The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  Gaby slapped her hands hard against her thighs. “Your wish is my command, Margaret.” She turned to check her calendar. “You expect him when?”

  “I’ll let you know. List him tentatively for next Monday at eight.” The older woman exhaled in relief as she stood and made her way out.

  Gabrielle took a seat behind the desk again, but it was a long time before she returned to her task. She’d seen André Lyon once. The day he’d announced to his parents that he’d signed up for a second term with the merchant marine. Gaby had only been at Lyoncrest two or three days, and she’d been frightened of her own shadow. The argument that erupted after André’s declaration had left her shaking in her shoes. So did the sight of André Lyon’s devil eyes when he burst out of Paul’s study. Fortunately Gaby had gained bushels of self-confidence since then. The prodigal son wouldn’t find her so easy to unseat.

  ANDRÉ STOPPED AT WDIX to collect the information he’d asked his mother to prepare. Over lunch he studied the prospectus. The figures shocked him. His parents had been shoring up the radio station with interest from his mother’s trust fund. He wondered why. The country certainly didn’t lack for cataclysmic events. Despite the cease-fire the year before, Vietnam wasn’t over yet—plenty of news there. All the world was clamoring for information about Watergate. And it seemed that presidential impeachment hearings were more than likely. Hot news brought in influential advertisers—wasn’t that how broadcasting worked?

  André recalled little of the business chatter that went on at Lyoncrest during his early childhood. One thing he did remember was his mother saying over and over that his father’s voice was all WDIX needed to catapult them into fame and fortune.

  Obviously not. And André intended to find out what had gone wrong. Well, he had a bit of extra time. Transferring the business to J.D. had gone faster than he’d expected. His parents’ lawyer was looking into the situation with Rachel. And André had already visited his father’s tailor. Nothing else he had to do for the moment. He paid his check and drove straight back to the station.

  He nosed around the production department, spent an hour with the program manager and twenty minutes chatting with the news director. By the time he left the ad sales coordinator and traffic supervisor, he had a better idea as to why WDIX-TV was in trouble. He could sum it up in two words—Gabrielle Villieux, the stray his mother had taken in. Taken in and all but handed the family jewels. At least, some here hinted that the Villieux woman considered herself a Lyon. Oh, André could believe that, all right. He’d poked his head in her office and asked for a minute of her time. She’d curtly told him she was busy and that he was on her calendar for next Monday at eight.

  Obviously his mother didn’t realize the woman had exceeded her authority. She acted as if she had a natural right to be in charge and owed him no deference whatsoever. As if her last name was Lyon and not Villieux. Hmm, maybe Gabrielle had heard and believed an old rumor that said he wasn’t really a Lyon. André didn’t know how such a rumor had started, but Papa himself had confirmed it was a lie. In any event, the Villieux woman had hoodwinked his parents.

  “Tough,” André muttered as he strode from the building. Beginning bright and early next week, things will start to change, Mrs. Villieux. The resident pauper is about to storm the castle and dethrone the phony princess.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ANDRÉ’S SUITE AT LYONCREST was shaded by a stately old magnolia. His private balcony overhung a lush green lawn that gave way to a well-tended rose garden. Monday, the morning he was slated to start work, he got up in time to greet a blood-red sun. As he gazed over the remembered landscape, he found himself ill-prepared for a wave of nostalgia. He fumbled with the buttons on his new white shirt, then let it hang undone as he came to grips with the knowledge that he’d missed this place. Why had he manufactured reasons to stay away so long? Time had wrought its changes on the occupants of the house, if not on the house itself. Papa’s parents were gone. Aunt Ella, too. He’d missed their funerals.

  As he dealt with good memories and the not so good, he tackled the shirt again, finally stuffing snowy shirttails into banker’s gray pinstripe pants. Tying a silk tie was a novelty. He could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d worn one since leaving college. At first the tie tangled with the leather thong he used to fasten his hair. What with the move, and some unforseen difficulties in making the guardianship arrangements for Rachel—difficulties finally resolved when a large check was handed over to the girl’s mother—well, with all that, he’d run out of time for a haircut. Maybe today. Or maybe not. In a way, he needed to show that he had limits to how civilized he cared to be.

  Heading the list of those André wanted to show was Gabrielle Villieux. Late on Saturday evening, when he’d hauled the last load of his belongings into Lyoncrest, she’d been seated on the front stoop blowing soap bubbles with her daughter, Leslie. A cute, plump girl of five or six. André had caught a big bubble and laughingly set it on the kid’s pug nose. Gaby stuck her snoot in the air, grabbed Leslie by the hand and marched away, leaving him feeling like a leper.

  André frowned, remembering. The woman might be a complete bitch, but she had damned fine legs. She was tall. Five-seven or -eight, he’d guess. Close enough to his own six-two. She’d worn white shorts and—André slid the knot on his tie so tight he gasped for air. That’d teach him to daydream. Still, as he slipped into his jacket and smoothed the wide, notched lapels, there was a zing to his blood he hadn’t felt in some time. It was the anticipation he felt at the idea of sparring with Gabrielle at breakfast.

  She’d disappeared on Sunday. He’d spent nearly the whole day helping Rachel move in and get used to the house. He’d wanted her to feel comfortable with Mama and Papa before he had to report for work.

  A swing past the dining room revealed it to be empty. At a table in the kitchen sat Leslie and an elderly woman he didn’t know. He coaxed a shy smile from the girl who’d just dripped syrup down the white blouse of her school uniform. “Is your mother still in bed, squirt?”

  She shook her head, making her curls dance, but didn’t say a word.

  The cook handed André a plate heaped with thick slices of pain perdu, a Creole version of French toast. “I’ll sit in here,” André said when LuAnn, the current cook, motioned him toward the empty dining room. Lena had retired, he assumed, fondly recalling the cook who’d always had a kind word for a lonely boy. “I’ll join you here until someone else comes downstairs.”

  LuAnn plunked a silver coffee carafe on the table. “Miss Gaby’s gone to the office as usual. Mr. Paul has an early appointment with his doctor. Your mother went, too, and took Rachel to get her registered at Holy Cross school.”

  “Oh. And this is?” André turned his gaze on the other woman at the table.

  “Leslie’s nanny, Miss Claire Harris. This is Mr. André, the wandering son returned to the fold.”

  André took the woman’s limp hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Pushing his untouched plate aside, he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble for me, LuAnn. Coffee will do me until lunch.”

  The cook snorted her disapproval. She picked up his plate and plunked it down in front of the child. “We’ll give it to Miss Leslie. She’s the only one in this house who appreciates food the way a body ought to.”

  André glanced over the rim of his cup. Now he understood why the child was so chunky when her mother looked like a Dior model. Another strike against Gabrielle Villieux, allowing others to turn her daughter into a human waste-disposal.

  And yet André guessed she had no earthly idea that these women, who should have better sense, sat around stuffing her daughter.

  “You’ve had enough, haven’t you, honey?” He gently removed the plate and, with a sour look at the two women, walked to the sink and scraped it clean.

  Leslie had ducked her head as André took the plate. She peered at him from beneath thick lashes, but only after she thou
ght he was no longer paying her any notice.

  He was, though. He’d flipped pages back to his boyhood in this big rambling house and wondered if Leslie was as lonely as he’d been. It always astounded him when he met people who envied him for being an only child. If and when he married, he’d like a houseful of kids. He intended to take an active part in raising them, too.

  But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. “I’d better quit stalling,” he muttered. “Time to get to work. Have a nice day, ladies.”

  “Don’t ’spect you’ll be home for dinner,” announced LuAnn as Andre refilled his coffee cup and headed for the door. “Nobody ever is.”

  “A late dinner, surely.”

  LuAnn and Claire exchanged a swift glance. “Miss Gaby said she’d give you two days and you’d head back to the swamp,” LuAnn murmured.

  “She did?” André scowled. “Tell Miss Gaby... Never mind. I’ll tell her myself.” He stomped out.

  STUCK IN TRAFFIC, André considered a lot of things he could say to mouthy Gabrielle Villieux. Unfortunately he was thirty minutes late for work.

  “Oh!” a harried receptionist exclaimed as she let him into the building. “Gabrielle’s gone to an outside appointment. She said for you to wait here until she gets back.”

  “When will that be?” André flipped a cuff back to check his watch.

  “Eleven. At least, she’s scheduled to meet with the sales staff at eleven-fifteen.”

  “That’s two and a half hours from now!”

  The receptionist, who was answering a call coming into the switchboard, gave a shrug. Her wisteria-blue eyes conveyed a deeper interest, which André ignored. His mother had been remiss in thinking she could put that Villieux woman in charge of teaching him the business. Did Mrs. Villieux believe her time so much more valuable than his that she could leave him cooling his heels half the morning?

  He waited patiently until the receptionist finished her call. “I’m to share Mrs. Villieux’s office. Did she leave me a key?”

  “No. Sorry. Anyway, she’ll probably want you to call her Gabrielle or Gaby. We’re pretty informal at WDIX. By the way, I’m Raylene Miller.”

  “I’m André Lyon—but you obviously already know that. Tell me, Raylene, who would have a key to Mrs. Villieux’s office?” He stubbornly clung to the formality of last names.

  “Margaret. Oh, or Steffan, the head of maintenance. He can’t issue building and office keys, but he’d probably let you in. I’ll page him if you like.”

  “Thanks. I would like.”

  GABRIELLE KEYED into the building at five to eleven. The lobby was empty. Did that mean her pain-in-the-neck charge hadn’t shown up? Raylene was talking on the phone and the board was lit up like a Christmas tree. Gaby switched her briefcase to the other hand, fluttered her fingers as she passed and climbed the stairs to her office. Funny, her door was wide open. Maybe Margaret had come in. Smiling in anticipation, Gaby burst into the room. Then she skidded to a stop and blinked. Instead of being in the center of the room where it belonged, her desk was angled across the right corner. A matching desk sat on the left. Her three file cabinets were crowded together to make room for two that were taller.

  Gaby’s fingers went slack. Her briefcase hit the floor with a thump.

  André chose that moment to appear behind her, arms laden with a card file, pencil holder, stapler and other office paraphernalia.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Gabrielle waved and several narrow bracelets tinkled musically as they ran up and down her arm.

  “I didn’t think it would come as a shock. We are going to be working together, Mrs. Villieux.” He deposited his armload on the desk and bent to retrieve her fallen briefcase.

  “Put that down,” she ordered, her voice barely below a screech. “And I prefer to be called Ms. Villieux.”

  André straightened and opened his fingers.

  Gaby had to jump back to keep the steel-reinforced case from landing on her toes. A hiss escaped her lips. Eyes smoldering, she hefted the case and marched to her desk. Then she set her things down on the polished cherry surface and dropped into her chair. “You were late for work this morning. Our meeting was at eight. Tardiness is an intolerable habit, Mr. Lyon. It’s an indication of laziness. I am always early.”

  He eyed her thoughtfully. After a few moments he sauntered to the door and kicked it closed. “I guess it’s not true that the early bird gets the worm, Mrs. Villieux, or you’d have some meat on your bones.”

  Gaby sputtered. “Ms.,” she reminded him.

  “Furthermore,” André said, planting his hands on her desk, “if you stayed home for breakfast, you’d stop LuAnn and that Claire woman from stuffing your daughter like a Christmas goose.”

  Gaby’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Attacking me is bad enough. Calling a defenseless child fat is low, even for you. LuAnn and Claire love Leslie.”

  “I never said Leslie was fat. And I’m not saying they don’t love her. But some people equate food with love. And you attacked first. You accused me of being lazy.”

  She leaned back in her chair and studied him as if...as if he was the trail left by a slug. “Your reputation precedes you. I’m well acquainted with your type.”

  “Well,” he said in a soft voice, “it’s plain enough what you think of me—regardless of the fact that you know nothing about me. But I have to warn you that, at home, you’d better make sure those feelings don’t spill over to include Rachel. If ever a kid needs a woman to look up to, it’s her.” In a straightforward, matter-of-fact way, he filled Gabrielle in on the young girl’s distressing history.

  Gaby listened, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. When he finished, she looked shaken. “I-I’m glad you told me. I once knew men who’d consider a night with the mother license to take pleasure with the daughter.”

  André’s stomach knotted. “Are you saying that...that you were raped? I’m sorry, my memory of the circumstances that brought you to Lyoncrest is murky.”

  “I didn’t mean me. The men in my husband’s crowd... I was married to Leslie’s father, unfortunately. And I’ve said too much. Whatever Margaret told you about my circumstances, I want it understood that Leslie must never learn the truth about her father.”

  What exactly was the truth? he wondered. “Mama didn’t say anything. I just recalled hearing that you were involved in some kind of trouble.”

  “Yes. I found out too late that womanizing was the least of Marc Villieux’s unsavory activities.”

  Shaken by her story but still curious, André asked, “How did Mama happen upon you?”

  “She and my mother were girlhood friends. My parents both died when I was about Rachel’s age. I lived with a great-aunt.” Gaby began to straighten things on her desk. “To make a long story short, Marc turned up dead in an alley—murdered—leaving me pregnant and up to my ears in debt. Margaret saved me. Even if I lived forever, I couldn’t repay her. I’ll do anything she asks—and that includes letting you follow me around to see how the station operates.”

  Her clipped speech told André two things. One, she had a soft core beneath a brittle shell. And two, she resented his being here. The first he’d tuck away for future reference. The second he’d also leave alone—for now.

  He extended a hand across the expanse of her desk. “Your secret is safe with me. Shall we say hello, shake hands and start this relationship over?”

  She clasped his hand so briefly one could hardly call it a handshake. “We don’t have a relationship. With Paul and Margaret cutting back their hours, I’m assuming a bigger load. I don’t have time to baby-sit you. So keep up or miss out.”

  “Fair enough. But once I get a handle on how everything works, I can handle more responsibility—and you’ll have more time to spend with your daughter.”

  “Oh,” she said, polite but remote. “And how long do you think that’ll take?”

  “I don’t know. A month? Two? Mama’s hoping to formally pass the baton to me at the
twenty-fifth anniversary wingding. That’s what she and Papa spelled out last night, anyway. Didn’t they inform you?”

  “No...I...not specifically. The anniversary celebration is July fourth.”

  “Well, then, there’s plenty of time.” Andre sliced her a killer smile. “It’s only January now.”

  Gaby’s brows knit more tightly. She wondered if that was just big-shot talk or if Paul and Margaret really did think he could waltz in and learn in a few months what it had taken her six years and a lot of overtime to perfect. She’d worked days and studied nights in preparation for moving up the ladder at WDIX-TV. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d earned her degree in marketing in three years. By August she’d have her masters in communication. Unless she’d been misinformed, André Lyon had graduated with a liberal arts degree that prepared him for nothing. He’d done nothing, for pity’s sake, except flit around the world loading boxes into ships—no doubt leaving a legion of women panting in every port. At least, according to the tales she’d heard about him.

  Gaby brooded and tapped her long fingers on the desk.

  “Excuse me:” André drew her attention to the wall clock. “Far be it from me to tell you your job, Ms. Villieux, but Raylene said you had a meeting with the sales staff at eleven-fifteen. It’s after that now.”

  “Good grief!” Jumping up, she grabbed a yellow tablet and a stack of contracts. “I doubt you’ll understand a word of what’s being discussed, but you may as well come and get your feet wet. And if you’re going to call me Ms. Villieux in that tone, just use my first name, please.”

  “Sure.” He plucked his suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. As he crossed the room, hot on Gaby’s heels, a dapper, gray-haired man muscled past her and grabbed André’s arm.