The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  He told himself it was time to leave and kept walking. He wandered into the French Quarter, a small town within the city, where antique stores peddled respectability next door to places where respectability was not even a desirable commodity. He saw familiar faces, but managed to keep his head down to avoid unwelcome conversation. He found himself on the river, where the dark water churned past warehouses and docks. He kept telling himself to leave, to go back to the bayou, back to the silence and the solitude that had kept him sane at a time when he thought his memories would drive him mad.

  But he didn’t leave; he kept going till he found himself in front of the riverfront warehouse where he’d spent most of his life from the age of seven until he was almost thirty.

  It looked hardly any different, still very much like a weary old warehouse striving for dignity. The brick was painted a warm tan, and the sparse windows were shuttered in green, the way they had always been. The jasmine had flourished. Shiny green leaves covered the walls. In a few months, the block-long building between Canal and Poydras streets would be dotted with tiny, star-shaped flowers, their sweet fragrance so powerful it came to him now, from memory. The iron gate and fence were also a dark green, except where the scrollwork was formed like trumpet-shaped flowers. Those were painted pink and white.

  Paul leaned against the lamppost at the corner and let the building, with its memories, fill him.

  The first radio broadcast, to which his father had dragged a sleepy little boy against his mother’s wishes.

  The company of men, rich with cigar smoke and rough language, both aphrodisiacs for a boy.

  The heart-pumping, rapid-breathing pace of life when a big news story had to go on the air or you’d concede to the competition, which was never an option.

  And the cramped quarters of the studio, finally invaded by a pig-tailed girl who refused to be barred from the company of men.

  “I’m going to be a broadcaster, just like you.”

  That was how Margie Hollander had announced herself to him the first time he really took notice of her. She was fifteen; he was twenty-three. She wore braids behind either ear and the starched navy-and-white uniform of a schoolgirl. He wore his fedora shoved back on his head, where he’d forgotten it in the heat of a deadline, and starched cuffs now rumpled and rolled almost to his elbows.

  He’d grinned at her with the tolerance of wisdom and age. He’d debated, for a moment, telling her the truth—that women couldn’t be broadcasters. What the hell, she’d learn it soon enough. Or forget it, when some guy in college turned her head. “You don’t say.”

  She’d plopped into the chair the engineer had vacated when the broadcast was over. “Oh, yes. I certainly do say. I’m Margie Hollander and I listen to you every day. When I’m not in school, that is.”

  “You listen to me?”

  Paul knew grown-ups listened to him of course. He was the number-one newsman in New Orleans already. Tough and hard-hitting, which was an eye-opener here in the Crescent City, where even broadcasters could be as easily corrupted as the cops and the politicians. But kids? Why would a kid listen to his stuff?

  In response, she’d held an imaginary microphone to her mouth, adopted a serious expression and said, “Coming to you live from City Hall, this is Paul Lyon with news that the latest charges against Councilman Mike Halloran have been dropped. Ladies and gentlemen, a very bad aroma is emanating this afternoon from the office of District Attorney Pete Fontenot.”

  She broke into a grin. “That means you think something stinks.”

  Paul laughed. “Kid, something always stinks at City Hall.”

  She laughed with him and once again her voice dropped to a deeper octave, as it had when she’d imitated him. It occurred to him that she had a distinctive voice, a voice that people would listen to. But it didn’t matter. She was going to be a woman when she grew up, no matter how striking her voice might be.

  “You ever think of singing?”

  Her grin vanished then. She stood up and looked down at him, her silver-blue eyes narrowed to challenging slits. “I’m going to be a broadcaster.”

  “You know, kid, this really isn’t a world most women feel comfortable in.”

  “I’m not going to be most women,” she’d said.

  And from that moment she’d been an ever-present fixture on weekends and afternoons at Lyon Broadcasting. Nobody could get rid of her, of course, because she was the daughter of one of the co-owners. Just as he had been impossible to run off. He wondered, sometimes, if he’d ever been such a pest. But he’d been a boy. A future broadcaster.

  And Margie Hollander had been just a girl.

  A girl who’d hooked him into marrying her when he was twenty-seven and old enough to know better.

  He tossed his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and realized she’d hooked him in again.

  He approached the building, opened the iron gate and walked up the cobblestone sidewalk to the front entrance. He hesitated at the door, then opened it. Standing in the lobby, flirting with the pretty young receptionist, was the one person, after Margaret, that Paul would have paid the entire Lyon family fortune to avoid.

  All the color faded from his brother Charles’s face when their gazes locked. Then, tight-lipped, Charles said, “I kept hoping the rumors were true. But I see you’re alive, after all.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THINGS HAD CHANGED even less than he’d thought, Paul decided as he looked around the lobby. The ugly yellow walls were still decorated with the station’s broadcast licenses; the spindly old furniture still looked uncomfortable and cheap. And his younger brother’s attitude was still spiteful and petty.

  “I see that sitting out the war didn’t change you one iota,” Paul said with a casualness calculated to irritate.

  Charles’s blue eyes shifted in the direction of the girl behind the reception desk. With his sandy hair and blue eyes, Charles should have been the lady-killer in the family. Paul never had understood why Charles didn’t have better luck, unless women didn’t like petty whiners, either, even if they did have plenty of Papa’s money. With women, who knew?

  “You’re a jerk, you know that, Paul?”

  Charles whirled and disappeared down the corridor. Paul turned to the sweet young thing and said, “He’s forgotten everything I did for him when we were kids, hasn’t he?”

  She giggled. “Are you really Paul Lyon?”

  Belatedly he removed his hat and made the shadow of a bow, the way he’d learned from the British flyboys. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss...”

  “Finnigan. Rosie Finnigan.” Her cheeks flamed. “My pop thinks you’re the stuff, Mr. Lyon. Sir.”

  “I hope you’ll tell him what a pleasure it is to have his lovely daughter representing Lyon Broadcasting to the public.”

  “Oh! Oh, I will. That is, I’ll tell him you said so, Mr. Lyon.”

  Paul headed in the direction Charles had disappeared. But before he made it out of the lobby, Rosie Finnigan said, “Does this mean you’re coming back to WDIX, Mr. Lyon?”

  The moment of pleasure that had come from annoying his brother and charming a lovely colleen from the city’s Irish Channel fizzled out. “Is Hades freezing over, Miss Finnigan?” He smiled to soften the question.

  Her eyes grew wide. “Well, no, sir. Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Then I don’t expect I’ll be coming back.”

  The corridor, which ran between the offices on the outside of the building and the glassed-in studios that had been constructed like a doughnut hole in the center of the old warehouse, was gloomy. Both Alexandre Lyon and Wendell Hollander were tighter than Dick’s hatband, saving every penny they could. Thus, the same old ugly furniture out front, the same lack of lighting to save on electricity.

  The door that had once led to the executive suites stood open, spilling a triangle of light into the dim corridor. Paul hesitated. Did he really want to see Margie? Did he want to risk running into the old man? Alexandre could be a crusty
son of a gun, and Paul doubted he was pleased with his older son’s disappearing act after the war.

  Maybe he’d just wander around, see who was still around from the old crowd, then duck out before anybody else knew he was there.

  The engineering booth was manned by strangers, two young guys who were probably mustered out of the army a few years back. But when Paul got to the broadcasting booth, he immediately recognized Red Reilley, the old-timer who had taught him the ropes. Red’s raspy voice came to him through the windows that sealed off the booth. Paul listened as Red closed out an afternoon news report. When Red cued up Nat King Cole’s new song, “Nature Boy,” and settled back, Paul caught his eye.

  Red tossed his earphones onto the console and was at the studio door in seconds.

  “Well, I’ll be a teetotaling sailor if it ain’t the world-famous Paul Lyon!” Red slammed him on the back and grinned from ear to ear. “Word on the street had you hanging out down in Sans Fin, but I always said, nah, not Lyon. He’s living the good life in Tahiti with a geisha girl he liberated from Tokyo Rose.”

  Hearing the old man’s rough affection gave Paul the first rush of nostalgia he’d had since returning stateside. “How’s it going, Red?”

  The big man shrugged. “Same old stuff. We fight a little evil. We expose a little corruption. All in a day’s work.”

  Paul laughed, noting that among all the things that had stayed the same, Red Reilley had changed. His freckled jowls sagged more, his once carrot-colored hair was mostly white and his broad shoulders were beginning to bow. “Better you than me.”

  Red’s smile faded. “Ah, Paul, you don’t mean that. You was born to it, son. It’s in your blood. You ain’t telling me that’s changed.”

  Paul reached for his cigarette pack to avoid looking into his old mentor’s eyes. “Times change. People change.” He tapped the bottom of the pack and offered one to Red.

  “Nah. I got to get back before Nat finishes up. Say, I bet you’re here for the board meeting. Hear they’re gonna skewer Margaret.”

  “Margaret?”

  . “Margie. She’s trying to light a fire under ’em, but they ain’t having it. Talk is she’ll be out of here soon. Maybe in the next hour.”

  Red ducked back into the booth just in time to segue smoothly out of “Nature Boy” and into an ad for New Iberia Bank. Paul stood for a moment and watched the familiar process, felt a familiar excitement stir in his blood. He sensed the weight of the earphones, the cool metal of the microphone. He remembered how long he had hungered for all this after walking away. A year or more the old longing had stayed with him. Well, it was out of his system now.

  He turned away abruptly. The spill of light from the executive offices beckoned again. Might be fun to watch the old heads roast Margie, as long as he was here.

  He slipped quietly into the back of the room. A few surprised faces noted his entrance, but mostly the argument going on was so heated that he was able to ease into a chair against the wall without causing a ripple. His father caught sight of him but didn’t turn a hair. Paul swallowed back his disappointment. Alexandre Lyon—A.J. as he was known—wasn’t one to waste time on sentiment.

  “You’re going to lose your shirts if you ignore this!” That was Margie, her voice fierce and insistent. “In ten years radio is going to play second fiddle to television.”

  “Second fiddle,” A.J. said scornfully. “Fiddlesticks, I say.”

  He waited for his flunkies to respond with a chuckle, which they did. The old codger was as manipulative as ever.

  “Television is a fad,” said the comptroller, a mousy man with a voice to match. “Do you know how much those sets cost? It’s exorbitant. People won’t pay it.”

  “This country is booming,” Margaret said. “All the GIs have college educations now and good jobs. They spend money. You’ve talked to our advertisers, Don. Tell him.”

  Don Ziobro looked uncomfortable being called on as an ally. “People are spending money, A.J.”

  A.J. dismissed the comment with a gruff snort and a displeased glare. Don Ziobro’s job was not as secure as it had been thirty seconds ago; Paul knew his father well. “They’re spending money on homes,” A.J. said with his usual air of authority. “On automobiles. Not on nonsense.”

  Margaret caught sight of Paul. She faltered for a moment, then rejoined the fray. “You weren’t paying attention last summer when the networks in New York broadcast the presidential conventions, were you, AJ.?”

  “And neither was anybody else.” He smiled, pleased with his retort.

  “You weren’t on Canal Street when they stood five deep around the appliance-store windows, hypnotized by the TV sets.”

  “In five years—”

  “In five years, one-fourth of the homes in this city will have a television set.”

  A.J. and the accountant laughed.

  As the battle raged, Paul found himself moved more than once to stand and argue on Margaret’s behalf. But she didn’t seem to need anyone’s help. She matched every one of A.J.’s unreasoned thrusts with a well-reasoned parry of her own. Paul was enthralled by the picture she painted of the future of broadcasting. More than that, he found himself enthralled by the woman she had become.

  She stood, leaning across the table. Her color was high. Her hair was swept back from her face, revealing eyes that sparked with enthusiasm and certainty. Her body was taut with excitement and strength. Even his presence hadn’t shaken her. He’d seen that same kind of strength in the WACs and WAFs who’d served overseas. They were dedicated, they were fearless, and they were determined to prove they had as much to contribute as a man. He’d admired those qualities in those women, and he was straining right now not to admire this woman.

  When, he wondered, had his impish Margie grown up?

  But as he listened, as he watched, it came clear to him. This was the woman she had always been.

  He’d fallen in love with an impetuous young woman who wanted to shake up the world. With the foolishness of a young man, he’d married her and expected her to turn into a copy of his society-conscious mother. But Margie had always vowed to be different. She wanted to go to college, work in the business. After their marriage, determined to live up to what society expected of a Lyon, he’d ridiculed one idea and forbidden the other.

  What he’d found charming in a girl had disturbed him in a wife.

  That had been the first rift. But not the worst.

  Now Paul had a moment of shame as he realized that Margie had gone on to become strong and sure of herself, more than a match for these men who had once been visionaries but had now settled into conservative old age. The same kind of man he’d been in danger of becoming when he told her, two months after their marriage, that no wife of his needed college and a career. What a fool he’d been.

  And what fools these old fogies were being right now. He stirred in his chair, contemplating standing and helping her convince the rest of the board that she was right. When he moved, he glanced around the table and realized that his younger brother’s eyes were on him.

  Charles stared at him, an insolent half smile on his handsome face.

  Paul froze, for he knew what thought hid behind that smug expression. She’s playing you for a fool, big brother. Taking you in.

  As much as it galled Paul to admit it, Charles had probably figured out what had really gone on seven years ago. His brother had hinted that he knew something before Paul had taken off for Europe, although he’d never come right out and admitted it. Margaret had deceived Paul then. Charles was probably right. She would do it again. Paul remained in his seat.

  MARGARET WAITED for everyone to finish fawning over Paul and clear the boardroom. Everyone except crusty old Alexandre, who barely barked out a greeting for his son before heading back to his office.

  Old goat.

  Margaret pretended to be pulling her paperwork together, but the truth was she couldn’t walk out of here until her knees quit shaking from the confrontatio
n. Her fear didn’t matter, because she was right and she had to convince them, whatever it took.

  She capped her pen and shoved away from the table.

  “You’ve turned into a real pistol, Margie.”

  His voice at her back electrified her. It was still powerful, like silk over horsehair, smooth over rough. It was a voice that made people believe, made them rally behind whatever he called them to.

  “You came.” She hoped her own voice sounded strong, hoped it didn’t quiver the way she did inside.

  “I heard there’d be fireworks.”

  “You weren’t disappointed, then.” She resisted turning to look at him, although she wanted to desperately. She hadn’t had her fill of him that morning. She wanted to see that rough-hewn face again. She wanted to fall into those bottomless eyes that never gave up what he was thinking or feeling. She wanted to reassure herself, once again, that he was still the man she loved. Then, now and always.

  “Why, Margie? Why not just let it slide?”

  Now she turned in her chair to face him. “The Paul Lyon I knew wouldn’t have to ask that question.”

  “The Paul Lyon you knew is dead and gone, Margie.”

  His words chilled her. She thought of the shabby little cabin where he’d been living. She noted once again how thin he was, how sunken his cheeks. The war had done it, she supposed. They said a lot of men were still haunted by the war.

  My fellow Americans, our enemy’s death camps which we have liberated, are a vision of cruelty and horror too evil to be imagined. No words over your radio can convey it. Be thankful it is so.

  She remembered his words as vividly as if they’d been spoken only the day before. His voice had broken. The airwaves had been filled with silence, a long silence, before he resumed. Yes, she supposed all of them back home should be grateful they hadn’t had to witness what he had witnessed.

  “So is the old Margie,” she said, trying to lighten their exchange.

  He seemed to accept her offer of a momentary truce. “That’s right. They call you Margaret now.”