The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  He wasn’t normally so unobservant. But most of his waking hours had been spent developing a swamp-tour trade with J.D. Hawk.

  Focusing on Rachel’s plight, André knew the best advice he could give her was to go to the authorities. Was her mother blind, for pity’s sake? Possibly. Though his privileged childhood had been the antithesis of Rachel’s, his parents had been blind to everything except the family business. Lyon Broadcasting had consumed their lives—and still did. In a way, André saw a lot of the lonely kid he’d been in Rachel.

  At thirty-three, he shouldn’t care about a past he couldn’t change. But maybe that part of him was closer to the surface than he’d realized. The child who’d been loved yet too often neglected while his parents were preoccupied with work... Maybe it was those memories that had moved him to become concerned about Rachel’s plight. To keep an eye on her, help her with homework, give her a few bucks now and then.

  Dropping one foot, André lazily pushed the glider. He knew his childhood didn’t compare to Rachel’s. His mother was a good woman. One truly baffled by what she no doubt perceived as her son’s ingratitude. Not that she’d ever called him ungrateful. Papa, now—he’d never understood his son’s lack of interest in the business. Paul Lyon, the much acclaimed Voice of Dixie, could not fathom André’s feelings on the subject. But André had watched the business swallow his parents, and he didn’t want that to happen to him. So he’d left home rather than embroil himself in arguments.

  Running away only worked for so long. And since his return, he’d mended a few fences. He often met his mother for lunch. Just last Friday, in fact. Which was why her sudden decision to visit struck him as odd.

  Whatever her reason, André decided to hit her with a request of his own. A request that involved Rachel. He’d had a positive upbringing, at Lyoncrest, the rambling family mansion in an affluent area of the Garden District. Rachel would be safe there. And certainly there was room for her. Besides, Mama had a history of taking in strays. The first when André was seven, he thought wryly. She’d dragged home a sunken-eyed, unkempt stranger. It turned out to be Paul Lyon, André’s father.

  Later there were other foundlings. One came immediately to mind—a homeless, pregnant waif named Gabrielle something-or-other. She’d arrived at Lyoncrest about the time he and Papa had their final row over his not joining the family business. Half a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. André sipped from his cup, idly rubbing at the sweat already glistening on his chest. Not even spring, yet the humidity after the last rain was stifling.

  Life was stifling. At least that was how it felt now that their swamp tours had caught on. There wasn’t much challenge left. The business earned enough for two men to get by, but a single owner-operator could make a comfortable living. J.D. had approached him again yesterday, asking to buy him out.

  Maybe he should say yes. Maybe it was time he moved on.

  Moved on to what? André drained his cup and climbed to his feet. Better see if Rachel was finished tidying. He didn’t want her to be late for school on his account. It’d also be better if she wasn’t around to eavesdrop when he discussed her with his mama.

  Uh-oh. Too late. His peripheral vision picked up the limousine crawling along the dirt road that passed his shack. André chuckled. Man, did it look out of place. The neighbors would think he was being paid a visit by the Mafia. He watched as a driver disembarked and opened the passenger door.

  André slipped behind a thick cascade of wisteria, where he could see and not be seen. In spite of the early hour, his mother looked coolly attractive. Her severe navy blue suit would be drab on some women. It took more than dark colors to dim Margaret Lyon’s natural effervescence.

  Her controlled expression slipped only minutely as she gave André’s seedy bungalow the once-over. Even frowning, she looked queenly as she stripped off her gloves and placed a determined hand on the sagging wooden gate.

  André heard the screech of the rusty hinge. She’d soon be at his door—if the steep climb up the rickety steps didn’t daunt her. Clearly she didn’t belong in the bayou. So why in hell had she made the trek?

  Heart slamming against his breastbone, André felt a frisson of fear without knowing why. He dug through his pockets for money. No matter what had prompted the visit, matters involving family deserved privacy. Racing into the house, he snatched the dustcloth from Rachel’s hand and replaced it with folded bills. “Treat yourself to a plate of beignets at Bertie’s Café before you head off to school,” he said, hustling her out the door. “I’ve got company, shortcake. Time for you to am-scray.”

  “Ton amour?” she whispered.

  “My lover?” André skidded to a halt. That shouldn’t be the first question out of a thirteen-year-old’s mouth. “Non,” he growled. “Ma mère.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. But when she met the regal Margaret face-to-face, the girl ducked her head shyly. In a soft voice she said goodbye and disappeared like a wisp of smoke into the foggy swamp.

  Margaret Lyon’s gaze flicked from the retreating form to the man whose shoulder-length black hair was tied at his nape with a leather thong.

  He stared back, his expression impassive. A growth of beard shadowed his jaw, suggesting he’d just climbed out of bed.

  Recovering from her obvious confusion, Margaret grasped André’s work-worn hands. “If you’ve been hiding a daughter from your family, André, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Caught totally off guard, André laughed. He didn’t know what made him lead her on. But he stood aside and swept a hand toward the rickety steps. “Care to enter my den of iniquity, Mama? Something important must be afoot for you to go slumming.”

  Sidestepping her son’s unrefined display of sunbrowned muscles, she clasped the railing and marched past him. “Your uncle Charles and aunt Catherine might refuse to accept your cousin Alain’s wife, but that doesn’t mean Papa and I would ostracize anyone you chose, regardless of her background. Where is the child’s mother?”

  “She lives a mile up the road,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t a social call, Mama. Usually we meet in more civilized surroundings, and it’s only been a few days since we had lunch uptown.”

  At the door to his shack, which still stood ajar after Rachel’s hasty departure, Margaret turned. “You’re right, André. First things first I’ve asked you a million times to join the family business. Today, I’ve come to beg.”

  Shaken by the quaver in her voice, André closed the door behind him. Once inside, he took a moment to grab a shirt and slip it on. “The coffee’s fresh. Will you have a cup?”

  She nodded and followed him into the Spartan kitchen. He looked so...so piratical, she thought, this man who called her Mama. Margaret had always assumed that when he matured, her son would be like Paul. Polished and suave. “Your papa’s had a heart attack.” Never one to mince words, Margaret had decided to get right to the point. Perhaps all wasn’t doomed, she mused when the coffeepot jerked in André’s hand and coffee sloshed onto the counter.

  “A minor one,” she said into the strained silence. “Dr. Young says Paul must cut back on the hours he works—or risk suffering a massive coronary.”

  André led her to an overstuffed couch. He was glad Rachel had straightened the throw, which now hid the tattered cushions. “You and Papa gave WDIX-TV the best twenty-five years of your lives. Maybe it’s time to sell like other family-owned stations have done.”

  “Sell? Never!” Margaret clutched the heavy mug in both hands. “So,” she said brusquely, “you’ve been in touch with your uncle Charles.”

  “Not lately. He contacted me when I came back to town. He said a lot of stations had sold to conglomerates.”

  “To Charles, the bottom line is always money.” She paused. “Do you have any idea how many times your papa has subsidized his brother’s ventures?”

  “No. And I don’t want to,” André said coldly.

  She leaned toward him. “I’m not here to ask
you to take sides, Andre.”

  “That’s good. I’ve tried to make it plain that I refuse to be put in the middle of a family feud.”

  “You won’t be. But the only prayer I have of convincing Paul to slow down is if I do the same. Like it or not, André, the controlling interest in Lyon Broadcasting will one day be yours. You’re going to inherit sixty percent of the shares. It’s how Alexandre divided his shares, a portion of what my father left in trust for you. You can’t keep avoiding the inevitable.”

  That was exactly what had kept André on the high seas for so long. But, as he realized now, he’d returned to family obligations that still existed. Family obligations that needed to be met. Oddly enough, the timing was right. J.D. wanted to buy his half of the swamp tours—an investment that entailed little more than a few pontoon crafts.

  “Is Papa in immediate danger of a second attack?” Andre asked carefully. “Could I have a few days to consider your request?”

  Margaret almost scalded her tongue in her shock. “I came prepared to arm-wrestle,” she said, trying to cloak her raw emotion with a joke. “I hate to push, but I need to make plans. I’ll bend over backward to accommodate you, André.”

  “I’ll need at least a week to settle my business affairs,” he said, more jolted than he wanted to admit by the urgency in his mother’s tone.

  “Anything.” Turning away, she fumbled for a hankie and blew her nose.

  André stroked his stubbled jaw. “I suppose Lyon Broadcasting has a stringent dress code?” It was a feeble attempt to avoid acknowledging her tears and his concern.

  Clearing her throat, Margaret searched her purse. She pulled out a business card and handed it across the table. “Paul’s tailor. He can make two suits in a week. If you’ll jot down your shirt and underwear sizes, I’ll stock your armoire. You will take a suite at Lyoncrest, won’t you? Commuting from here every day would be impossible.”

  André tapped the card on his palm. “Would you toss in a room for Rachel?”

  “Rachel?” Margaret blanked momentarily.

  “The girl you passed on the way in.”

  Refocusing, Margaret felt her excitement rise. “Oh, André, she is your daughter. Of course she can come! I won’t even ask why you live apart from her mother.”

  “I shouldn’t have led you on, Mama. A bit of the devil in me, I guess.” André told her he was strictly a friend of the girl’s. “Moments before you showed up, I’d decided to ask if you’d help her. Rachel’s mother is an alcoholic. When she’s drunk she brings home men. The kid showed up here today to avoid being raped.”

  “How horrible! If you think her mother will let the poor child go, I’ll gladly offer her sanctuary.” Margaret smiled at him, proud of her son’s compassion and his honesty. “I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion, André. Of course you’d never hide any child of yours from us. I should have given you more credit.”

  “Why? Does sharing your blood automatically make me honorable, Mama?”

  Margaret blanched. If he only knew. But the truth of André’s parentage was a secret only three people besides her shared. His biological mother, a now-dead lawyer and Paul. The secret weighed her down at times. Suddenly feeling faint, Margaret twisted the single strand of pearls she always wore. A strand Paul had given her, not the ones her mother-in-law, Minna, used to flaunt. Finding her voice, she said, “I’m sorry if my life’s choices somehow hurt you, André. I can’t alter the past. Reporting the atrocities of war almost destroyed your papa. He needed me. And if Lyon Broadcasting was going to make a successful leap from radio into television, I needed him.” She bit her lip and glanced away. “I love you both, André.”

  “What about Uncle Charles? I thought you two...”

  Her head snapped back. “What do you mean? I’m his sister-in-law. That’s all.”

  “Well, he was practically a father to me when I was little. Then Papa appeared and all anyone did was argue and bury themselves in the business.”

  “I make no apologies, André. The war changed our lives. Your papa went overseas. Charles couldn’t. His health... Nevertheless, he gave up a promising career as a concert pianist to work at WDIX. But your grandfather left Paul the controlling interest in the company. My father put his shares in trust for you. Paul and I let Charles run the radio station and he nearly bankrupted it. He left it in shambles and took over his father-in-law’s restaurant. Now Chez Charles is shaky. Walk a mile in our shoes before you condemn anyone.”

  “I said I’d give this request serious consideration, but I’d like to know more about what I’d be getting into. Could I stop by the accounting office for a profit-and-loss statement?”

  “I’ll put together a full prospectus. Oh, and, André, I’ll include a list of everything you’ll need to do if we’re to offer legal shelter to your young friend. Our lawyer can move things along pretty quickly. I’ll let him know you’ll be in touch.” She looked at him closely. “You’ll call me, then?”

  André inclined his head. “You’ll have my answer next week. If I do accept, I’ll bring Rachel to Lyoncrest on Sunday and report to you for work the following Monday.”

  Margaret pulled on her gloves, then rose. After an awkward hesitation, she stretched up to kiss his cheek. “It’s the right thing to do, André. For years I’ve envisioned WDIX-TV passing into your hands. The boundaries of television are limitless.” Her silver-blue eyes lit up when she spoke of her pride and joy.

  “You can quit trying to sell me, Mama. If anything tilts in your favor, it’s that I’d look forward to spending time with you while you teach me the business.”

  “I’m cutting back, remember. But I’ll provide a competent teacher.”

  André tried not to let his disappointment show. “I’ll visit Papa when I come to town.” Taking her arm. he walked her to the limo. He stepped back and watched Paddy turn the heavy car around. André couldn’t help wondering if he’d just made a terrible mistake. He hated family politics.

  “YOU LOOK PLEASED, Miss Margie.” The white-haired chauffeur, who’d been with the family longer than Margaret had, smiled at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Not a hundred-percent pleased, Paddy. André agreed to think about joining WDIX. He’s far from committed.”

  “Are you afraid he’ll be dissuaded by Mr. Charles—or those conniving kids of his?”

  “André may have strayed from the family tree, but his roots are sound.” Margaret gazed at the passing scenery. “Did Gabrielle go off to work before dawn again this morning?”

  “She did. That’un would work twenty-four hours a day if she didn’t have a child.”

  “I see Gaby making the same mistakes with Leslie that Paul and I made with André. I can’t allow her to become a workaholic. Take me to the station, please, Paddy?”

  The chauffeur adjusted his course. He maneuvered expertly through snarled traffic along the river and soon stopped at the curb next to the red-brick building that housed the television station.

  Margaret let herself in through the cast-iron gate. She greeted the receptionist and others who bustled through the lobby of the station she’d nurtured from infancy into a local and national media power. Today she didn’t waste time on small talk with staff. Instead, she strode purposefully toward Gabrielle Villieux’s office. Margaret had gone through school with Gaby’s mother. They’d been good friends until Gaby’s mother ran off to marry a seaman. Through bad luck and a terrible marriage of her own, Gabrielle had landed broke and pregnant on the doorstep at Lyoncrest. Now she and her small daughter, Leslie, couldn’t have been more loved by Margaret and Paul if they’d been bound by blood. The blood ties so important to Charles Lyon and his wife meant nothing to Margaret. It was the love people carried in their hearts that counted.

  THE RAVEN-HAIRED, twenty-nine-year-old Gabrielle glanced up from a pile of papers she was sorting as the door to her office swung open.

  “Margaret!” Gaby circled the desk to hug her friend and mentor.

  “I
hate to interrupt, but I’ve just come from visiting André.”

  Gaby leaned against her desk. “For breakfast? Didn’t you just see him last week for lunch?”

  Smiling, Margaret slipped off her gloves. “I bearded the wolf in his den.”

  “You didn’t venture into Bayou Sans Fin alone? Oh, Margaret.”

  “Relax. Patrick drove me. I decided I had to tell André about Paul and prevail on him again to take his rightful place in the business.”

  Gaby’s hazel eyes flicked to life. Her fine eyebrows arched into her wispy bangs. “I don’t know why you continue to let him break your heart. He always refuses.”

  “Maybe not this time.” Margaret paused for effect. “I really think he’s going to work here.”

  Gaby released the heavy swath of hair that had been knotted at the nape of her neck. It fell to her waist in a swirling cascade. Her full lips parted. “Work here? Doing what? We don’t have much call for loading freighters or poling tourists through alligators.”

  Margaret inspected the fit of her wedding band. “Gabrielle, if...no, when André joins us, I want you to take him under your wing. One day he’ll be in charge. I want him to learn from the best.”

  “But...I...” Gaby expelled a breath. It was hard to argue in the face of a compliment. The bald truth was, she didn’t want to train André Lyon. Gabrielle knew she had no right to expect to be handed the job of general manager. But it was exactly what she’d hoped for ever since the doctor had diagnosed Paul’s condition. There wasn’t another employee here who had the knowledge and expertise she had.

  Yet she owed Margaret so much. Everything, really. And if Margaret asked this of her...

  Perhaps, Gabrielle thought, locking gazes with the older woman, André Lyon wouldn’t stick it out. From the tales she’d heard, and she’d heard plenty, the heir apparent liked his wine, women and song. Maybe he’d crawl back into the hole he’d crawled out of when he discovered how hard he’d have to work at Lyon Broadcasting.