The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  “Of course you are.”

  “Then as a friend, I’m telling you I’m flattered...and honored that you’d even think about making such a sacrifice for me. Believe me, if I was in the market for a wife I wouldn’t look any further. But I don’t want to take advantage of you or anyone else, and that’s what I’d be doing. Because someone always gets hurt, Les. Since it’s usually the most deserving, it would certainly be you.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt me, Michael.”

  “Not on purpose. But things...happen.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Not to me,” she said glumly. “Nothing ever happens to me.”

  “It will. Trust me.” He was trying to turn her down gently and having a hell of a time doing it.

  “Of course.”

  She looked so forlorn that he cast about for some way to bring another smile to her face. Then his gaze rose and he saw it: wilted mistletoe hanging from a tattered red velvet ribbon almost directly above her head.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “What?” She glanced around.

  He pointed toward the ceiling. She looked up and her eyes widened.

  “Is that—?”

  “It certainly is. Merry Christmas, Leslie.” And he leaned down to kiss her, planning a light peck...

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LESLIE HAD NO IDEA what came over her, nor did she stop to ponder. She wrapped her arms around his neck and met his kiss enthusiastically. His mouth felt warm and firm—and surprised, she realized belatedly. He’d just been going through the motions while she—

  She stepped back abruptly, pasting a stiff smile on her face. “Merry Christmas, Michael,” she said in an amazingly calm voice. “Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”

  He blinked, looking at her with a thoroughly confused expression. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.” He hesitated. “About before—”

  “Please don’t bother with that. I plead temporary insanity.”

  His sudden smile was dazzling, and perhaps relieved. “I knew you didn’t mean it. You’re just a very compassionate woman, Leslie Lyon.”

  “You think so?” She turned toward the door, pulling up the collar of her raincoat. A very selfish woman, she was thinking, but it hadn’t worked. Running through drizzle to his car, she tried to put his humiliating rejection out of her mind.

  Obviously she had failed to impress Michael McKay.

  MICHAEL DROVE AWAY from the magnificence of Lyoncrest to his own comfortable home in one of the older sections of town, his mind far from the wet shine of city streets. Leslie Lyon had astonished him, and he found himself thinking about that kiss with something akin to disbelief.

  He’d always thought there was more to the Lyon heiress than most people realized. She had never traded on her family name at WDIX, which he knew everyone appreciated. She’d appear from time to time to assist her parents or grandparents with special projects, or to show the family flag at events such as the Christmas party. But she always remained in the background, stepping forward only when absolutely required to do so.

  Now he had a much clearer understanding of how difficult that was for her, and his sympathy increased.

  The kiss had been gratitude on both their parts, he concluded, turning into his own driveway. He’d been grateful because she’d helped him escape the clutches of Kate Coleman, while Leslie had obviously been grateful for a sympathetic ear. It was nearly Christmas, they were surrounded by holiday spirit, and...

  A feeling of restlessness swept over him, and for a moment he hesitated at a stop sign, tempted to do something he hadn’t done since moving back to New Orleans. Bourbon Street would be alive and roaring. He could listen to the music of his choice, have a drink...

  He didn’t need a drink, and he had too many responsibilities to just take off on a whim. He wondered if Leslie liked music, liked the combination of ebullience and sleaze that was Bourbon Street. Where once he would have instantly discarded such a possibility, tonight he found himself considering her tastes in a new and different light.

  Mrs. Simms, his live-in housekeeper, met him at the door wearing a fluffy blue robe and carrying a book under her arm.

  “My goodness, give me that wet coat before you drip all over the rug,” she commanded. “I thought the drizzle had let up.”

  “Not yet.” He shrugged out of his coat. While she hung it up, he kicked off his damp loafers. “Cory asleep?”

  “Sure is. That little thing was worn to a frazzle from roller skatin’ all day with the girl next door.” Her pleasant coffee-colored face creased into a smile that was quickly gone. “Mr. McKay, I hate to bring this up again...”

  “You heard from your daughter today?”

  The elderly woman nodded. “She’s sick and not gettin’ any better. If she has to go into the hospital...well, I’d just have to go back to St. Louis and help her.”

  “Of course.” Michael put his arm lightly around the woman’s shoulders and gave her a supportive squeeze. “You know how much we’d hate to lose you, but if you have to go, we’ll understand.”

  “I’m much obliged to you for that, Mr. McKay. It’d be hard on little Cory, though. I’d feel real bad.”

  “Don’t, Mrs. Simms. We all have to do what we have to do.”

  With a last regretful glance, she nodded and turned away. Uneasily Michael watched her go. And he thought he had trouble now. If Mrs. Simms had to leave...

  CORY COULDN’T POSSIBLY remember a Christmas with her mother.

  Feeling unaccountably blue, Michael watched his daughter gleefully open her gifts on Christmas morning. Jordan had died almost four years ago, before the child really knew her. Deeply committed to her television career, she’d been a loving but basically absent mother. She hadn’t really wanted a child, and when she became pregnant, she’d grudgingly agreed to carry the baby to term only with the understanding that she wouldn’t be tied down.

  Michael had wanted the child enough to swallow his pride—enough to stay with Jordan even after her affair with a co-worker became public knowledge.

  Cory didn’t know any of that, though, and he hoped she never would. She didn’t know how scornfully her mother would have looked at their holiday preparations: the Christmas tree decorated with construction-paper snowflakes and glue-and-glitter cardboard ornaments, the childish drawings on every wall, the greeting cards taped to the windows.

  And unbidden came a question: What was Christmas like at Lyoncrest?

  Nothing like this, he concluded, admiring the video games sent by Cory’s grandmother. It was just the two of them, since Mrs. Simms had the day off. After the gifts were opened, they’d have the festive if solitary brunch he’d prepared. Then they’d spend the rest of the day quietly with gifts and holiday programs on TV.

  That had become their pattern and it had always been enough for him. But today, somehow, it simply seemed inadequate.

  And why was he thinking about Leslie Lyon and the evening they’d spent together?

  He stood up abruptly, belting the robe he’d received from his former mother-in-law tightly around his waist.

  “Gettin’ hungry, squirt? I’ve got the makings for our favorite breakfast.”

  “Hungry as a gator!” Cory leaped up from the middle of a pile of discarded gift wrap and empty boxes. “Thanks for my bike, Daddy.” She gave him a big hug around the waist. “It’s just what I wanted.”

  “Good.” He patted her shoulder, thinking she was the best thing that had ever happened to him even if it took a miserable marriage to get her. “Cory...are you happy?”

  “Sure!” She giggled. “Kids love Christmas.”

  He smiled back at her. “I guess they do. I just meant...are you happy with Mrs. Simms? Do you ever wish you had a mother like other kids?”

  Her freckled face grew solemn. “Not all kids have moms,” she said. “I like when it’s just you and me, Daddy. That’s my favorite.”

  He felt the same—usually.

  CHRISTMAS AT LYONCREST belonged t
o Andy-Paul, as it should. Gifts were duly handed out from beneath the massive, professionally decorated tree in the formal living room, but everyone’s attention was on the boy and his delight as he ripped into the colorful packages.

  Once all the presents were open and servants had cleared away the debris and restored order, the boy sidled up to his big sister and gave her a hug.

  “Did you like my present?” he asked.

  Leslie rummaged through the gifts on the table next to her chair, pushing aside the diamond pendant from her parents, the jeweled and enameled Faberge egg from her grandparents, the leather wallet from her absent sister and books from both Crystal and Rachel, who knew her tastes well. Finding Andy-Paul’s gift, she held it up to admire it—a pair of papier-mâché napkin rings, painted bright red with a design that looked vaguely like ladybugs.

  “Your gift is my favorite,” she assured him. “But why did you give me napkin rings?”

  “When you get married you might need it,” he said artlessly, tracing the design with a stubby forefinger. “Grandmère says you’ll probably get married soon because you’re not a teenager anymore.”

  Leslie resisted the impulse to groan. “Sad but true.”

  “Ladybugs are good luck,” he announced.

  “I guess we can all use some of that.”

  She sat there long after he’d scampered back to his new toys, a bright smile pasted on her lips but a hunger in her heart she could barely contain. She wanted a husband and a bright, energetic, lovable child like Andy-Paul.

  Be honest, she scolded herself. You want Michael McKay any way you can get him.

  As if there was a chance...

  ON MONDAY, JANUARY 4, Leslie reported for “work” at WDIX with considerable trepidation. She’d tried this once before, shortly after her graduation from Loyola, simply because she’d been unable to withstand the entreaties of her family.

  She’d hated it. She’d hated the tension that seemed such an integral part of television, the competition both in-house and with other stations, the public personae of people she loved and valued as her family. Within six months she’d left for a library job she could enjoy.

  Her parents and grandparents had been disappointed, but they didn’t hold a grudge, especially after her mother became pregnant. All family attention immediately focused upon the upcoming blessed event, to Leslie’s immense relief.

  Now here she was back again, if only temporarily. She’d insisted on driving herself although her father had offered her a lift. Now she entered through the ornate iron gates and proceeded down the azalea-lined brick walk and into WDIX.

  The receptionist grinned and waved her on. Head down, Leslie hurried to the stairs and ran up two at a time to the second floor where the administrative offices were located.

  She’d been assigned a small vacant office at the end of the hall, and she hurried toward that refuge. She’d almost reached it when the elevator doors opened and Michael stepped out, accompanied by a young woman Leslie could not immediately place.

  At the sight of her, Michael grinned and held up one hand to detain her. She waited while he completed the conversation with the woman in a low, concerned voice.

  “Don’t worry about it, Cindy. Your job will still be here. You just go give your mother a hand and I’ll take care of everything at the station. Once your father’s better, give me a call and we’ll talk about your coming back.”

  “Oh, Mr. McKay—” Cindy looked at him with reddened eyes “—you’re the best!” She gave him a weepy smile before turning away, sniffling.

  “Oh, dear,” Leslie said, “I hope everything’s going to be all right for her.”

  Michael sighed. “Me, too. Her father’s had a heart attack. We’ll just have to wait and see about that, but there’s no reason she should worry about her job, too.” His expression lightened, became almost impish. “So here you are! Welcome aboard, Les.”

  She felt herself blushing. “Thank you.”

  “Do you have plans for lunch?”

  “Y-yes. My grandmother is coming mid-morning to get me started on this history project, and she said we’d have lunch in the cafeteria. Maybe I could call her and—”

  “No, no,” he said with a laugh, “don’t go standing up the grande dame of WDIX on my account Although why she’d choose the cafeteria over the executive dining room, I can’t imagine.”

  “I think she likes to see who’s around,” Leslie said. “She may not come into the office every day the way she used to, but there’s very little going on she doesn’t know about.”

  “That’s no big surprise. Your grandmother is one sharp lady.”

  When he started to turn away, she added, “I...I hope you and your daughter had a nice holiday.”

  “We did. And you?”

  She nodded. “I thought about you,” she offered shyly. “We had an open house on Christmas Eve—it’s kind of a tradition. I wished I’d thought to invite you.”

  “That’s kind of you.” He touched a forefinger to his temple in a casual salute. “See you later.”

  “Yes...see you later.”

  She watched him walk away and she was thinking about the evening they’d shared, the kiss, wondering if he was thinking about it, too. And wondering if he’d given any more thought to her proposal of marriage. She sighed. He probably figured she’d come to her senses and realized how loony the idea was.

  WDIX EMPLOYEES tended to stumble all over themselves when Margaret Lyon was around, while she didn’t even appear to notice. Completely businesslike, she treated everyone with the same calm courtesy. Leslie thought they should all be able to see right through the silver-haired matriarch to her kind heart, but that never seemed to happen. Instead, they looked at her with awe.

  Seated at a table in the middle of the cafeteria, Margaret seemed entirely unaware of scrutiny. Leslie, on the other hand, felt it intensely.

  Leaning forward, she spoke in a low voice. “What may I bring you for lunch, Grandmère?”

  Margaret waved the question away with an age-spotted hand. “That’s already taken care of, my dear. I called down our order—hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” But the news created considerable anxiety for Leslie. She wasn’t very hungry and hoped her grandmother hadn’t gone overboard on the order.

  A burly man in a white apron stopped beside their table carrying a large round tray, which he lowered with one hand. “Here y’go, Miz Lyon. A bowl of my special chicken noodle soup for you and a muffuletta for the young lady.”

  “Thank you, Tom.” Margaret smiled warmly. “I hope your family is well.”

  The big man grinned broadly. “They are now, thanks to you, Miz Lyon. Mavis said—”

  “Never mind that. Please give her my best.” She waved off his obvious gratitude.

  “Yes, ma’am—and thanks again.” He backed away.

  “What was that about, Grandmère?” Leslie looked down at her sandwich with dismay. It was huge.

  “Nothing, really. I simply referred him to a good doctor for his wife.” Margaret shook out a snowy linen napkin. “I hope you don’t mind my ordering for you, dear.”

  “No, of course not. But...this is an enormous sandwich.” Her entire life, Leslie had battled calories—and usually lost.

  “Nonsense.” Margaret picked up her soup spoon. “You need your strength, Leslie.”

  “Yes, Grandmère.”

  Leslie mostly played with her food while her grandmother polished off the soup. Margaret never put on an ounce of weight no matter what she ate, while Leslie worried about her weight constantly. Today, though, she had no trouble pushing aside the huge round Italian bread roll with its layers of cheese, ham and salami, all topped with olive salad. It was enough to feed at least two people.

  Leslie had polished off any number of them all by herself in the past, but not today.

  At last Margaret placed her napkin beside her plate. “This has been lovely, my dear, but Taylor should be here with the car very
soon. Have you any questions about the material I gave you this morning?”

  “No. I’m looking forward to it, actually—going through all those files and newspaper and magazine articles about the family. I should be an expert by the time I’m finished.”

  Margaret’s smile was wry. “By the time you finish, you’ll know everything you need to know. We’re quite pleased that you’re doing this for us, Leslie. We didn’t want to entrust our family history to strangers.”

  “I’m happy there’s something I can do,” Leslie said earnestly. “The Lyons have been very good to me.”

  “Because you are a Lyon. You’re also an extremely congenial young woman.”

  Not beautiful, which she wasn’t, or talented, which she also wasn’t. Congenial. Leslie sighed.

  “Don’t denigrate the value of a winning personality,” Margaret said sternly. “Your sister, Charlotte, could take a page from your book.”

  Charlotte, who really was beautiful and talented, wouldn’t be caught dead taking anything from Leslie, including a page from her book. Leslie smiled politely. “I just hope I’ll do a good job for you.”

  “You will.” This was said with total certainty, Margaret rose to her feet a bit stiffly. “You needn’t walk me out, dear. I see Taylor just coming through the door. Will we see you at dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, Grandmère.” Leslie rose and pressed a kiss on the old lady’s cheek, then, along with everyone else, watched her cross the cafeteria to meet the uniformed chauffeur.

  How Leslie admired her! How she wished she could be more like her. Deep in thought, Leslie headed for the large double doors leading to the elevators.

  She didn’t even notice her granduncle Charles until he spoke her name. She turned in surprise. “Uncle Charles, what a surprise to see you.”

  “I have every right to be here.” His expression matched his belligerent tone.

  “Of course. I didn’t mean...” Leslie retreated a step. He always threw her off guard this way; would she never learn?