Margaret made fists in the pockets of her silk robe, pressing her nails into her palms until they hurt. “I’m glad you can view it that way, Paul,” she said when she could control her voice. “I believe I’ll go in, as well. I think I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”
“One more thing, Margaret. If you try to shove that boy down my throat, to put pressure on me...if you tell me one more of your appealing little lies, I’ll have you and the boy thrown out of here. I’ll do whatever is necessary to make that happen. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
Crushed, she retreated to her room. She carefully locked both the French doors to the gallery and the door to the upstairs hall. Then she buried her face in her pillow, fighting tears, unwilling to give in to the anguish in her heart. Would her foolish, youthful mistakes never be forgiven?
CHAPTER SEVEN
August 1941
MARGIE STARED at the angry face of the man she’d eloped with just seven weeks earlier and wondered how to get around the fact that she’d made a mistake. She should never have married this impossible man.
“How many times do I have to say this?” His voice tight, Paul went on about the business of dressing in his dark gray suit. But his lean face had grown hard, rigid with his anger. “No wife of mine needs to run off like some schoolgirl for a college education.”
Margie sat on the edge of the high four-poster bed. Her marriage bed. She felt like a child. And not just because her feet didn’t quite reach the floor. He’s too old for you. How many times had Wendell Hollander warned his headstrong daughter? Too worldly for a girl like you.
Margie never had been one to listen when others disagreed with her plans. It had worked with her overindulgent parents, sometimes even with the nuns, who thought her bright and talented and therefore gave her more leeway than they gave other students.
It wasn’t working with Paul.
“But, Paul, you knew I wanted to go to college.” She tried to sound rational and mature, not like a whining child. “I’ve been accepted at Ladycliff. Classes begin in two weeks. It’s all planned.”
“Then you can unplan it,” he said, bending over to shoehorn his feet into shiny leather shoes.
“But I want a career. I want—”
“I thought you wanted to be my wife.”
She thought of his kisses, his caresses, the feelings he stirred in her that she had never, in all the whispers with her friends, imagined. She thought of the way he’d always seemed to understand her as no one else did. Until now. “I do. But—”
“Then stay home. Start a family. Margie, I want a son.”
The words chilled her. “What?”
“We’re married now, Margie. That’s what marriage is for.”
“But you never said anything...” Of course, their whirlwind courtship hadn’t left much time for sharing secrets.
“Well, now I am. I want a son more than anything.”
Margie’s cheeks prickled with anxiety. How could this be happening? She should tell him now. Had to tell him now. But how? How to explain that an appendectomy when she was eight had scarred her fallopian tubes, leaving her barren? How to explain that she hadn’t known herself until she returned home from their elopement, when her mother had taken her aside and given her a halting, pained explanation? None of them would have known had it not been for the unusual pain that had accompanied the onset of her monthly cycle. At twelve she had accepted her mother’s explanation of the surgery to make the pain go away.
What she hadn’t known until a few months ago was that the surgery had been successful in removing the scar tissue that had caused the pain. But nothing could restore her ability to bear children.
No, she dared not tell him that. Not yet. Not until he realized how happy they were going to be without children, just the two of them. Partners. Forcing down her misgivings, she said, “Paul, we have plenty of time for that later. First let me go to college. Let me learn the business—”
“No wife of mine is going to work in radio. It isn’t done.”
His words sounded suspiciously like orders. Her own anger taking over, she got to her feet and looked him squarely in the eye. “Nobody bosses me around, Paul Lyon.”
Some of the tension went out of her when he smiled. “You’re cute when you get tough. Did you know that?” Then he kissed her on the nose. “I’ll see you tonight, kiddo. Don’t you have the garden society with Mother today?”
“No!” She barely stopped herself from stamping her foot. “I most certainly do not!”
He walked out of the room whistling. She followed him, shouting as he descended the stairs, “I’m going to college, Paul Lyon. Then I’m going into broadcasting. You knew that all along. I’m going to be the most famous woman in New Orleans. You’ll see.”
He never stopped whistling. A cheerful Glenn Miller tune carried him out the front door. Now furious beyond measure, Margie whirled to return to her room and slammed into Ella Barnes, Paul’s maiden aunt.
“Oh, Aunt Ella, I’m sorry.” Her voice suddenly trembled. Ella put her tiny hands on Margie’s shoulders and looked up at her. “Stick to your guns, Margie. If you let him rule the roost now, he’ll still be crowing over you in forty years.”
Margie’s convictions wavered with Ella’s support. After all, how much could Ella know? She’d never been married. Margie might be only nineteen, but already she had more experience than Ella. Still, she thanked the little woman, submitted to a hug and went back to her room. Paul’s room, actually. She couldn’t face the family, knowing others had beard her shouting. And she certainly couldn’t face a car ride with Mother Lyon, followed by an interminable afternoon with the powdered and corseted members of the Beautiful Crescent Garden Society.
But she also couldn’t face the solitude that was filled only with the unrelenting voice in her head. Paul wanted a child. More than anything. A son. The one thing she could never give him. Never.
On the verge of tears, she thought of running home to her mother. But her mother would tell her father, and Margie wasn’t yet willing to admit he’d been right and she’d been wrong. After pacing for an hour, Margie realized she had to get out of this room.
Grabbing her pocketbook, hat and the little white gloves she was always forgetting, she sneaked down the servants’ stairs and out the back door. She would take the streetcar into town. She would have a malted at the Maison Blanche lunch counter. She would show Paul Lyon that he couldn’t run her life.
Of course, the truth was, he did run her life, just as he ruled her heart.
Margie had been head over heels in love with Paul Lyon since she was sixteen. She’d followed him around at the station like an adoring puppy, doing his bidding and learning everything she could about broadcasting in the faint hope of impressing him. She’d had her first glimmer of hope on her nineteenth birthday in January, when she’d seen a look in his eyes that she’d been sure was...well, adoration.
That hope had been dashed when he started going around with Riva Reynard, the receptionist at WDIX. Riva was cheap-looking, not nearly good enough for Paul Lyon, in Margie’s opinion. Margie had suffered agonies of jealousy that entire spring, until Riva had vanished from her post in April.
In May, Margie had launched a bold campaign to capture Paul’s attention.
By June, he was courting her.
In July, they eloped, the most romantic thing Margie could ever have imagined.
Here it was August, and Margie was already proving the old adage she’d heard her mother repeat to her bridge club many times: marry in haste, repent at leisure.
Walking briskly to the streetcar line, Margie tipped her head politely to the woman standing on the corner of Prytania and Third streets. The woman was dressed with dime-store flash and looked vaguely familiar. She must be a servant at one of the neighboring houses, and Margie had been brought up never to slight a servant.
When she reached the streetcar line and stood waiting for the next car into town,
the woman came up behind her. That, of course, was not remarkable. How else was one to get into town? The St. Charles streetcar rumbled up and Margie boarded, taking a seat near the back. The showy woman sat in one of the seats facing the back. Margie avoided her gaze. She was caught up in her own gloomy thoughts when the woman slid into the seat beside her.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
The woman’s forwardness startled Margie. “Well, certainly, I—Oh! You’re Riva Reynard, aren’t you?”
“Sure, that’s me all right.” The woman smiled. “And you’d be Mrs. Paul Lyon.”
Despite her earlier misgivings, Margie felt a thrill at being addressed so. She twitched her ring finger and felt her wedding band tug on her glove. “That’s correct.”
“Best wishes, Mrs. Lyon. Your husband, he’s a fine man.”
Margie felt uneasy, sitting beside this woman who had quite possibly been intimate with Paul just a few short months earlier. What, she wondered, would Mother Lyon consider proper social etiquette in this situation? The nuns certainly never covered it in catechism class. She smiled and hoped that would suffice.
“I’m bringing you a business deal, Mrs. Lyon.” Riva’s voice had dropped. Her tone made Margie anxious.
“I believe this is my stop, Miss Reynard,” she said as the streetcar slowed near a caterer that her mother always used for significant events. “If you have business to discuss, perhaps it would be better if—”
As Margie rose from her seat, Riva put her hand on Margie’s arm to detain her. “I’m in the family way, Mrs. Lyon.”
Her piercing gaze left no doubt in Margie’s mind who the father was. Margie dropped back onto the wooden seat to catch her breath. Her head was spinning. She’d never fainted in her life and tried to imagine Mother Lyon’s consternation if she made her fainting debut on the St. Charles streetcar line.
“Breathe slow, Mrs. Lyon,” Riva said. “Slow and deep. You’ll be all right.”
Margie did as the other woman suggested, until her head began to stop spinning. What now? she thought. What happened now in this happily-ever-after world she’d believed she was entering? That world was already fraying. But this. What did this woman want? Would there be a scandal? Margie tried to imagine disgrace, but it was beyond her ability to imagine.
“Sorry to be springin’ it like that,” Riva said. “I couldn’t think of an easier way to say it.”
“Wh-what do you want? Why are you telling me?”
“Because I want to give you my baby.”
Margie’s heart lurched. “You can’t be serious!”
“Dead serious. I want you to raise it as a Lyon.”
“I can’t listen to this,” Margie said, standing and pushing her way past Riva. She made her way to the exit and when the streetcar made its next stop, she got off. She was still six blocks or so from town. Riva was right behind her.
“Please, Mrs. Lyon. Hear me out.”
“You are quite insane. You must be.”
Riva grabbed her arm again and yanked Margie around to face her. Her expression was fierce. “I am going to be a mother. All I want is what all mothers want—the best for my baby. I’m not crazy.”
Margie softened at the honesty in the woman’s words. “It’s insane to think it would work. Paul would never agree to it.”
“You’re goin’ away. To school. While you’re away, who would know that a child was not born to you?”
“But we’ve only been married a few weeks.” She felt her face grow warm. “The timing...”
“First babies, they’re lots of times early. You’ve seen this even in fine families.”
Margie felt herself blush furiously now. She could never explain that she and Paul had not been intimate until their wedding night. Speaking of such things wasn’t done.
“I’ll buy you a coffee. We’ll talk.” Riva looked at her with such despair and such hope that Margie found herself sympathizing with the woman. “Please.”
Margie nodded. They entered a diner that Margie had never noticed before, a place where she would have been inclined to wipe the rim of her coffee cup if she hadn’t been reared always to exhibit politeness. And as the waitress poured a cup of coffee for each of them, it came to Margie that Riva Reynard had perhaps just presented the solution to Margie’s own dilemma. Riva would soon have a baby for whom she wanted to provide the best. Margie herself could never have the baby her husband so desperately wanted.
No, that truly was insane thinking.
“Let me tell you what we can do,” Riva said. Margie held her breath.
THE PLAN WAS SIMPLE, but carrying it out was the hardest thing Margie had ever done. First she had to leave for college as planned despite Paul’s vehement protests. Because the first thing Riva had insisted on was secrecy. No one must know, not even Paul. She didn’t want to risk his rejecting the baby and ruining their plans. Knowing Paul as she did, Margie had to agree.
She’d cried on the train all the way to Ladycliff College in New York, wondering if Paul would ever forgive her. The set of his jaw as she’d packed her bags said he wouldn’t.
Within weeks of leaving home, she had to write the letter telling the family her news and then wait fearfully for their reaction. Her own mother, on hearing about the “miracle,” sobbed into the phone. Paul showed up at the dormitory two days later, looking jubilant.
“Have you packed?” he asked.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Why would I do that?”
“You’re coming home, of course.”
“Paul, be reasonable. I can finish out this first semester. The tuition has already been paid and—”
His face had clouded over. “To blazes with the tuition. You need to be home. Off your fcct.”
She reminded herself that she had to be even more adamant than he was. Going home would ruin everything, spoil the entire plan. “I’ll finish the semester. I’ll be home by the holidays. I can put my feet up then.”
What she didn’t say was that, by the holidays, they would be the proud parents of a premature son or daughter. And the only people who need ever know the whole story were herself, Riva and the Cajun lawyer Riva knew from the bayou where she’d grown up. He would make it legal and cover everyone’s tracks besides. Riva had promised. Of course Margie knew she would be able to tell Paul the truth once he saw his baby. Then he would have to accept the baby. His heart would dictate it. And so would his strong sense of right and wrong. Once he saw the baby in her arms, he would see it was the right thing to do, no matter what the circumstances.
By the time Paul left Ladycliff, he was furious all over again. He swore that he wouldn’t come traipsing after her again, that the next move was hers. She counted on his stubborn pride to keep his word about that.
What she hadn’t counted on was the wounded pride that would drive Paul to leave New Orleans in a huff. Her mother wired her the news the day after Riva’s baby was born. Paul had been trying for months to get a job with one of the radio networks. He’d finally been successful, and had left for New York City. There was even some talk that, if the war in Europe escalated, he might go overseas.
Frantic, Margie called long distance to the network in the city. Everyone kept saying Paul wasn’t available. She made plans to take the train to New York as soon as she had the baby.
The infant was four days old in early December when Riva Reynard handed him to Margie outside a rundown country hospital near the bayou. His hair was a tuft of dark fuzz and his tiny red face looked perpetually frustrated. Margie’s heart expanded when she saw him, taking him in.
“I named him André, after my papa. I hope that suits. It...it helps me. Knowing he’ll have something of me with him.”
Margie looked from André to Riva. Riva still held him clutched tightly to her breast, and she hadn’t looked away from his face for an instant. In Riva’s eyes, Margie saw a mother’s love so powerful she would give up her child in order for him to have the best of everything. And in the tiny baby
’s face, she saw something of the man she loved. In that instant, this baby took the place of every other dream her heart had ever held.
“I’ll love him with all my heart,” she said, her throat thick with tears. “He’ll never want for anything.”
“This I know. He’ll never be a rich man’s bastard,” Riva murmured. She quickly thrust the baby into Margie’s arms as if she might change her mind, given the chance. “He’s a Lyon now.”
Riva smiled, but her eyes glistened with tears.
Margie felt the wonder of the tiny person in her arms and an awed respect for the woman who had given birth to this miracle. She couldn’t imagine the sacrifice. She looked up to express her gratitude, but Riva was gone.
“Come with me, André. It’s time to meet your daddy.”
THE TRAIN FOR NEW YORK left early on Saturday, arriving Sunday morning. All the way up, Margie gave vent to her imagination. She imagined the fatherly love in Paul’s eyes when he saw his baby—their baby—for the first time. She imagined how readily he would forgive the mother of his son for her headstrong ways. André would smooth over everything between them. They would make a new start.
By the time she reached New York City, the terrible news had broken. The Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. The United States would enter the war.
Anxious to find Paul, Margie rushed by taxi from Pennsylvania Station to the tall building where the network was located. There she learned that Paul was preparing to leave that very afternoon. If she hurried, she might catch him before he sailed for England. Truly terrified that he might get away before she could see him—before he could see André—Margie hired another taxi. Holding the baby close to protect him from the jostling crowd at the docks, she looked for Paul, growing more distressed with each passing minute. André began to cry and Margie was close to tears herself when she finally spotted him in a knot of men and piled-up trunks.
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