The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  A smile kicked up the corners of his mouth. Andre did more than shake on it. He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a warm kiss in the center of her palm.

  Gaby snatched back her hand and, flustered, fled down the hall.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ANDRÉ MET GABRIELLE on the winding staircase at Lyoncrest. Or rather, she’d already begun her descent and was two steps below him.

  Leslie, cherubic-looking in a lacy peach dress, gripped her mother’s hand and gazed up at her like an adoring puppy. Gaby wore a softly draped cotton dress of bright yellow. André enjoyed the way the dress set off her dark hair. She wore it down this evening; it curved at her shoulders and swirled enticingly around her hips. André grabbed the polished banister as a tremor shot through him. He imagined that fall of glossy black hair, tangled from lovemaking, splashed across his cool white sheets. The slick soles of his dress shoes skidded on the highly waxed step. He lost his balance and fell into Gabrielle. She caught him, which wasn’t easy, as Leslie still clung to her arm.

  “Oops,” Gaby said. “New shoes? You’d better scuff up the soles before you take a real header and break your neck.”

  André swore under his breath. He righted himself, feeling like a fool. If she knew what he’d been mooning about, she probably wouldn’t care if he broke his neck.

  Paul and Margaret were already in the dining room. Margaret was arranging a vase of flowers at the sideboard. Paul sat at the head of the antique table—brought from France by the first Lyons to come to New Orleans. André studied his father, trying to assess his health. Paul seemed in good spirits. A charcoal smoking jacket fit snugly around his lean frame. The years had been kind to him; at sixty-one, he had no sagging jowls, no flab of any kind. André found it hard to believe his father had suffered a heart attack as Paul rose and clasped his hand. Perhaps there was less vigor in the handshake, though. “Sit down, Papa. You must be tired after doing your editorial.”

  “Not on your life. I could do more.” He glanced at his wife as he said it.

  “Let’s assume your doctor knows best, dear,” Margaret said, placing the flowers in the middle of the snowy linen tablecloth. “Isn’t this nice?” She included everyone in her smile. Her hands found their way to Paul’s shoulders as he crushed out his cigarette. She dropped a kiss on his once-dark hair. Though still thick and brushed back from his face, the way he’d worn it for years, the color, a silvery gray, showed his age as little else about him did.

  “Where’s Rachel?” Margaret murmured when LuAnn appeared asking if they were ready to have dinner served.

  “She’s not coming down,” Leslie piped up. Blushing profusely, the girl buried her head in Gaby’s side as all eyes shifted toward her.

  “Rach isn’t sick, is she?” André paused in the act of pulling out Gabrielle’s chair.

  Leslie shook her head until her curls bounced. “Rachel said she’s not fambly.”

  She glanced up shyly. “I told her my mommy and me aren’t fambly, but—”

  Paul made shooing motions toward Leslie with his hands. “Bring her,” he ordered, and Leslie ran off.

  As André seated his mother, she patted his hand. “If you and Gabrielle want a glass of wine, Paul could open a bottle.”

  “None for me,” Gabrielle hastened. “I’m going back to the office after we eat.”

  “Oh.” Margaret’s face fell. “Will you have time to read Leslie a story first?”

  Gaby felt the beginning of pressure behind her eyes. “I haven’t written the speech I’ve been asked to give this week at the Chamber of Commerce luncheon. And I barely glanced at today’s mail. I think there’s a packet of FCC rate recommendations.”

  “I’m going back, too,” André announced.

  She sighed impatiently. “Don’t bother. Until you know what you’re doing, I can get more done by myself.”

  “The more you do alone,” he said coolly, “the less I’ll learn.”

  “André’s right.” Margaret handed him a crystal pitcher of ice water and held out her glass. “The sooner he takes the reins, the more secure staff will feel. It’s important to the employees that there be an owner in charge.”

  Gaby’s headache intensified. She didn’t know why she should be shocked by Margaret’s pronouncement—and yet she’d persisted in hoping that hard work and unwavering commitment would win her that position. She said nothing.

  Paul frowned deeply and cleared his throat as if to speak. André opened his mouth to speak, but Leslie’s return with Rachel in tow put an end to their conversation about the business. Leslie shoved Rachel, who still wore her school uniform, toward the empty chair beside André. “Hurry up and sit, Rachel,” the little girl said. “I’m hungry. Nobody cares if you don’t got a nice dress to wear.”

  “Don’t have,” Gabrielle corrected automatically. She placed two fingers over Leslie’s mouth when the child continued to babble about Rachel’s lack of dresses.

  The teenager turned red. “It’s no big deal.”

  Paul reached across the table and lifted her chin. “Rachel, child. There’s not a thing wrong with the way you’re dressed. The first time I laid eyes on Margie, she had on an earlier version of that same uniform. She came by the radio station every night after school and pestered the life out of me.” He shared a smile with his wife.

  André’s heart twisted. He’d spent so much time resenting the loss of his parents to the business, he’d missed important details. Historic details. He hadn’t really understood what welded this family together. Both of his grandfathers, Hollander and Lyon, had started together in radio, and he supposed broadcasting must be in his blood. It hadn’t been part of his life, though, until now. He’d spent a lot of time on the outside looking in. He remembered the resentment he’d felt, the uncertainty and lack of belonging. Not his parents’ fault, but still... André suspected Rachel needed more than words to ease her insecurities.

  “Rach,” he said, handing her a napkin, “what I wore in Bayou Sans Fin doesn’t fit in here, either.” Paul agreed, but slipped in an oblique comment implying that André needed a haircut. Letting his father’s comment slide, André turned to Gaby. “Maybe we can pry Gabrielle away from work on Saturday long enough to buy you some new clothes. What I know about current fashion can be summed up in one word. Zero.”

  “Perhaps your mother...” Gaby said quickly.

  Margaret shook her head. “Styles have changed so in the last year. Gabrielle’s the better shopper. I can’t get excited about these fuller skirts. Cathy had a panel of designers on her talk show last week. Seems they’re calling it the ‘big’ look.”

  Paul motioned for LuAnn to serve. “More the droop look, if you ask me. The coats were like tents. Not that anyone asked me.” He leaned slightly toward Andre. “I saw the same program. Ask your mother about the evening gowns. More like lingerie. And those string bikinis—ooh la la!”

  Margaret tried to shush him.

  André’s laugh sounded rusty. “I might have lived in the bayou, but I worked with tourists. I fell off a pontoon the first time a woman climbed aboard wearing...” He fashioned his fingers into minuscule triangles.

  Gaby’s look warned him to remember there were little ears at the table.

  He laughed, then gestured toward LuAnn, who came in carrying a steaming tureen of gumbo.

  “Mmm.” André let his nose follow the spicy steam. “Laissez le bon temps rouler. ” He murmured the popular Cajun saying.

  Gabrielle spewed a mouthful of water. “Let the good times roll, indeed,” she said primly as she dabbed at the front of her dress.

  Her disapproval surprised André. “I take it you object to having fun?”

  “When it’s to the exclusion of good sense, yes. Joie de vivre. Live to enjoy, whether the rent’s paid or not. Wasn’t that your philosophy until a few weeks ago?”

  Paul and Margaret cast worried glances at the two, as did Rachel and Leslie.

  The strained atmosphere disturbed Andre. “I did
run a business, you know,” he said mildly. He couldn’t figure out why she’d become so short-tempered. “I do believe in enjoying life,” he added. “I’m from New Orleans, after all. But I believe in doing my share of the work, too.”

  With an obvious effort, Gabrielle smiled, shrugged and withdrew from the conversation.

  After that, dinner settled into a pleasant, if lengthy, affair. André persuaded the girls to talk about school. Though both were reluctant, Rachel warmed first. She was more naturally exuberant than Gaby’s daughter. Leslie answered direct questions in one-syllable words. Mostly she blushed and hid behind her thick bangs.

  When at last they pushed back from the table, André groaned. “If we do this every night—and we should—none of us will fit into our clothes. Mama, I think you need to have a talk with LuAnn. Healthy dining doesn’t mean eating for three hours.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll draw up a menu. The heart specialist recommended a cookbook. He also told Paul to take a walk every day,” she said with a significant glance at her husband.

  Paul rolled his eyes. “I see it now,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “Margie’s going to roust me out of bed and make me walk to the Garden District bookstore to get my morning paper. What good is being able to afford a car and driver? Tell me that.”

  His wife simply smiled indulgently.

  Gaby broke in with a yawn. “All that food made me sleepy,” she said, covering her mouth. “If I’m going to get anything done tonight, I’d better leave now.”

  “Will you read me a story before you go, Mama?” Leslie asked.

  “I’d like to, sweetie,” Gabrielle said. “But by the time I change and drive to the station, they’ll be ready to sign off for the night. I’ve stayed there after everyone leaves, but...I...with all that’s hap—” She caught André’s frown. He was right; the incidents had been annoying but nothing to worry Margaret and Paul about. To keep them from probing, Gaby quickly began discussing a shopping trip with Rachel as they left the dining room.

  “I’ll go as I am,” André called out. “Let me play chauffeur.” Turning to Leslie, he tapped her nose. “How about if I read you a story, squirt?”

  Leslie’s eyes grew dark and round as she studied him. “I don’t like scary ones like Raymond reads Scott. Don’t like books with bugs, neither.”

  André studied her earnest little face. “Then you go pick the story.”

  “A short one,” cautioned her mother from the hall. “It’s nice of Mr. Lyon to offer to read to you. What do you say, Leslie?”

  “Who’s Mr. Lyon? You mean Mr. André?” The child blinked in confusion. “Isn’t Scott’s daddy Mr. Lyon?”

  André patiently started to explain surnames and given names. “It’s polite to use a last name when you first meet an adult. But it can get tricky. What if I yelled Ms. Villieux? You and your mom would both answer.”

  Leslie giggled. “Uh-uh, I’m Leslie. Mama,” she shouted, “there are too many Mr. Lyons!”

  “You’ve got that right.” Gaby poked her head back into the room. “At least one too many.”

  He laughed, relieved that her mood had apparently lightened.

  In the car some twenty minutes later Gabrielle drew up her left knee and turned toward André. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an easy way with kids?”

  He let his gaze wander from the road. It was a warm evening. His left elbow rested on the frame of the open window. “Is that your way of saying I’m still in the throes of childhood?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “No!” She reached out and lightly clasped his forearm. “I wasn’t being critical. Leslie is painfully shy. I know this sounds corny, but it warmed my heart, hearing the way you made her laugh. Not just once. While you were reading, too.”

  He made a quick study of Gabrielle from beneath his lashes and did his best to ignore the way her touch slammed his pulse into high gear. “Interesting,” he murmured.

  “What is? All mothers want their children to laugh, don’t they?”

  “I just find it curious that you’re so passionate about Leslie’s happiness, yet you have very little time for her—because you’re always at WDIX. You’re obviously all work and no play.”

  She dropped her foot to the mat and said stiffly, “We weren’t talking about me.”

  “Let’s.”

  Her head swiveled slowly back. “Let’s what?”

  “Talk about your aversion to enjoying life, Ms. Villieux.”

  Gabrielle folded her hands. “Wherever did you get the idea that I don’t enjoy life? I love previewing new programs and forecasting which ones will please our viewers. Work isn’t drudgery. It’s satisfying. Like when I’ve got the right advertiser for a profitable series. Everything I do at Lyon Broadcasting makes me very, very happy.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Success is your aphrodisiac, I guess.”

  “What?”

  “You need me to explain aphrodisiac? It means something that turns you on and—”

  “I know what it means.” Gaby shifted uncomfortably. “Look, my success is for my daughter as much as for myself—believe it or not. As for aphrodisiacs, I’m not interested. Not everyone needs sex to be a complete, contented person. I’ve seen how being a slave to self-gratification can ruin lives.”

  Frowning, André rubbed the tip of one forefinger over his lips. Gaby felt a little embarrassed by her stuffy little speech, but she had to draw a line with him. Had to keep him at a distance.

  She was uncomfortable being confined with him. She wished he’d drive faster. The way he touched his parted lips drove a corkscrew of need straight through her. She hadn’t hungered for the physical touch of a man in quite some time. Gaby hated the urgency André Lyon fired in her. She’d nearly thrown her life away once on a good-for-nothing two-legged rat. Marc had enticed and taunted her with the pleasures of the flesh. Pleasures that, at seventeen, she’d naively believed only got better with marriage.

  Well, she’d gotten the gold band and the blessing of the priest. Then she’d found out that passion and pleasure weren’t very reliable; not only that, they were no guarantee of happiness. In fact, sometimes there was no happiness involved at all. “Starting tomorrow,” she said tartly, “we—you and I—will rely on separate transportation. I like to come and go on my own schedule. Understood?”

  Surprised by her sharp tone, André agreed automatically. He didn’t know why his teasing had provoked her, but there was no mistaking the rigid set of her shoulders. He doused the car’s lights as he coasted to a stop a short distance from the station. His mind whirled with a long list of possible explanations for her odd behavior. One minute, she seemed comfortable with him, joking and even confiding; the next, she was wary and remote. Concentrating on his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed how she’d tensed beside him—but then he woke up suddenly to what she was saying.

  “It’s awfully late. Why do you think Alain and Jason are just leaving work?”

  “Is that so strange?” André asked. “We’re coming back.”

  “Those two never put in extra hours,” she sputtered. “Jason is a master at figuring out ways to leave early.” They watched as the two men climbed into a car parked under a streetlight half a block away.

  André stifled a laugh. “What the devil are they wearing? I thought Mardi Gras started next week.”

  Gaby poked an elbow into his ribs. “Shh. Where have you been? Those are leisure suits. It’s the latest men’s fashion.”

  “Canary yellow?”

  “Listen,” Gabrielle said. “Those two could’ve stolen WEZY’s film canister. If we go in and find it sitting on my desk, I’ll find a way to convince Margaret to fire them.”

  André sobered. “They’ll inherit Uncle Charles’s share of the business one day, Gaby. Why would it be in their interests to sabotage the station? You are so distrustful.”

  “I am not! Tell me why they were sneaking around.”

  “Were they sneaking? They appeared pretty open to me. Like I said, you might
not like Uncle Charles, but that doesn’t mean his kids are trying to do in the business.”

  “Why are you sticking up for them? Alain thinks you should be cut out of Paul’s will because...because...you were adopted or something.” Gaby clapped a hand over her mouth the second she saw storm clouds gather in André’s eyes. Oh, Lord, why hadn’t she just kept quiet?

  “That’s not true,” he said coldly. “I haven’t heard a word of that ancient rumor since I’ve returned. Or are you the one questioning my right to be here?”

  “No. Of course not. Margaret’s wanted you in the business forever. If you weren’t a Lyon, she’d never say you were. She never lies.”

  “But the rest of the family does? First, you accuse me of stealing the damn film. Now you’ve decided it’s Alain and Jason.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, why am I wasting my breath?”

  “All right,” she said. “If the film isn’t on my desk, I’ll eat my words. But something happened to it.”

  André handed her from the car and trailed her through the dark, silent corridors. “This is a creepy place at night Aren’t you going to turn on some lights?”

  “Electricity costs are up, remember? I know the route by heart.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t work here alone at night,” he murmured as she unlocked and flung open their office door. The room looked exactly as they’d left it at five-thirty. No canister in sight.

  Gaby was confused. And annoyed. Especially when André pressed his body against her back and growled in her ear, “Will madam have those words medium or well-done?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GABRIELLE AND ANDRÉ fell into an uneasy truce over the next two weeks. She left for the office before sunup; he took his morning coffee with Rachel and Leslie. At times Paul and Margaret joined him. Unless absence was unavoidable, everyone showed up for dinner. André spent more evenings with his father, too. They’d finally begun to establish the bond he’d always wanted.

  André put in long, hard hours absorbing the workings of the television industry. He sat through his first board meeting without a hitch. Or so he thought until one night when he happened to hear his father fretting and saying to his mother, “Margie, I’m afraid the employees took offense at your bringing in my son at the top the way you did.”