The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  “Paul! Paul, thank God I found you!”

  His eyes held a hint of welcome relief. “Margie!”

  “I...I came to...” She glanced at the other men, who viewed them with interest and amusement. She had to talk to Paul, had to tell him the whole story. But how, with all these men he seemed to know watching and listening? “To ask you to come home. We need you. Paul, you have a son.”

  The welcome in his eyes vanished. “So soon, ma chérie? Why, it’s only December seventh, a mere five months since we married.” His skepticism came out in biting sarcasm.

  “Always knew you were a fast worker, Lyon,” one of the men in the group said. A round of crude gaffaws followed.

  Margie flinched. “He...he was early. Premature.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Paul pulled the corner of the little blue blanket away from the baby’s face. “He’s a strapping young fellow for one born so early. Could it be you’ve miscalculated?”

  “Paul, can’t we...” She felt the heat on her face and the fear in her heart. She had to get him away from these men. Then, when they were alone, she could explain. She put a hand on his coat and tugged. “Please, I—”

  Paul leaned close and spoke between clenched teeth. “If you expect me to do the gentlemanly thing and let you call your little bastard mine, you have definitely miscalculated.” Then he turned and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “See you around, kid.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  June, 1949

  WINTER ROLLS into spring with little fanfare in New Orleans. Cool days and cool nights become warm days and cool nights; the scent of blooming camellias is replaced by the fragrance of jasmine and wisteria. Heat, humidity and honeysuckle aren’t far behind.

  This year, as it often did, the transition took Paul by surprise. One day, it seemed, it had been January in his fishing cabin on Bayou Sans Fin and the next it was summer and he’d been back at Lyoncrest for half a year. It was only in recounting all that had happened in those six months that Paul could believe so much time had passed.

  The months were filled with frantic activity as they attempted to meet Margaret’s goal of signing on WDIX-TV on July the Fourth, with President Truman’s holiday whistlestop in the Crescent City.

  Paul spent weeks with engineers, learning more than he wanted to know about building control boards that would enable them to beam television signals from the station to the control tower atop the New Iberia Bank building to the thousand or so homes in the region that had television sets.

  He spent days with construction crews, overseeing the building of a studio and sets for news, for interviews, for musical entertainment, for cooking demonstrations and clown acts.

  He spent entirely too much time pitching this new idea to potential advertisers and to local newsmakers and to prospective viewers, even to appliance stores that were reluctant to stock very many of the cumbersome, one-eyed boxes.

  He spent meeting after meeting justifying expenses to the stodgy old men who ran Lyon Broadcasting.

  He spent hour after frustrating hour relearning his own profession, now that listeners would not only be able to hear him but see him. He had to learn how to communicate with the camera, dress for the camera, hold his head for the camera.

  And virtually every hour, every day, every week, Margaret was at his side.

  “You have to woo the camera,” she said now over the shoulder of the camera man. “I know you can do that.”

  “That might be easier if yours wasn’t the only face I saw when I looked at the camera,” he retorted.

  She laughed. His displays of ill temper didn’t seem to faze her. She wasn’t intimidated by him. At first Paul hadn’t been sure how he felt about that. Now he knew. He liked it. Respected her. What did that say about him? Weren’t men supposed to run the show, be in control?

  Not with Margaret around.

  With Margaret around, the best you could hope for was an equal partnership. A very disturbing idea. Certainly no man he knew of had ever had an equal partnership with a woman.

  He snatched at the knot of his necktie.

  She marched out from behind the cameraman and glared at him. “Now that’s certainly attractive. Crooked tie. Frown wrinkles.”

  “Wrinkles are good,” he said. “Viewers respect age.”

  “Viewers respect dignity.” She walked over and straightened his tie.

  “It’s too blasted hot to be dignified.” Especially when she leaned over him like that, her eyes cool and assessing. Her knuckles brushed his neck.

  “Wait’ll we get the lights. I hear they’re murder. You’re not going to perspire on camera, are you?”

  “Maybe you ought to do this.”

  She tapped him on the cheek with the tips of her nails. “No. You’re the beauty, I’m the brains. Don’t forget it.”

  “I’m more than just a pretty face,” he said.

  “I know. You have a compelling voice, too,” she said, heading back to the camera.

  And you’re more than just the brains behind this operation, he thought, watching her retreat. You’ve got a sweet little backside, too. Maybe he would announce that when the cameras were rolling, see what she had to say about that He grinned thinking about it.

  “That’s too much,” she said. “Friendly, not wicked, Paul. You must be thinking about murdering your director.”

  “As a matter of fact...”

  Iron Margaret. That was what all the engineers and construction crews called her behind her back. They’d never seen a woman like her. But strangely, they all seemed to like her. They did everything she asked, fell over backwards to please her. And not just because she was a looker. They did it because they respected her as much as they respected any man. They did it because she worked harder than any of them, because she knew her business, because she was always fair even when she was tough. They couldn’t put any of those feelings into words, but Paul felt the same way. So he knew what they meant when she walked away and one of the guys said, “That’s one helluva dame.”

  Paul had to agree.

  And to his chagrin, she’d managed to become all that by disregarding everything he’d demanded of her. She’d become the woman she was by defying him. Thank goodness she had.

  Now if only he could admire her unorthodox virtues without being distracted by her sultry eyes, her full lips, the honey-colored hair brushing her shoulders and her slender body.

  “Paul, you are not following orders.”

  “You’re not the only one who never follows orders,” he said, getting up from the news set. “Especially when it’s this blasted hot. It’s half-past six and I’m done for the day.”

  “Half past!” Margaret glanced at her watch. “Gotta run.”

  “What’s your hurry, kid?”

  “There’s an end-of-school program at seven,” she said, not slowing down as she grabbed her pocketbook, gloves and hat from atop the packing crate where she’d thrown them after lunch. “André has a speaking part. I forgot to call Patrick for the car, but if I can get a streetcar, I might make it.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  She hesitated. “You’re sure?”

  As his roadster rolled toward the school in the dusk, Paul realized he was constantly around Margaret these days, but they were always surrounded by others. Being alone in the dusk felt different. The cozy atmosphere made him want to say some of the things he’d been thinking earlier.

  “We’re almost there,” she said.

  He knew what she meant. “We’ll be ready for sign-on.”

  “You bet we will.” She muffled a yawn.

  “You’re knocking yourself out.”

  “It’s worth it,” she said.

  “This is the most important thing in the world to you, isn’t it?” Six months ago he could not have said that without bitterness. Now he understood that men weren’t the only ones driven by ambition.

  “Second-most important,” she said.

  Their arrival at the school saved him fro
m comment. Of course, the boy. She’d always been clear that the boy came first. Although her son wasn’t the sore point he had been six months ago, Paul still had some ambivalent feelings about him. Margaret had somehow managed to convince the family not to try to make Paul accept the boy, probably by telling them he’d threatened to leave for good if they pressed the matter. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t had to confront the issue and for that he was grateful.

  Margaret got out, then peered through the open car window at him. “When you get back to Lyoncrest, perhaps you could ask Patrick to bring the car for us in about an hour and a half.”

  “Sure.”

  But he didn’t. He sat there in the car, listening to the faint sounds of inexpert music from inside the school. Finally he did what was on his mind. He walked into the school and stood near the back of the auditorium.

  The children were cute. Kids always were. But this moment wasn’t about how sweet all kids were. It was about one kid, the only one he could see on the entire stage.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, a recitation on faith, hope and charity from one of our most talented first graders, Andre Lyon,” announced a portly nun.

  Paul felt a hitch in his heart as the boy came forward. He’d been around André a lot these past few months, had learned not just to tolerate his presence, but to enjoy it. André was a funny imp, a mischief maker who accepted the consequences with a sincere promise never to commit the transgression again. Except that, in the way of seven-year-old boys, he quickly forgot the promise and had to be taught again. Paul liked him. Sometimes he almost liked him enough to surrender his pride and claim the boy as his own, despite what he knew. Sometimes, looking at the child, he thought—or imagined—he could see a slight resemblance to himself. At those times—before he could convince himself that he was wrong—he felt a prick of conscience that said he needed to pay more attention to the boy.

  He was a sucker for kids, that was all.

  He tried to concentrate on the boy’s recitation. Faith, hope and charity. Paul had little of the first, none of the second and was apparently listing too far in the direction of the third, if he was even considering playing father to André.

  But then, it wasn’t the boy’s fault.

  Maybe it wasn’t even Margaret’s fault, either. He saw her, straining forward, her hair glistening beneath the prim navy hat perched on her head. She’d been little more than a child herself when it happened, a child in trouble. Pregnant when they married, pregnant when she started pursuing him, if his calculations were right. That, of course, was the hardest to swallow. Her sudden interest in him that summer had been nothing but a convenient cover-up. She’d gotten herself in the family way, probably by some pimply-faced fraternity boy from Tulane. Happened all the time.

  He ought to admire her for coming up with a better plan than a shotgun marriage to some undergrad Romeo. Maybe if he hadn’t been so crazy about her, he might have been able to see it that way. Maybe if he hadn’t wanted so much to believe she was just as crazy about him.

  André was finishing up. He hadn’t stumbled over a single word; his voice had rung out strong and clear to the far reaches of the auditorium. The audience clapped. The nun returned to the microphone, beaming. “A chip off the old block, I believe is the way it’s said,” the nun declared to the dying applause.

  To anyone who didn’t know better, Paul supposed that would certainly appear to be the case. He startled himself for a moment in wishing it was so. In thinking that it could be, if only he would relent.

  CHARLES DECIDED to skip the board meeting. He had no desire to hear how well things were going for the sign-on of WDIX-TV only six short days away.

  He decided to skip lunch with Catherine Benoît, whom he’d been dating sporadically for the last few months also. He had no desire to hear Cat’s broad hints that it might be time to consider formalizing their relationship. He called Aunt Ella, instead, and picked her up for a late lunch at the little fish house near Lake Pontchartrain. It wasn’t fancy and the clientele wasn’t desirable, but the food was outstanding and Aunt Ella wasn’t such a nose-in-the-air that she would let shabby surroundings spoil her enjoyment.

  “What a fine idea, Charlie boy,” she said. “You know, things have not been the same at Lyoncrest since you left.”

  They were sitting at a picnic table, one of a half-dozen under the live oaks dripping Spanish moss. Raucous Cajun music wafted out of the wooden cabin that housed the restaurant. The day was humid. Charles had left his suit coat in the automobile. Despite the shade of a huge yellow hat with a frightful red band, Ella’s upper lip was damp with perspiration. Cat Benoît, who hadn’t half the class of Aunt Ella, would have died rather than be seen perspiring in a place like this.

  Margaret wouldn’t have minded.

  “It was time to move on,” he said, tearing a chunk of crusty French bread off the loaf in a straw basket. “Time to make my own life.”

  “You’re right about that,” Ella said. “And it goes well? You’re in charge of the entire radio station now, R.J. says.”

  Charles wanted to tell her the truth, but hadn’t the stomach for it. He wanted to tell her that after six months at the helm, the station was losing money and listeners for the first time since Margaret had taken over. “Papa’s breathing down my neck.”

  “He should retire. Leave it to the young people.”

  Charles savored a plump fried oyster. The best in three parishes. If Cat’s father offered food like this at that third-rate restaurant of his in the French Quarter, people would be lined up at the door. That was what Charles would do if he was in charge. Hire the chef from here, change the menu, change the decor. He’d... Who was he kidding? He’d probably run a restaurant into the ground as quickly as he was ruining WDIX radio.

  “You’re courting someone, too.”

  Charles winced. “Catherine Benoît.”

  “She’s not good enough for you.” Ella smiled. “I suppose I’d say that about anyone, wouldn’t I, Charlie boy?” Charles smiled at his aunt. She was good for him. She believed in him the way no one else did. “I’m thirty, Aunt Ella,” he said. “It’s time I marry. I’ve been waiting and... It’s never going to happen, is it?”

  She patted his hand. “No, Charlie, it’s never going to happen. Margaret’s going to wait forever, too, if that’s how long it takes. And that brother of yours, he’s such a hopeless case, I think forever is exactly how long it’s going to take. You get on with your life, Charlie. Make yourself happy. Forget Margaret and Paul and those fools at Lyon Broadcasting who can’t see what a prize they have.”

  Charles looked into Ella’s eyes and saw reflected there all that he’d ever believed he had it in him to be. Maybe she was right. He simply had to forget Margaret and move on.

  He had heartburn all afternoon. He blamed it on the oysters.

  THE NIGHT WAS SULTRY, the kind of night Margaret longed to throw open the doors to the gallery outside her bedroom. But she dared not. Had dared not since Paul moved home. He might be out there. And she might not be able to encounter him without giving in to urges that didn’t suit a lady.

  “He is your husband,” she said under her breath. She sat at her dressing table, finishing one hundred strokes to her hair. The atmosphere in her room was oppressive. If only she could open the door...

  She finished with her hair and turned back the bedcovers. Her skin was damp. She glanced at the door, longing for a hint of night breeze. She surely wouldn’t sleep yet. Tomorrow WDIX-TV signed on. Although she was physically exhausted, her mind raced, her heart felt the exhilaration of seeing its dreams fulfilled. One of its dreams.

  Perspiration trickled between her breasts. She would surely die if she didn’t let some air into this stifling room. She opened the doors, studiously avoiding a glance to the right. She remained inside the room, shielded by diaphanous curtains from anyone who might be standing on the gallery.

  As if anything could protect her from Paul, she thought as a hint of a
breeze kissed her bare arms. For it wasn’t Paul she needed protecting from. It was herself. It was the haunting memories of their lovemaking, the long-dead ghosts of their dreams and plans. It was the part of her that refused to accept the truth, that continued to love him and want him no matter how clear he made it that he had no more feelings for her.

  Because sometimes, in moments when he didn’t think she noticed, she would vow she saw something in the way he looked at her. Sometimes she even convinced herself he felt something when he looked at the son he still insisted on denying.

  And those were the times when her hopes clung to life most stubbornly, those times when she saw him with André and saw the flash of their matching smiles, the same dark, thick-lashed eyes. Surely, she would think, he’ll see the truth.

  He hadn’t yet. And no matter how many times she told herself to give up the hope, she hadn’t yet, either.

  Sighing, she stepped onto the gallery. Never mind about Paul. She would concentrate on that moment when she, personally, would activate the lever that sent the WDIX-TV signal out over the airwaves. She closed her eyes and shivered with the fantasy soon to be reality.

  “I can’t believe you’re cold,” he said.

  The whisper of his voice didn’t startle her. She admitted in that instant that she’d known all along that he would be here, that he would speak to her. And more. She opened her eyes and turned to face him. He was close enough she could reach out and touch him.

  She would do exactly that before the night was over.

  “No,” she said, aware that her voice was huskier than usual. “Excited.”

  “About tomorrow?”

  She didn’t bother to reply. About tomorrow, yes. But also about tonight, and what it might mean for all her tomorrows.

  “I don’t think I can sleep myself,” he said.

  He held a glass, a tall glass filled with ice and water. He’d stripped down to his trousers and sleeveless undershirt. She noticed that he’d gained some of his weight back since returning to Lyoncrest. He looked better, healthier. Virile.