Beckett's Cinderella

by Dixie Browning

  Even now he could remember the scene. Both families already seated in a church that was overflowing with guests, the whole place reeking of flowers and carpet cleaner. The organist giving it her all while he stood there wondering if his collar had somehow shrunk a full size since he’d put it on less than an hour earlier.

  The organist paused, waiting for a signal to launch into the pièce de résistance, when a kid about five or six years old darted in through a side door, slipped him a note and ducked out again.

  Puzzled, Beckett had read the few lines in growing disbelief. He’d stood there for what seemed like an eternity, and then he’d looked up at all the curious faces: friends, family—people he’d known all his life—and told them calmly that the wedding was off.

  Pam’s family had blamed Beckett; his family had blamed Pam. Never mind that she and her new conquest, a middle-aged drugstore mogul, had already left for Bermuda. He never did know what happened to all the postfestivities food. He’d ripped the tin cans and ribbons off the back of his car and headed out of town with no particular destination in mind. Eventually he’d wound up at his best man’s cottage on Kiawah Island, where he’d gotten royally soused on vintage champagne and been sick as a dog for days afterward.

  Since then, the word commitment hadn’t been in his vocabulary. He’d enjoyed a number of brief, mutually satisfying relationships, but he wasn’t about to do to any woman what Pam had done to him. In retrospect, he figured she’d done him a big favor.

  Now it was time to pass on the favor by moving out before any real damage was done. He both liked and respected Liza Chandler for the way she’d pulled herself through what had to have been a grueling experience. The last thing she needed, he told himself, was to get involved with a guy who would take all she had to offer and leave her to deal with his absence.

  No way. The biggest favor he could offer her was to get out before things got too complicated. Now that the storm had passed he would simply thank her and—

  Wrong. She might take his thanks the wrong way.

  Okay, so he wouldn’t thank her, he’d just explain why he had to leave and—

  Oh, hell. Why not just hand her the money and go?

  But first he had chores to do. She would have enough to handle without having to climb those stairs half a dozen times. Anything that required bending those knees was going to be a problem for the next several days. Which meant he’d have to offer to bring the old guy back home.

  He’d better check out the stand, too, else she’d be out there struggling with that section of tin roof. It would never occur to her to hire someone to do the work. Dammit, why couldn’t she take the money and build something decent, as long as she insisted on staying here?

  And she’d stay, of course, as long as the old guy needed her. That was something else about her he liked. Loyalty.

  By the time he came downstairs with both hands full of empty containers, she was standing on the back porch, gazing out over the flattened cornfield beyond. He turned over the buckets on the edge of the porch and came to stand beside her.

  “Did you ever see such a gorgeous sky?” she murmured.

  “Yeah. Matter of fact, you see those colors a lot in the tropics. Don’t ask me why.”

  She was holding her hands up in postscrub position again, palms inward. The bandages were damp and filthy. He couldn’t see her knees for the denim tent that touched her shoulders, skimmed her breasts and flowed around her like a circus tent. “Want me to look at your hands before I go?”

  “No point in it,” she said airily. “I’m all out of gauze. I’ll get some more while I’m out.”

  “Out? You’re planning on driving in that condition?”

  The look she shot him could be described as haughty, but he recognized defensiveness when he saw it.

  Damn.

  “Uncle Fred’s probably dying to get home by now. I thought I’d wait until the grocery store has had time to restock and stop by on the way home.”

  “Why don’t I go for you?” Beckett heard himself asking, just as if he hadn’t planned on making his excuses, thanking her for her hospitality and hitting the road before he got in any deeper.

  She hesitated, then said, “Thanks, Beckett, I’d appreciate it. You’d better get several rolls of gauze and some more of that ointment while you’re out, too, if you don’t mind. I’ll reimburse you for everything when you get back.”

  He wouldn’t argue with her now. Instead, he would strike a bargain. He would take her money if she’d take his. “Sure. Make a list.”

  “But pick up Uncle Fred before you go shopping, will you? He likes to sit in the parking lot and watch people come and go.”

  “As good as holding a reception.” He’d seen the way the old guy held court out at the roadside stand.

  By the clear light of morning, she looked even paler than usual, with shadows around her eyes and a faint pink rash on her throat where his beard had rubbed against her. Her hair was still shower damp, with red-gold strands curling on the surface. Remembering the warm weight of it in his hands only a few hours ago gave rise to a reaction that was both untimely and inappropriate. Not to mention downright embarrassing.

  “I’ll go make that list,” she said, sidling past him to escape inside the house.

  Thank God one of them still retained a few grains of common sense.

  He gave her enough time to make a list before he followed her inside. She was in the kitchen, awkwardly digging a spoon into a jar of peanut butter. Neither of them had taken time for breakfast. Of all crazy things, it was when he saw the guilty look on her face that Beckett knew he was fighting a losing battle.

  “You know what they say about emergencies,” she said with that too quick, too bright smile again. “You need more fuel. The last time I got caught eating peanut butter from a jar, I was twelve years old.”

  It wasn’t fuel he needed, it was enhanced powers of resistance. Crossing to the silverware drawer, he took out a tablespoon, then held out his hand.

  By the time the red pickup pulled into the driveway, the jar was half-empty, Liza was holding up her skirt and frowning at the frayed bandages on her knees, and Beckett had surrendered to the inevitable: no way was he going anywhere, not until they had dealt with all the unfinished business between them. And this time he wasn’t thinking about the damned money, either.

  The doorbell rang.

  Liza dropped her skirts, mumbled, “’Scuse me,” and stalked off to answer the door. Beckett figured either a neighbor or someone from Bay View must have brought the old guy home.

  “Patty Ann!” He heard her exclaim from the front hallway. “What on earth…! Come inside. We’re in sort of a mess right now on account of the storm—did you know about the storm? Well I guess you did, with all the rain and wind we had last night.”

  This was obviously not the time to settle things between them. Waiting until she herded her company into the living room, he’d intended to poke his head through the doorway and tell her he was leaving and would be back in a couple of hours. It would take that long to get the old guy’s things together, get him out to the car and then stop for the groceries and first aid supplies.

  Patty Ann—whoever she was—was not alone. Seated beside her on the potato-stuffed sofa was a big guy with rookie cop written all over him. Brush cut, small eyes busy taking inventory of the shabby old room.

  Something triggered a silent alarm. Not danger, just…trouble. Stepping inside the room, he said, “Morning, folks. You headed back to the beach?”

  “Oh, Beckett, this is Patty Ann Garrett. She used to work for me back in Dallas, and this is—Mr. Camshaw?”

  Big guy. Wrestler’s torso, thick neck, face like a high-school heartthrob. Beckett stepped inside the room and extended his hand, first to the woman, a pocket Venus with freckles and a minor overbite—then to the man who rose slowly to tower a couple of inches over Beckett’s own six-one. Mutt and Jeff, he thought, wondering what the devil they were doing here at this p
articular time.

  “We were, um…in the neighborhood and thought we’d stop by,” Camshaw said. “Patty Ann, she’s been sort of worried about you, Ms. Edwards, not knowing where you was and all.”

  “How did you know where she was?” Beckett asked, taking care not to let his growing suspicions show in his voice. For some reason these two were hedging. He knew guilt when he saw it, and it was guilt he saw in the girl’s eyes. The way they darted around. The way her blue-tipped fingers kept stroking nonexistent wrinkles from her miniskirt.

  It was the guy who answered. “Patty Ann, she come across this address book mixed up in some old magazines she brought home. It had this address in it, and she was pretty sure Fred Grant was a cousin or something.”

  “He’s my great-uncle,” Liza murmured. “But how did you know…I mean, how could you possibly know…?”

  Beckett read the growing doubt in Liza’s face. Putting two and two together, he came up with…two. The hang-up calls and the letter she’d told him about. A blank sheet of paper with a Dallas return address.

  Oh, yeah, this pair was up to something all right. But what? Could they have been mixed up in some way with Edward’s business?

  Camshaw’s eyes were never still. He was sweating, but then the temperature was already in the high eighties. The girl looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but where she was.

  Liza asked how her mother was and got a monosyllabic reply.

  “She’s fine. Real good.” The girl squirmed. Either she needed to go to the bathroom or she had something on her mind.

  Beckett turned to Camshaw. “You’re in law enforcement, right?”

  The girl brightened. “How did you know that?”

  He shrugged. “Lucky guess.” He’d been working with law enforcement types for years.

  “Cammy’s just a security guard now, but he’s studying to be a detective. We’re going to open us this agency—you tell ’em about it, Cammy.” And without pausing, she rushed on to say, “We’re going to call it Camshaw and Camshaw, Private Investigations at Bargain Rates, and we thought—that is…” Her enthusiasm leaked out like air from a punctured balloon.

  Beckett was beginning to get a glimmer of what it was they’d thought. Make a connection to a high-profile case, wait awhile, revisit the principals, then reap the publicity. It would be tabloid stuff, at best, but when you were trying to launch yourself as a P.I., any free press was welcome.

  He wondered if either of them was aware of the fine line between jumping on a perceived opportunity and taking advantage of an innocent victim.

  “We appreciate your stopping by, don’t we, Liza?” He moved closer to her chair and rested his hands possessively on her shoulders.

  “What? Well, yes, of course. You didn’t say where you were going, Patty Ann. I wish I could offer you hospitality, but as you can see, we’re in a mess here. My uncle’s coming home as soon as I can go get him, and—”

  “That’s all right,” the freckled blonde said, jumping up and reaching for Camshaw’s ham-size hand. “We can’t stay, can we, Cammy? I just wanted to— That is, long’s we were in the neighborhood…”

  Yeah. Sure you were, Beckett thought, wishing he could have just five minutes alone with the guy. While he was pretty sure they were no real threat, he had no intention of heading south while they were still in the area. It wasn’t as if Liza had anything of value to steal—all the same, something didn’t smell right.

  “At least let me offer you some refreshments before you go,” Liza said. “Coffee? Iced tea? Fruit?”

  Ragged bandages, baggy tent dress and all, she was totally convincing as the gracious hostess. Real dignity, he told himself, had little to do with outward appearances.

  The phone rang, and he excused himself. “Might be for me,” he said quietly as he headed for the kitchen.

  It wouldn’t be for him. Car would’ve called on his cell phone. Just as he reached for the instrument, his glance fell on the peanut butter jar with two spoons in it, and he had to smile. The lady was a constant surprise, not to mention a constant delight.

  “Grant residence, Beckett speaking.”

  Ten

  “Hey? Speak up, I can’t hear ya. Is this Liza?”

  It took a while, but Beckett managed to get the message. Uncle Fred would like to stay a few more days. Could Liza please pack a few more things and bring them out to the home? Don’t forget his Bible and the picture on the mantel. Oh, and a bag of those orange-flavored prunes.

  Beckett stood on the porch and watched the younger couple off before passing on Fred Grant’s message. Liza said nothing. She sighed, turned and leaned her face against his chest, murmuring an apology she didn’t mean and he didn’t need. His arms came around her, and he held her for several long moments, savoring the feel of her, the scent of shampoo and peanut butter. “You all right?”

  “No. Yes. Well, of course I am.” She leaned back to look up into his face. “You know, the strangest thing…I think those two were up to something and for some reason they changed their mind. I mean, I’ve known Patty Ann for years, and I’ve never seen her so…so squirmy.”

  Squirmy. He’d have put it another way, but yeah…that pretty well described it. “Any ideas?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “A few. I think it might’ve had something to do with what happened a couple of years ago in Dallas. The guy’s trying to launch a business, right? I doubt if they’d be spending money on a cross-country jaunt if there wasn’t something in it for them. You saw what they were driving.”

  Her smile turned into a grin. With the sunlight sparkling on her auburn hair, highlighting her creamy complexion, she was totally irresistible. “Their truck, you mean? I think it’s a year younger than my car.”

  Liza wished the moment could never end. Wished she didn’t have to think about things like flooded vegetable bins, and leaky roofs. “But you know the sweetest thing? Patty Ann asked me to show her to the bathroom, and while we were out in the hall, she offered to lend me money. She said she’d been saving up for when she and Cammy got married, but she didn’t really need it now. She said I could pay her back when I got on my feet again. Did you ever hear anything so sweet? I nearly cried.”

  “I thought you looked a little weepy there.”

  “Who called? Not another hang-up call—that’s only at night.”

  With his hands roaming over her back, easing the stiffness she’d felt ever since she got up this morning, Beckett said, “Your uncle wants to stay on a few more days. That okay with you?”

  “Well, of course. You think he really wants to stay? He’s not just saying that because he knows I’ll have my hands full cleaning up around here?”

  “I think he really wants to stay, and I’ll help you clean up.”

  Closing her eyes, she savored the moment. If she was lucky there might be a few more such moments before he left. She intended to savor every one of then, and shed not a single tear when he drove off. In a matter of a few days, he had brought her more happiness than she’d ever expected to find. Contentment was one thing; sheer, mindless bliss was something else. Scarcer than hens’ teeth, as Uncle Fred would say.

  “You know what? I think they did it,” she said suddenly.

  “Think who did what?”

  “Those calls—you know, the hang-up calls? I think it was Patty Ann, or at least her boyfriend. But why wouldn’t she just call and say they were coming East, and ask if they could come for a visit? It’s almost as if—oh, I don’t know, I just had the strangest feeling about the whole thing.”

  Beckett said nothing. He leaned against the porch support, holding her loosely in his arms. She went on. “I know, I know, it’s crazy. Honestly, I’ve never been paranoid—well, not very. All the same, I got a funny feeling they were, um, looking for something? What on earth did they expect to find here? And then offering to lend me money.”

  He waited for her to work it out in her own mind. She had most of the pieces of the puzzle. “I thin
k you’re probably right. Whatever they were looking for, whatever they were up to, the girl’s all right. She’ll keep him in line, and I seriously doubt if they’ll bother you again.”

  His hands continued to stroke her back slowly, caressing her nape under the heavy fall of hair, moving down to curve over her hips. When Liza leaned away to look up at him, he smiled that slow, lazy smile that never failed to curl her toes. To think she’d once thought those silvery eyes were cold.

  If she’d had a grain of sense she would have run the minute he stepped out of that big green SUV. Now, here she was, in love for the second time in her life—or maybe the first time, because this felt so much deeper, so much richer than anything she’d ever felt for James.

  And this time she was mature enough to know what to expect. Tears, followed by curses, followed by bitterness, she admitted with painful honesty. Followed by a few more vows of “never again.”

  “Beckett, could we please go back to bed?” she asked suddenly.

  He was still for so long she wanted to drop through the floor and disappear. “Liza? Are you sure you want that?”

  “Oh, I can’t believe I said that,” she whispered, eyes shut tightly. Opening just one, she said, “I’m sure, but if you’re not— I mean, if you’re in a hurry to leave…”

  He laughed aloud, the sound ringing out clearly in the fresh morning air. One more time, Liza told herself, just one more memory to savor in the years ahead, is that too much to ask? She would tuck it all away together in her memory book: the sound of his rich, baritone drawl, the feel of his hands, gentle on her body.

  Two spoons side by side in a jar of peanut butter….

  He led her inside. There was no pretense on either side; they both knew what was going to happen. Last night the tension that had been growing between them for days had reached flash point. This time would be slower, more deliberate. They were both tired; they could take time to savor the moment.