The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  “About your jock comment? I didn’t go out for sports in college,” he said. “I studied hard to keep an academic scholarship. Weekends I worked on the docks to pay what the scholarship didn’t cover.”

  “Now that does surprise me.” In the elevator she took a long look at him.

  He swiped the key from her hand and unlocked their office Again she left him wondering what part surprised her. That he’d earned a scholarship or that he’d felt compelled to prove he didn’t need the Lyon fortune in order to succeed? But she didn’t elab orate or leave an opening for him to delve deeper. He would have tried, but his uncle waltzed in again.

  “Don’t mean to be a bother, boy. I forgot to give you thes two invitations to the Comus bal masque on Fat Tuesday. The masked ball kicks off Mardi Gras in style.” He nudged Andr and winked. “This year’s crop of debutantes are lush. So pu together a dashing costume. Invitations are at a premium, but you don’t have to thank me. We’re family, after all.”

  Gabrielle didn’t know why she had the feeling Charles had dangled a bribe of some sort under André’s nose. She wished he’d refuse, but why would he? Invitations to the prestigious ball were highly prized. Gaby knew people who’d sell their souls to get a single invite, let alone two.

  André probably had a mile-long choice of partners, and he’ have his pick of debutantes, too. So what? Gaby didn’t have to stick around and listen to their male posturing. She set the film canister down on her desk and gathered a stack of ledgers. “I’m going to return these,” she announced at large.

  Charles broke off. André turned and smiled. “Sure. See you later. The only other thing I’d like to do today is coordinate ou calendars.”

  She didn’t say yes or no. She just sailed out.

  André remembered that when five-thirty rolled around and Gaby still wasn’t back. She must be dropping off the film. Di she plan to return to the office? Did she expect him to stay late What? By six o’clock he was plenty steamed at her failure to le him know.

  “Tough bananas,” he said to no one except maybe the ficu as he snapped off the light, shut and locked the door. She’ probably evaded him on purpose. Except for the lights in the newsroom, all the offices he passed were dark.

  Downstairs, only a green exit light glowed in Raylene’s area

  “Tomorrow,” André promised himself, as he let himself ou the main entrance, “I’ll stick to Gabrielle Villieux like glue.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GABRIELLE RACED BACK to her office at twenty after six. She’d been going over budget figures with their chief accountant and lost track of time. Then it dawned on her that she’d forgotten the promise to return that news tape to McKillop at WEZY. George would kill her. If McKillop didn’t beat him to it.

  Her entire wing was dark and that irritated her no end, yet it didn’t surprise her. André had made clear how he felt about overtime. When she hit the switch, the bright light in her office temporarily blinded her. She shut her eyes and felt for her desk. At last she eased one eye open. “Oh. Where’s the canister?”

  Getting down on her knees, she checked the floor. No blue canister. “Huh! It can’t have just walked away.”

  She crawled out from under the desk. A pleasant thought began to take shape. André must have decided to deliver it for her. He’d heard George stress the importance of getting McKillop the tape by six.

  That thought was followed by another. “Great,” she muttered. “What must André think of me making promises I fail to keep?” As a rule she was scrupulous about commitments. Truth be known, André Lyon flustered her. Gaby hadn’t felt so much as a twinge of yearning for any man since she’d discovered what a first class louse she’d married. That marriage—six endless, awful years—proved she honored commitments, didn’t it?

  Married at seventeen, she’d realized her mistake before the ink on the license was dry. If her aunt hadn’t made it clear she’d be unwelcome, Gaby probably would have slunk home. Instead, she’d endured. And did her best to be an ideal wife—until she’d accidentally gotten pregnant. There was no way she’d let Marc Villieux or his scummy friends lay their hands on her baby. In fact, she’d been on her way to a shelter when Marc turned up dead in a back alley—knifed by a girlfriend or a creditor. Marc’s creditors let it be known that they expected her to pay his debts—or else.

  Gaby chose to believe that her guardian angel had left the newspaper with Margaret Lyon’s picture in it lying on a bus seat, where she happened to see it. Margie Hollander Lyon, a name Gabrielle’s mother had mentioned often and with fondness.

  Not a day went by in the six years since she’d made the impulsive decision to seek out her mother’s old friend that Gaby didn’t count her blessings. Considering everything Margaret had done for her, Gabrielle figured she could ignore the occasional weak knees and tingling spine brought on by proximity to André. Especially if he did nice favors that took the load off her and freed her up to see more clients.

  She flipped a page on her appointment calendar. Tomorrow she had a breakfast meeting scheduled with an important advertiser. One she hoped to entice away from WNOG-TV.

  “And why not?” Gaby exclaimed aloud as she opened a scrupulously prepared proposal. “If WDIX can sell Rodney Fortner’s stupid overpriced face cream to overstuffed old ladies better than they can, why shouldn’t he switch to us?”

  Gabrielle heard, or thought she heard a noise at the door. She glanced over. It wasn’t fully closed. Odd. She thought she’d shut it tight. She waited for someone to knock. No one did. Her fingers tensed, and she put the folder down. She worked alone in the administrative part of the building almost every evening. Why feel uneasy tonight?

  A glance at her watch revealed it was seven-thirty. Where had the time gone?

  There, the noise again. Footsteps?

  “Hello? Is anyone there? Steffan?” Had he finally gotten around to replacing that burned-out bulb over the stairwell?

  No one answered. She felt silly, talking to herself. Gaby smoothed a hand over her French twist. Several strands had wiggled loose but she couldn’t be bothered tucking them in. She stood, knees not quite steady, and stiffened her spine, then marched across the room. She jerked the door open. A quick look in both directions revealed nothing. Or was that a man silhouetted in the mirror at the end of the corridor? A smoky flash, and then gone. She must be seeing things.

  Gaby stepped back into her office. She closed the door firmly and locked it, surprised to discover her palms were sweating.

  “You silly goose,” she scolded.

  At her desk once more, she picked up the phone and dialed home. Leslie’s bedtime was eight-thirty. Whenever Gaby worked late, she phoned to say goodnight and to chat about her daughter’s day at the exclusive Catholic girls’ school. The same school Margaret had attended. There was comfort in following tradition.

  “Hello?” For a second, Gaby didn’t recognize the voice on the phone. “Rachel? It’s Gabrielle. How was your first day of school?”

  The girl seemed eager to talk, so Gaby listened. “Hey, I’m glad your classes went so well. Not math, huh?” Gabrielle laughed. “Paul’s a whiz with numbers. If he’s feeling fit after his visit to the doctor today, maybe he’ll help you with homework.”

  She was startled by Rachel’s response. “Oh, André already did? I...didn’t expect him to be home yet. Me? I’m still at the office. Could I speak to Leslie, please?”

  While she waited for her daughter to come on the line, Gaby wrestled with an undeniable feeling of jealousy that André should be playing billiards at home with Paul while she toiled here trying to save what was left of his inheritance.

  “Hi, sweetie.” Gaby shed her tight smile for a more relaxed one when Leslie picked up the phone. “Yes, I’m still at work, sugar pie. I know Mommy’s gone a lot. You and Rachel are watching ‘The Partridge Family’ on TV? Bath and bed right after, okay? Mommy’ll stop and give you a kiss, I promise. What? No. I’m sure you’ll be asleep. I love you too, baby.”


  Gabrielle blinked away tears. She gripped the receiver with both hands and pressed the cold plastic against her lips as she made kissing sounds—even when the line was disconnected. Several minutes ticked by before she sucked in a deep breath, dropped the phone back in its cradle and opened the advertising proposal again.

  She closed the folder only when she was positive she could give tomorrow’s presentation backward and forward. The trick to sales, Gaby had learned, was in knowing the material so well clients ended up begging her to advertise their product.

  She stifled a yawn. Tired. And no wonder. Five to eleven. Too bad a fairy godmother didn’t pop up to drive her home. Gaby sighed as she tucked extra copies of the proposal into her briefcase. Weary steps took her down the stairs, across the echoing reception area, then out through the squeaky gate.

  In her rush to get home to bed, Gaby dismissed memories of the earlier noises the same way she dismissed hunger pangs caused by missing both lunch and dinner. She ignored them and searched for a star on which to make a wish.

  Before she settled on a star, she caught sight of a disk jockey from WDIX radio trudging up the steps that led to the side entrance. About this time every night, Sam Hardesty brought a picnic to share with his new bride, WDIX-TV’s technical engineer, Barbara—Mary Boland’s sister. Mary herself was a crackerjack employee who’d been with WDIX for a long time. A woman staunchly loyal to Margaret Lyon.

  Gaby returned the bridegroom’s wave. What would it be like, she wondered, pausing to dump her briefcase in the back seat, to have a man dote on you that way?

  “You’d hate it,” she said to her reflection in the rearview mirror. “You’re too independent.” She flicked on the radio, permanently set at WDIX. Rhythm and blues, her favorite sound. When she turned onto Prytania Street, her eyelids were staring to droop. As Gaby expected, the occupants of Lyoncrest had all retired for the night. She let herself in the front door and tiptoed across the marble foyer. A light glowed softly in the kitchen. For all of two seconds she debated raiding the refrigerator, then decided it wasn’t worth listening to LuAnn in the morning. That woman was so possessive about her kitchen. Gabrielle grasped the polished newel post and began the long ascent up the winding, spiral stairs.

  Moonlight spilled through the glass dome at the top, gleaming on the mahogany banister. She sent a glance down the corridor that led to André Lyon’s suite of rooms. If she’d thought he might be up reading or something, she’d stop and thank him for doing her the favor of returning that film to McKillop.

  An image of André’s dark, slumberous eyes and five-o’clock shadow floated before Gaby’s eyes. Today, all those muscles—the ones she’d seen that sweltering Saturday he’d moved in—had been covered by a respectable suit. Gabrielle could hardly breathe imagining him in night clothes. More like no clothes. Ignoring her skittering pulse, Gaby made a hard left and continued on around the circular balustrade.

  She slipped out of her high heels and wriggled tired toes in the thick hall carpet before she entered her daughter’s bedroom.

  Clean, tangled curls and freshly scrubbed cherub cheeks. An undefined longing threatened to crack Gabrielle’s heart. She suspected that all this emotion was because she felt so tired tonight. She bent to drop a light kiss on Leslie’s dimpled hand. Baby fat. All children had it and shed it in due course—didn’t they? LuAnn and Claire weren’t stuffing her.

  But what if André was right? The possibility nagged at Gabrielle even after she’d showered and climbed into bed.

  ANDRÉ’S ALARM SOUNDED before daylight. He eyed it, thinking it couldn’t possibly be morning. That was what he got for falling asleep in a chair. Since he hadn’t caught Gabrielle at the office to find out what she had on her morning docket, he planned to snag her when she arrived home. The last time he’d checked the clock, it was eleven-twenty. Then he must have dozed off. Didn’t the blasted woman need any sleep?

  Grumbling, he staggered into the shower. He shouldn’t have to play hide-and-seek to find out where she was at any given hour of the day. She was supposed to be training him—not hiding from him.

  Feeling marginally brighter after shaving and dressing, André went downstairs. Dawn was an ungodly hour to eat. Yet, with the sun only beginning to sprinkle layers of gold along the eastern horizon, he felt pretty cocky about besting Gabrielle at her own game. She’d never expect him to be down there, ready to ride in to work with her.

  He whistled cheerfully, as he entered the kitchen.

  LuAnn had the Times-Picayune spread out all over the table. “I s’pose you’re going to work with the chickens, too.” Heaving her stout body from the chair, she began to fold the paper with an aggrieved air. “Miss Margaret and Mr. Paul used to leave at a civilized hour. You young’uns wanna set the world on fire. I already told Miss Gaby you two are gonna burn out. Then Mr. Charles and his brood’ll be left to call the shots like they want.” She slammed a cast-iron skillet on the stove. “But what do I know about runnin’ a broadcast business? I’m only a cook.”

  André listened to her sputter. His whistle slowly died. “Say again—the part about my going to work with the chickens, too. Am I not the first to come down?”

  “Ha!” LuAnn poured a mixture of grits and sausage into the sizzling oil. “Miss Gaby tore outta here half an hour ago. Didn’t even wait for coffee. Said she had a six-thirty meeting.”

  “Where? With whom?” He poured himself a strong coffee, added cream and took a sip, then another. Ah-h! Caffeine. Just what he needed.

  “Didn’t say. That poor girl is cracking under the pressure, if you ask me. Not that anybody does.” She waved a spatula at a sheaf of notebook pages that lay scattered across the counter. “Before it was even light, she swept in here and ordered me to put Miss Leslie on a diet. I told her, can’t everybody look like a fashion plate.” The woman dug the spatula into the pan and flipped the concoction. “I ain’t puttin’ that sweet child on no diet.”

  André finished his coffee and put the cup back on the table. One thing he’d learned was that good old Southern fare was liable to kill a man before he reached his prime. New Orleans was synonymous with rich food. Always had been. Probably always would be. It pleased André that Gabrielle had taken his comments about Leslie seriously. She needed to learn, however, that a person couldn’t decree change and expect it to come about instantly. Hesitating at the door, he summoned a coaxing smile that had thawed more than one woman. “I’m sure Gabrielle didn’t mean for you to single Leslie out.” He patted a stomach that rippled like a washboard. “The whole family could benefit from paring down. Especially Papa.”

  “The doctor did say Mr. Paul ought to eat less fried foods. Less rich sauces.”

  “Wouldn’t it help if the family had dinner together? If you get Mama to agree, I’ll convince Gabrielle.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” LuAnn muttered.

  “Tonight, at six,” he promised. “We’ll all meet in the dining room.” The words were barely out when Paul sauntered in, puffing on a cigarette. He commented on André’s early start. André’s only reply was to suggest they all dine together that evening. He’d expected his father to decline, but Paul seemed pleased by the idea.

  On the drive to the station, André ran through various ideas for enticing Gaby to leave work on time. He had visions of sweet-talking her into it until he went in and discovered her meeting wasn’t on site and he was again locked out of the office.

  He paced the floor in front of Raylene’s desk. “So Steffan is taking a comp day? Someone else in this building must have a set of keys.”

  “No one. Per Gaby’s orders. I wish she was here. George Collins has been calling her every five minutes.”

  “Well, hell. When’s she due back?”

  Raylene shrugged. “She’s meeting a potential advertiser.” The phone rang and she grimaced. “That’s probably George again. I don’t suppose you could take his call?”

  “No,” André said gruffly. It galled him
that he didn’t know enough about the operation to even answer the damned phone. He stalked upstairs to wait outside their shared office. How the hell long could a meeting with an advertising prospect take? An hour?

  Three hours later André, slumped mutinously against the wall, watched her stride toward him. From the set of her shoulders, she looked ready to chew nails and spit tacks. That was fine. He was spoiling for a fight.

  The fury he saw in her eyes centered on him as she brushed past and unlocked the door. Wait just a damned minute. He’d been the one hanging out in the hallway here because she hadn’t given him a key. André zipped through the door behind her and slammed it so hard the file cabinets rocked.

  Gaby smacked her briefcase on the desktop, causing pens and pencils to jump. She whirled to face him. “I don’t imagine it entered that microscopic brain of yours that your little prepschool prank actually gave Lyon Broadcasting a black eye.”

  “What the hell are you yammering about? I’ve been planted outside this door for three frigging hours.”

  “Don’t play coy with me! I’m talking about the canister of film George trusted me to take to WEZY. You’ve had your jollies. Now hand it over.”

  “I don’t have your damned canister.”

  Her eyes clouded. “You...you must.”

  Glaring at her, André held out his arms airplane-fashion and made a slow circuit. “You’re welcome to frisk me.”

  “But...but...” She gestured feebly toward her desk. “It was there when I took the ledgers to accounting. It wasn’t here when I came back at six. I assumed you’d delivered it to McKillop.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Why, indeed?” She shook back her bangs. “To be nice, I thought. To help me out. I was late returning. And...well, you heard George Collins say McKillop needed it by six.”

  “I don’t know McKillop,” André said gently, stepping close to capture her nervous hands. “I’d like to ease your load, Gabrielle. But if I’m going to do that, we have to communicate.”