Beckett's Cinderella

True, the Beckett men were generally long-lived, but what would it be like to grow old completely alone, with no wife to warm his bed—no kids to drive him nuts? No grandkids to crawl up on his arthritic knees?

His only legacy was a healthy portfolio and a small, modestly successful firm he’d built from practically nothing—one that included a two-room office in Delaware, a partner and a part-time secretary. His will left whatever worldly goods he possessed at the time of his death to his parents. Who else was there? Carson? A few distant cousins he’d never even met?

Cripes, now he really was getting depressed. Maybe it was all this humidity—he was coming down with a bad case of mildew of the brain, he told himself, only half joking as he crossed the bedroom buck stark naked to dig out a change of clothes.

On the other hand, it could be due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since the lousy chili dog he’d bought at the airport. One cup of free ice water didn’t do the job.

Liza washed her hair and towel dried it before fixing supper. Then she did something she hadn’t done in a long, long time. She stood in front of the fogged and age-speckled mirror on her dresser and studied her naked body. James had called her classy. Any man in his right mind would call her clinically emaciated. Her hipbones poked out, her ribs were clearly visible, and as for her breasts…

Tentatively she covered the slight swells with her hands. Her nipples, still sensitive from the rough toweling, nudged her palms, and she cursed under her breath and turned away.

That part of her life was over. Fortunately, sex had never played that large a role. After the first year or so, she had done her wifely duty once a week, sometimes twice, and then even that had ended. They’d gone out almost every night, entertaining or being entertained, and by the time they got home, they’d both been ready to fall into bed. To sleep, not to play. After a few drinks James hadn’t been up to it, and she’d felt more relief than anything else.

Dressing hastily, she hurried into the kitchen. There was a Braves game tonight; they were playing the Mets. Next to the Yankees, the Mets were her uncle’s favorite team to hate. Once the dishes were washed she could retire to her room and look through those blasted papers. It wouldn’t hurt. The envelope wasn’t sealed, just fastened with a metal clasp. If it had anything to do with James, she would simply toss it, because that part of her life was over and done with. She had repaid as much as she was able, although she hadn’t been obligated to do even that much. She’d been cleared of all responsibility after James had made it quite clear before he’d died that she’d never even known what was going on, much less been involved.

His last act had been one of surprising generosity, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been brought in for questioning. Nor did the fact that she hadn’t known what was going on mean she’d escaped feeling guilty once she’d found out. She’d lived high on the hog, as Uncle Fred would say, for almost eleven years on the proceeds of James’s financial shell games. The beautiful house in North Dallas, the trips to all those island resorts that James always claimed were for networking. Like a blind fool, she’d gone along whenever he’d asked her to; although, for the most part, she hadn’t particularly liked the people he’d met there.

When the dishes were done, she turned out the light. Uncle Fred called from the living room. “Game time. You want to bet on the spread?”

“A quarter says the Mets win by five points.” She knew little about baseball and wasn’t particularly interested, but he enjoyed the games so much that she tried to share his enthusiasm.

“You’re on! I know you, gal—you like that Piazza feller that catches for ’em.” His teasing was a part of the ritual.

Liza leaned against the door frame and watched him prepare for the night’s entertainment: fruit bowl nearby, recliner in position and a bag of potato chips hidden under the smoking stand. She was turning to go to her room when headlights sprayed across the front window. Traffic out on the highway didn’t do that, not unless a car turned in.

“Uncle Fred, did you invite anyone over to watch the game?”

But her uncle had turned up the volume. Either he didn’t hear or was pretending not to, so it was left to Liza to see who’d come calling. Occasionally one of the women who supplied the soft goods would drop off work on the way to evening prayer meeting. But this was Saturday, not Wednesday.

She knew who it was, even before he climbed out of the SUV parked under one of the giant oaks. She checked to be sure the screen was hooked, then waited for him to reach the front porch. He’d instructed her to look over the papers and said he’d see her later. She’d thought later meant tomorrow—or, better yet, never.

Doing nothing more threatening than sauntering up the buckled flagstone walk, the man looked dangerous. Something about the way he moved. Not like an athlete, exactly—more like a predator. Dark, deceptively attractive, moving silently through the deepening shadows.

Get a grip, woman.

“Let me guess,” she said when he came up onto the porch. She made no move to unhook the screen door. “You came to tell me I won the Publisher’s Sweepstakes.”

“Have you had chance to look over what I left you?”

“Not yet.” She refused to turn on the porch light because it attracted moths and mosquitoes. Besides, it wasn’t quite dark yet. But it didn’t take much light to delineate those angular cheekbones, that arrogant blade of a nose and the mouth that managed to be firm and sexy at the same time.

Listen to you, Eliza, would you just stop it?

“Then how about reading them now? It shouldn’t take long. Unfortunately, most of the pages have stuck together, but once you’ve skimmed the top layer or so, I’ll explain anything you don’t understand and hand over the money. Then you can sign a release and I’ll leave.”

“I’m not signing anything, I’m not buying anything, I’m not—” She frowned. “What money?”

“Give me three minutes, I’ll try to talk fast. Are you or are you not the great-granddaughter of Elias Matthew Chandler, of…uh, Crow Fly, in Oklahoma Territory?”

Her jaw fell. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you crazy?”

Beckett slapped a mosquito on his neck. “Man, they’re bloodthirsty little devils, aren’t they? Any reports of West Nile virus around these parts?”

She shoved the screen door open, deliberately bumping it against his foot. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, come inside. You’ve got two minutes left to tell me why you’re harassing me.”

He took a deep breath. Liza couldn’t help noticing the size and breadth of his chest under shoulders that were equally impressive. Not that she was impressed. Still, a woman couldn’t help but notice any man who looked as good and smelled as good and—

Well, shoot! “One minute and thirty seconds,” she warned.

“Time out. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“You haven’t answered mine, either. All right then, yes, I might be related to someone who might originally have been from Oklahoma. However, I don’t happen to have a copy of my pedigree, so if whatever you’re trying to prove involves my lineage, you’d better peddle your papers somewhere else. One minute and counting.”

“I have.” His smile packed a wallop, even if she didn’t trust him.

“You have what? Tried peddling your papers somewhere else?” And then, unable to slam the door on her curiosity, she said, “What money? Is this a sweepstakes thing?”

“You might say that.” The smile was gone, but the effect of those cool gray eyes was undiminished. “Would you by any chance have a cousin named Kathryn, uh—Dixon?”

Some of the wind went out of her sails. From the living room, her uncle cackled and called out, “Better get in here, missy—your team just struck out again.”

“Look, would you please just say whatever you have to say and leave? I don’t know much about my family history, so if you’re trying to prove we’re related, you’d do better to check with someone else who knows more about it than I do. And if you’re after anything else, I’m not interested.” Never mind the money. She knew better than anyone not to fall for the old “something for nothing” dodge.

The man who called himself L. Jones Beckett edged past her until he could look into the living room. “Is that the Braves-Mets game? What’s the score?”

“So you’re back, are ye? Thought ye might be. General Sherman’s not going to be taking Atlanta tonight, no siree. Score’s one to one, the South’s winning.”

Liza closed her eyes and groaned. If he could talk baseball, she would never get rid of him. Uncle Fred would see to that. She might as well read his damned papers and be done with it.

Three

“Bring Mr. Beckett a glass of iced tea, Liza-girl. Have some potato chips, son.” Suddenly Uncle Fred leaned forward, glaring at the screen. “What do you mean, strike? That pitch was outside by a gol-darn mile!”

Liza left them to their game and headed down the hall to her bedroom. She would skim whatever it was he insisted she read, hand it back to him and show him the door, and that would be the end of that. If he did happen to be peddling some kind of get-rich-quick scheme, he’d come knocking on the wrong door this time. Any junk mail that even hinted that she was a big winner got tossed without ever getting opened. She didn’t want one red cent unless she knew exactly where it had come from.

The papers slid out in a clump. For a moment she only stared at them lying there on her white cotton bedspread. They looked as if they’d been soaked in tea. The top sheet appeared to be a letter, so she started with that.

“My Dear Eli…”

Liza made out that much before the ink faded. The ornate script was difficult to read, even without the faded ink and the work of generations of silverfish. She squinted at the date on the barely legible heading. September…was that 1900? Mercy! Someone should have taken better care of it, whether or not it was valuable. Maybe the writer was someone important. If it had been a baseball card from that era—if they’d even had baseball cards back then—her uncle would have done backflips, arthritis or not.

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