Family Secrets

But then she saw Devin Oliver heading her way, a determined expression on his handsome face. Her heart stood still. He looked wonderful with his curly almost-black hair and his deep almost-black eyes.

She’d managed to avoid him on this trip as she’d pretty much avoided her parents and anyone else wearing a serious expression, but her luck might be running out.

The last thing she needed was a run-in with a former lover now on her father’s payroll. Turning quickly away, she ducked behind a cluster of celebrants and beat a hasty retreat, resolutely ignoring Dev’s voice behind her.

“Sharlee, wait! You can’t go on avoiding me forever.”

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.”