Читать книгу: «Family Secrets»

CHAPTER ONE

DEV OLIVER STOOD in the open front door of the Donna Buy Ya Café on the edge of the French Market in New Orleans’s Vieux Carré. It was another blistering hot August day. Across the street, a couple of little boys danced for tourist coins while the Balloon Man paused for a moment to watch and tap his toes. Farther down the block, a street musician pulled a saxophone from a ragged case, raised it to his lips and began to play.

New Orleans, Dev’s home, a city like no other in the world. He smiled and was about to go back inside—a thousand chores awaited—when a flash of movement made him hesitate. He watched a long shiny limousine glide to the curb. His first thought was, That’s a No Parking zone and you’re in big trouble if you stay there, mister.

His second thought was, I’m in no shape to be welcoming Lyons and neither is this place.

“Shit,” he said, looking down at the grubby T-shirt stuck to his torso by sweat, the dingy jeans and scruffy sneakers, all of which were the result of a morning spent trying to get the restaurant fit to open. He stepped inside. “We got company,” he said to the man behind the counter.

“Anyone we know?” Felix Brown had a gentle voice but the build of a football player. He was also a hell of a cook and Dev’s partner in this enterprise, assuming, of course, the Donna Buy Ya ever actually opened. For everything they fixed, something else went to hell; for every permit granted, two more hit snags. At this rate they’d be lucky to open by Mardi Gras.

Dev jerked his chin toward the white-haired grande dame alighting from the limo with the assistance of the uniformed chauffeur. “Iron Margaret herself,” he said. “You ever met her, Felix?”

“Me? Get outta here. Where would I meet Miz Lyon?”

“She likes to eat. Although I don’t know why she’d be visiting a shirttail relative like me.” He stepped outside onto the sidewalk. “Welcome to Donna Buy Ya, Tante Margaret.”

“Devin, dear.” She offered her powdered and perfumed cheek for his kiss. “I’ve missed your smiling face around WDIX.”

“Thanks.” He stepped aside and held the door for her. “I don’t think you’ve met my partner, Felix Brown. Felix, Margaret Lyon, the power behind the throne at WDIX-TV.”

Felix’s massive black paw enveloped hers. He stood more than a foot taller than Margaret, and she was not a petite woman.

“Glad to meet you,” he said. “Hungry? It’s Monday so I got the red beans and rice goin’, or I could whip you up a po’boy in nothin’ flat.” Felix just loved feeding people; it was his raison d’être.

Margaret smiled. “Thank you, no. I’ll come back and try the bill of fare when you’ve opened for business.”

Felix looked disappointed. “Nothin’ at all? How about somethin’ to drink?”

“Iced tea would be pleasant.”

“I gotcha covered.” He gave her a thumb’s-up.

She watched him trot toward the kitchen. “He seems nice,” she commented. “How did you meet him, Devin?”

“We went to school together.”

“Old friends tend to be the best.”

Dev pulled out one of the chairs that had come with the place—either old or antique, depending on your point of view. “To what do we owe this honor?”

She sat down, her movements ladylike and precise. “The honor is mine,” she countered, folding her hands neatly on the plastic tablecloth. “I’m the first member of the family to see the enterprise that’s taken you away from us.”

Dev felt a familiar stab of guilt. Until recently he’d worked for WDIX- TV as assistant to station manager André Lyon. It was a job he’d loved in an industry he still loved. But family politics—specifically the long-simmering feud between the two branches of the Lyon family—had finally made him too uncomfortable to remain.

He’d hesitated to leave, knowing his stepfather, Alain, would be furious. But when his mother died last January, Dev had felt free to do anything he wanted, and there wasn’t a damned thing Alain or anybody else could do about it.

So he’d quit.

“WDIX will get along fine without me,” he said, sitting down across from her. “It was time.”

Felix plunked down two tall glasses of sparkling clear iced tea. “Do you want sugar or anythin’?”

“Sugar, please.”

Felix opened one big hand and several packets tumbled onto the table. “You sure there’s nothin’ else I can get you?”

“Quite sure.” She ripped open a packet and poured the white crystals into her glass. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Now I hafta get back on that telephone. We gotta get this air conditioner workin’ right. Nice meetin’ you, Miz Lyon.”

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Brown.” Margaret poked at an ice cube in an effort to stir the sugar into the tea. When Felix was gone, she said to Dev, “That young man is your partner, you say?”

“That’s right. He’s got the know-how and I’ve got the money—or at least enough to get us started.” Once escrow closed on his mother’s house in the bayou, his financial situation would improve vastly.

Margaret nodded thoughtfully. “The name is quite amusing—Down at the Bayou with a local accent.”

“Felix’s idea. Goes with Cajun and soul food.”

She picked up her tea and sipped it in silence, and it occurred to him that she seemed uncomfortable for some reason. While he searched for a way to put her at ease, she sighed and lifted her gaze to meet his.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve intruded upon your time here today.”

“I figured you’d get around to telling me sooner or later. Take your time, Tante Margaret.”

Her face tensed almost imperceptibly. “That’s just the problem. I’m not sure how much time I have—or more properly, how much time Paul has.”

Dev straightened in his chair, all the lightness going out of his mood. “There’s something wrong with Mr. Lyon?” She might be Tante Margaret, but her husband was never anything other than Mr. Lyon.

She sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to alarm you. He’s... as fine as can be expected. But, Devin, I need a favor, a very important favor. Since I don’t wish to be in anyone’s debt, I’ll insist upon paying for it by backing this enterprise of yours financially.”

He stiffened, all too aware of what he already owed this woman and her family. For years she and her husband had backed the other restaurant, the one inherited by his step-grandfather Charles sometime after the big family breakup in 1949. That other wealthier branch of the Lyon family had continued to provide infusions of cash until Alain took over from Charles in 1985, after which the restaurant apparently began turning a profit.

Charles was no businessman. Everybody in the family knew that, although nobody ever talked openly about it. They talked privately, though, and often to Dev, who’d realized long ago that he attracted confidences. As a result he often found himself burdened with secrets he preferred not to know.

But Margaret Lyon was special. She’d been kind to his mother both before and after the divorce. Margaret had even dropped by the hospital during Yvette’s last illness, and she’d been the only Lyon who’d attended the funeral.

Tight-jawed but trying not to reveal the pressure he felt, Dev spoke calmly. “I won’t take your money, Tante Margaret. I’m already in your debt for past kindnesses. Of course, I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

She sighed. “I’ve offended you.”

“Not at all. I appreciate the offer...but I just don’t know what I could do for you that others couldn’t do better.” Suddenly he wondered what he would say if she asked him to return to WDIX. His belly clenched at that possibility.

“You’re the only one who can do this.” She drew a deep breath and spoke in a rush. “Devin, I want you to go to Colorado and convince my granddaughter to come back home before it’s too late. Her grandfather’s health is failing and I want...” Her eyes flashed and she changed course. “No, I demand that all the Lyons rally round him while there’s still time.”

Dev stared at her, taken aback. This was the last thing he’d expected.

She fixed him with her piercing gaze. “Please do this for me. It’s very important.”

For a moment he forgot to breathe. He’d had no idea the old gentleman was in anything but the best of health for someone in his eighties. At the fiftieth anniversary celebration, Paul Lyon had looked fine and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself. WDIX without the Voice of Dixie was unthinkable.

But so was waltzing off to Colorado on a wildgoose chase, and if there was ever a wild goose it was Charlotte Lyon—once his Sharlee but no more. She hadn’t even spoken to him when she’d been home in July, which had pissed him off considerably.

“Tante Margaret, I was... close to Charlotte once, but that was a long time ago.”

In fact, Dev and Sharlee had once shared a brief but fiery infatuation, when she was sixteen and he nineteen. He wasn’t very proud of himself for taking her virginity, but he simply hadn’t been strong enough or mature enough to turn his back on what she offered.

Her alarmed family, including Tante Margaret, had done everything humanly possible to drive the young lovers apart before they got “too involved.” Only Dev’s stepfather, had taken the opposite tack.

To this day Sharlee and Dev had never talked about what had happened, which left Dev’s guilt intact.

“We’re strangers,” he said. The harshness in his voice surprised him. “What makes you think I—”

“Desperation,” she cut him off. “It’s for Charlotte’s own good, Devin. You’re my last hope. Everyone in the family has tried to reach her and failed. If you can’t do this...”

Margaret’s chin trembled ever so slightly. He hated to see her like this because he was genuinely devoted to her. But still...

His smile felt strained. “You asked me once before to do something I didn’t want to do for Charlotte’s own good,” he reminded her.

“And to your credit, you did it.” She didn’t flinch; she’d have been a good poker player. “My motives were pure, then as now.”

“Sharlee—Charlotte’s never forgiven me. She won’t even talk to me.”

“How do you know what’s in her heart?”

“How does any man know what’s in any woman’s heart?”

“Exactly. Devin, you must do this for me.”

“Tante Margaret—”

“Please, Devin.”

“I’ll think about it.” The words were dragged out of him. “But don’t get your hopes up, okay? There’s not much chance I can do anything even if I agree to try.”

Her silver-blue eyes were suddenly awash with tears, and she reached out to squeeze his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “I knew you wouldn’t turn me down,” she said. “Family must always stick together. Your last name may be Oliver, but you’ve got the heart of a Lyon.”

Did he? Dear God! Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.

AFTER SHE’D GONE, Dev filled his partner in on what had transpired, concluding, “But there’s no way I can do what she asks. Not only would Sharlee slam her door in my face, we’ve got too much to do around here for me to just take off like that.”

Felix grunted. Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he hauled out a handful of paper, which he slapped onto the counter.

Bills. Nothing but bills.

“Do what the lady wants,” he advised. “Get your ass up to Colorado, or this café may never open.”

“Sorry, Felix, but we’re not taking a penny of Margaret’s money.” Dev gathered up the bills but resisted counting them. “I’ve still got some savings and a couple of stocks I can part with. If we make it until I get the money from my mother’s house, we’ll be okay. We’re going to sink or swim on our own.”

“And if we sink—” Felix laughed ruefully “—guess I can always get a job at MacDonald’s, but I don’t know what the hell you’re gonna do.”

Neither did Dev. That was what he should be thinking about instead of the way Sharlee Lyon had looked right through him last month at the party, as if she’d never seen him before.

If she’d talked to him it would have been one thing, but she hadn’t and in fact never had, not in all this time. Damn, he was tempted to give it a shot just to get that monkey off his back.

SHARLEE HOLLANDER stood in front of the managing editor of the Calhoun Courier, trying to control her excitement.

At last! Bruce was about to give her the chance she’d longed for. a hard-news beat. No more lifestyle features, no more fashion or cooking stories, but hard news!

She’d spent three years at two newspapers trying to get out of lifestyles, which she was, unfortunately, good at. She’d realized after the fact that she should never have taken such a post as her first job out of college, but at the time, she hadn’t realized how typecast she’d be.

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “So I’ve decided to give you a chance, Sharlee,” he said. “Heather will move up to lifestyles editor and you’ll take over the city beat. You’ve been bugging me for this chance ever since you got here. Now go out there and cover City Hall like a blanket!”

“You won’t regret it, Bruce, I swear.”

“I’d better not.”

She floated out of his office on a happy cloud, closing the door gently behind her. Since graduating from the University of Colorado three years before, she’d been buried in light features, but that was finally going to change.

Eric Burns, a reporter she’d dated a time or two, looked up from his computer terminal. “Congratulations. I know how much you wanted a news beat. Glad you got it.” His phone rang and he picked up the handset, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

“Thanks.” She couldn’t stop grinning. “I know I can do this.”

“Good attitude,” he said approvingly.

“I’ve got nothing if not a good attitude,” she agreed, rushing across the newsroom to her desk. Damn, she loved journalism. Even when she didn’t have the assignment she wanted, she loved the excitement and vitality of the newsroom. Now she was about to get her chance to show everybody that she could—

“Hey!”

Eric’s shout dragged her back to the present, however reluctantly. He stood beside his desk, telephone receiver in hand. “Anyone know a Charlotte Lyon? There’s some guy out front insisting she works here.”

Sharlee’s stomach dropped at least to her knees. No one here knew her by that name. Should she deny everything? Continue to look at her coworkers with as much innocent bewilderment as they looked at her and one another?

For a moment she really thought she could do that and then her natural curiosity surged to the fore. She just had to know who was asking for her. She rose.

Everybody in the shabby newsroom stared at her.

“I’ll go see who it is,” she said airily. “Then I’m going over to City Hall, just to let them know I’m on the job.”

She felt the weight of their attention as she crossed the room, but she ignored it. Her thoughts were on the mysterious person who knew Charlotte Lyon.

It had to be someone from New Orleans. She hadn’t told a soul there that she’d dropped the “Lyon” entirely. She refused to coast on the reputation of her family and their New Orleans media empire. She’d made that crystal clear by turning down one enticing job offer after another at WDIX-TV since graduation.

So who had tracked her down and why?

As she turned the corner, the reception area came into view. She missed a step, stumbled, caught her balance. Devin Oliver stood by the desk, in threequarter profile while he spoke to the receptionist in his lovely Louisiana drawl. The blonde stared at him with mouth agape and an expression of awe on her face.

Ah, but Dev looked good. Dark curly hair spilled over his forehead and those sculpted lips were curved in an enticing smile. He wore khakis and a yellow knit shirt open at the throat, biceps bulging beneath the sleeves.

She knew she hadn’t made a sound and yet he turned and his gaze met hers. His eyes were as dark as his hair—almost black, fathomless, mysterious. For a second they just stood there, looking at each other over twenty feet and almost a decade.

When he smiled and started toward her, she knew she was in big trouble.

SHE WOULDN’T GET AWAY from him this time, as she had on the Fourth of July. She was going to have to talk to him whether she wanted to or not. Of course he might not like what she had to say, but that was better than the game of hide-and-seek she’d seemed intent on playing when she was in New Orleans, which was most infrequently.

That was what had finally made up Dev’s mind about coming to Colorado: curiosity. He could tell she wanted to run again by the way she stepped back so quickly, by the way those beautiful hazel eyes widened, but there was no where to go with the receptionist watching so avidly.

Sharlee looked good, though, in pale linen slacks and a red silk blouse, which tightened across her breasts with the force of a quick breath. She’d matured in the years she’d been avoiding him; her blond hair was a shade darker, her breasts were fuller, her hips more enticingly rounded.

Her face had matured, as well, accenting high cheekbones and lips fuller and even more tempting...

She pulled herself together and the hazel eyes frosted over. “Why, Devin Oliver, as I live and breathe. I suppose you’re going to tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

He loved her exaggerated Southern charm. “No.”

“Then what on earth...?”

He glanced around, noticed the receptionist still staring at them. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

“Why?” So suspicious.

“Hey, if you don’t mind all your coworkers listening in—”

“This way.”

She whirled around and led him down a poorly lit hallway at a rapid clip. He followed, admiring the swing of her hips, the set of her shoulders. Charlotte Lyon was a class act, all right.

They entered a small lounge complete with soda and junk-food machines, a microwave, an old refrigerator and a sign that read: It’s a Newspaper’s Duty to Print the Truth and Raise Hell. A middle-aged woman stood before one of the machines, obviously trying to make up her mind. Charlotte tapped her on the shoulder and smiled.

“Amy, dear, I’ve got to do an interview in here.”

“But I don’t know what I want.” The woman screwed up her face at the enormity of her decision.

“The pretzels.” Charlotte took the coins from the woman’s hand, plunked them into the slot, then punched the appropriate button. “Health food. No fat.” She placed the small bag into the woman’s hands. “Enjoy.”

“Oh, Sharlee, you always know!” Chuckling, the woman carried her pretzels out of the room.

Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. “Have a seat.” She indicated one of the mismatched chairs. “And tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Okay, Charlotte, but—”

“And please don’t call me Charlotte!” She grimaced. “I’m Sharlee, now—Sharlee Hollander.”

Her words hit him hard because he was the one who’d given her that nickname, the only one who had ever consistently called her that. “You really are pissed off at your family,” he said.

She stiffened her spine and those beautiful breasts rose again. “I have no intention of discussing my family with you, Devin.”

“Sorry. They’re my family, too—more or less.” He glanced around. “Mind if I have a Coke?”

“Be my guest.”

“You want one?”

She shook her head. “I just want to know why you’re here.”

“Your grandmother sent me.”

That stopped her cold. She sat down hard, as if her knees had buckled. “Grandmère?” she repeated faintly.

“That’s right.” He dropped coins into the machine and carried the can of soda to the table.

“Why?” She looked completely confused.

“I’m supposed to talk you into moving back home.”

“To Lyoncrest?” The very idea seemed to appall her.

He nodded. “Your grandmother wants everyone close because...well, because she’s worried about your grandfather.”

“No, she isn’t.” Her expression hardened. “Okay, he’s had a couple of heart attacks, but that was years ago. She just wants me under her thumb again—under everybody’s thumb. Well, it ain’t gonna happen.”

He’d rarely encountered such certainty. “Even if I say please?” he wheedled, wanting to make her smile.

His ploy almost worked. Her eyes widened and a little of her tension seemed to diffuse. “You can say please and stand on your head,” she said tartly. “My answer is still an unequivocal, unqualified, unambiguous no. I must say, I’m surprised you’d let Grandmère talk you into this.”

“I like your grandmother,” he said.

“I like her, too—in fact, I love her. But neither she nor anyone else is going to run my life ever again.”