly addled. “They’re right. You’re losing your marbles.”

  “If you think about it, you’ll know better. People are hungry for it.” She felt his excitement rise. His response raised her temperature, as well. “The war did that. They want to know. And they want to see pictures. They don’t have time to read about everything anymore. They got used to the newsreels during the war and they want to see what’s going on, hear it.”

  He nodded. “Well, good luck with the plan, Margaret.”

  He turned to go. His shoes clicked sharply on the concrete floor. Margaret knew she had him convinced; what was wrong?

  “If you let me do it alone, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

  He turned a weary face in her direction. “You may be hungry for this. The people of America may be hungry for this. But I’ve had a bellyful.”

  MARGARET SOUGHT OUT her brother-in-law that night after André was tucked in. She had already fended off questions from Paul’s sister, Justine, who had heard from her husband that Paul had turned up at the station that day. And she’d already been interrogated by her mother-in-law, Minna, and Aunt Ella, who were both aflutter over the news. Minna demanded answers; Margaret didn’t have any. Aunt Ella had gone off to argue politics with Alexandre, and Margaret wanted no part of that.

  But she did need to know where Charles stood.

  Her brother-in-law wasn’t hard to find. The door to the library was closed, but she heard the sounds from the grand piano. He was angry tonight, disturbed, and the piano was taking a pounding. He always played Tchaikovsky when he was in a snit. She opened the library door and slipped in quietly, taking a chair and waiting for him to finish.

  Charles could sway things in her favor if he wanted to. But Margaret wasn’t sure how to convince him. He was usually pleasant to her and especially kind to André. But something about him made her uneasy. She always felt as if he had always resented her marriage to Paul, but could never figure out why.

  The music came to an end. Charles dropped his hands into his lap, his head down.

  “You’re good,” she said. Better than good, actually. Concert quality. Why he wasted his time at Lyon Broadcasting she had never understood.

  “A steady hand, that’s all,” he said, straightening and reaching for the brandy on the bench beside him. “Paul’s greatest talent, I believe, was billiards.” The piano bench scraped the floor as he stood. “Is he going to help you?”

  It struck her, not for the first time, that Charles sometimes seemed obsessed with his brother. Even when Paul was gone, Charles seemed to compete with his absent brother. Had anyone heard from Paul? Shouldn’t the family pack up his things and store them in the attic? Had Margaret ever noticed that Paul wasn’t particularly handsome?

  Sometimes his obsession was annoying. Sometimes it evoked Margaret’s compassion. Living in Paul’s shadow couldn’t have been easy. And for reasons that were hard to understand, that was exactly where Charles had spent his life—overshadowed by a brother six years older than he was.

  Paul had charisma; Charles often seemed inept socially. Paul had talent; Charles had to work twice as hard as anyone at the station just to keep from making mistakes, while turning his back on the talent he did have. Paul had become a national hero during the war, while Charles had sat the war out because of his asthma. And despite a face that was a little too rough to be good-looking, Paul appealed to women. Whereas Charles—with his sandy hair and blue eyes, with the two inches and ten pounds of broad shoulders and chest that he had over his older brother—couldn’t seem to hang on to a woman for more than a few months.

  “He says he’s not interested,” Margaret said.

  Charles refilled his brandy and poured one for her. “You don’t need him. I told you I’d help.”

  Irritation gnawed at Margaret as she took the snifter. “You won’t even speak up when they’re ganging up on me.”

  “You haven’t said you wanted my help.”

  The truth was, she didn’t. He might have a valuable vote on the board, but nobody at Lyon Broadcasting seemed to have much faith in him. She wasn’t sure having him on her side was an asset. Besides, what he wanted was the on-air job. And every broadcaster in the city knew he was a stiff on the air; how much worse would it be with pictures?

  “Charles...” She floundered for an excuse.

  He waved her off, his expression bordering on sullen. “I know, I know. He’s a hero. People will tune in for him. But you can’t depend on him, Margaret. You know that. Not like you can depend on me.” He sat in the chair beside her and leaned closer, his handsome face intense. “With André, for example. He doesn’t care who’s a hero. He just knows who’s there for him.”

  That was hard to deny. Charles did his best to be a father to the boy. Anytime Margaret grew too uneasy about Charles, she reminded herself of all he’d done for André. He loved André. That was undeniable.

  “You know I’m grateful, Charles.”

  “Are you? Without me he’d be fatherless.”

  Every time she softened toward Charles, he seemed to make another unwelcome comment about her fatherless boy. She reminded him, sharply sometimes, that Andre was not fatherless. Each time she did he gave her the strangest smile. She supposed it was possible that Paul had shared his suspicions with Charles, but that seemed unlikely. They’d never been close. Still, the way Charles harped on it bothered her, annoyed her, reminded her that she’d failed her son.

  Because Paul refused to believe that André was his own flesh and blood. With good reason, she knew. Because things didn’t add up. Because she hadn’t
been able to tell him the whole truth. She’d been not quite nineteen and frightened, terrified of losing the man she loved with all her heart. And there had been things she couldn’t explain about André’s birth, not without running the risk of losing everything.

  But André was Paul’s son. Only her immaturity and her fear had made it impossible for Paul to believe that, even to this day. And her need to correct that failure, she knew, was even more important to her than her career or the future of Lyon Broadcasting.

  She knew that, even if no one else believed it.

  THE CRICKETS and the frogs were loud on the bayou that night. Clouds hid the stars. But Paul lay in the hammock and stared heavenward as if they were visible.

  What he saw in their place was Margie.

  He thought about her plan. Her dream. She’d always had a dream. He’d tried to deny her that dream, stubborn fool that he was. But it wouldn’t be denied. He saw that in her eyes, and her fire had sparked a fire in him.

  Television news. What an idea. What a remarkable, improbable, thoroughly intriguing idea.

  But he thought about more than her plan. He thought about her eyes. Silver-blue and heavy-lidded, they were sultry and provocative, suggesting things no man could refuse. He thought about her voice, husky and soft, drawing a man’s attention to her lips. And he thought about her body, lean where a woman’s body should be full and somehow all the more alluring for it. Because once he possessed her, he’d never found another who satisfied him.

  He wanted her, boyish curves and husky voice and all. After all this time, after all the care he’d taken to stay the hell away from her, he ached with wanting her.

  But he didn’t trust her. And he never would.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LYONCREST WAS TUCKED amid sheltering live oaks, dense magnolias and sprawling rhododendron.

  Paul stood on the opposite side of Prytania Street, taking in the shades of green, the camellias in both pink and white, the iron scrollwork fence that had been the inspiration for the one at Lyon Broadcasting. And there behind it the three-story stucco mansion, columned and elegant, the color of a fat gulf shrimp.

  He’d watched his father’s car leave by the back gate and felt the old doubt that anything he could ever do would be good enough to satisfy the old man. He’d thought of his mother, whose belief in his perfection was too heavy a burden for anyone to bear. And he thought of Justine, who had been just a girl the last time he saw her. What kind of woman had she become in his absence? Had she missed him?

  He hungered for Lyoncrest and his family almost as much as he hungered for the woman who still dwelled there and still carried his name. Impatient with himself, he turned toward St. Charles. He should go back to Sans Fin. But he couldn’t ignore the call of Lyoncrest and all that it held. Before he could fathom his foolhardiness, he was at the front door, tapping the polished brass knocker, waiting with his heart fluttering higher and higher in his throat. He couldn’t even open his mouth in explanation as an astounded housekeeper gasped and admitted him.

  “They’re in the sunroom, Mr. Paul,” Lena said, her impeccable professionalism overcoming her personal astonishment. “Your mama likes breakfast there.”

  “I remember, Lena.”

  “Sure does these old eyes good to see you, Mr. Paul.”

  “Thank you.”

  He forced himself to smile despite the guilt her warm greeting stirred. He walked toward the sunroom. Once again he was awash in memories. He remembered sunshine winking through the branches of the oldest live oak on the property. He remembered the ancient Oriental runner in the foyer, always slightly askew no matter how often Lena straightened it. The heavy, gilt-trimmed furniture—mirrors, library table, umbrella stand, bench—remained as familiar as the raised welt on the back of his right hand, where Charles had jabbed him with a fireplace poker when they were six and twelve.

  He followed the gentle tinkle of silver and china to the open French doors into the sunroom.

  Margaret had the business pages of the Times-Picayune spread open in her lap, a triangle of toast and jam in her right hand. She was dressed for work, again in navy, again very unadorned. It vexed him to realize he remembered exactly what she’d worn the day before.

  “Good morning,” she said without faltering. She lowered the toast to her plate. It was his mother’s favorite morning china, white with a ruffled edge, decorated with yellow and blue flowers. “Coffee?”

  He turned to the sideboard without replying and poured himself a cup from the silver pot, doctored the coffee with cream and sugar and sat across from her. He stared at her over the rim of his cup, just to make her nervous. She didn’t shrink under his gaze. She lifted her own cup. Her hand was long and elegant. He remembered that hand, trailing timidly over his body.

  The trembling virgin, he thought bitterly. “You know the FCC isn’t granting licenses right now.”

  “I applied last year. It’s already taken care of.”

  “Always attentive to the details, aren’t you, Margaret?” She didn’t bother to answer. She went back to her toast. He was miffed by her apparent unconcern.

  “Is anybody else moving in that direction?”

  “In New Orleans? No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She didn’t bother to answer that, either. He found he wasn’t as much miffed as he was impressed. She had brass, that was for sure. He liked it.

  “When do you want to be up and running?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because you need me. And you haven’t got me yet.”

  She patted her lips with her linen napkin, although there wasn’t a dab of jam or a crumb of bread anywhere near them. Being contrary. She might need him, but she wouldn’t let her desperation show. “This summer.”

  “Why so soon?”

  He saw a glint of excitement come into her eyes, knocking the edge off her tough exterior. He liked that, too. “The president makes a whistlestop on the Fourth of July.”

  He remembered what apparently didn’t even faze her. July fourth was also their wedding anniversary. Well, if it didn’t bother her, it certainly didn’t bother him. “You don’t have time to build a studio.”

  “Pasco Blaine says he can have it done in two months.”

  “If you can get my old man to come around.”

  She wasn’t coy; she didn’t hesitate to admit the truth. “That’s right.”

  “And if you have me, the old man will come around.”

  “Yes.” This time her admission sounded tight.

  “Why should I do this for you?”

  “Some people might ask why I should do this for you.” She didn’t sound haughty, just tough. Businessman tough.

  He stood and drained his coffee. “Not the ones who know all the facts.”

  “Paul, I—”

  “Paul! Mercy on my soul, Paul!”

  Paul turned toward the voice and in seconds his mother had collapsed into his arms. She didn’t weep, for that would have been unseemly, but there was nothing amiss in a near-swoon for a carpetbagger’s granddaughter turned pillar of Southern society. Paul held his mother tightly, unsure how a prodigal son behaved.

  “Good morning, Mother.”

  He held her arm while she looked up at him, fanning herself with her fingertips. Minna Barnes Lyon had grown old in seven years. Always petite and fragile-looking, she now appeared frail and weak. Her hair was snow-white, swept up in a soft chignon. Her everyday pearls fell against parchment-like, lined skin. The arm he held was thin.

  “Pour me some juice, Paul. I must sit before I fall.”

  He helped her into one of the cushioned wicker chairs and turned to the sideboard for a glass of juice. He glanced at Margaret, noticed her frown and felt his own concern rise. Just how much of an invalid was his mother?

  When he set the glass of juice in front of her, she was dabbing her eyes with the corner of a handkerchief she’d pulled from the breast pocket of her dress. Her hand shook slightly. “Oh
, thank you, darling.” She sipped at the juice, sniffed at her handkerchief and studied her son. “You gave me quite a start, Paul. I had heard, of course, that you were at the station yesterday, but seeing you here was so unexpected....”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Indeed.”

  He knew from the tone of her voice that his mother the society matron had regained control. Decorum had been restored. “How are you, Mother? I trust your health is good.”

  “If you’re concerned about my health, you might have inquired before now. Margaret, please pass the jam.”

  Margaret complied, her expression unchanging. With a tiny silver spoon, Minna placed a dollop of raspberry jam on her bread plate. She barely flinched when the sunroom door was flung open by a lovely dark-haired woman. Justine was quite certainly no longer a girl. And noticeably in the family way.

  “Paul! Oh, Paul!” She rushed over to him, wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss on both cheeks.

  “Justine, please,” Minna said. “You mustn’t excite yourself.”

  Justine winked at Paul, then settled into a chair across the table. “Of course not, Mother.”

  “Your brother was just apologizing. Were you not?”

  “My behavior is inexcusable, Mother.” All the harder to say because he knew it was true. No matter what he thought of Margaret, he’d had no right to treat his mother so badly.

  “I am up in years and I am not entirely well, to reply to your question,” Minna announced crisply.

  A quick calculation told Paul she was all of sixty-one. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said. “Is there any way I can help?”

  “You certainly may. You may return home. I would like my children with me for whatever time I have left.”

  He opened his mouth to ask what, specifically, was wrong with her. But he knew she would view that as a breach of etiquette. “Mother, I really don’t think that’s the best idea.”

  “No?” She raised one eyebrow at him, then smiled. “Let me be the judge of that. How soon can you be home? A homecoming soiree sometime during Carnival would be nice, don’t you think?”