Beckett's Cinderella (11 page)

He needed to shop for her groceries, rebandage her hands and knees, make sure Rambo and his groupie were gone for good and wouldn't be bothering her again—and then he could hit the road with a clear conscience.

It wasn't going to happen.

Lying on the petrified foam rubber mattress, listening to the soft purr of her breath beside him—feeling the heat of her bottom pressed into his groin, Beckett tried to rationalize his way out of the mess he was in. He'd been a practicing adult for the past twenty-odd years. Liza was only a few years younger than he was. She knows the score, he told himself.

Nope. He'd seen her, wanted her and seduced her. Some women took a broader view of life than others. She might consider herself experienced, but she was as green as any kid—more so because she didn't realize how vulnerable she was.

With wry humor, he wondered what the chances were of pretending he had amnesia. “What? We had
sex? Never happened, honey, you must have me mixed up with some other guy.”

For a supposedly intelligent man, he had managed to pull some real blunders in his life, but this one was in a class by itself.

Easing out of bed, he located his pants and headed for the shower. It had to be going on noon, and he still had a few things to do before he could leave. Damn. You'd think he was deliberately looking for reasons to stick around.

From the bed, Liza watched him grab his clothes and make his escape. She hoped, she really did, that her last view of L. J.—Lancelot Jones Beckett—wasn't going to be him scurrying out of her bedroom, his clothes clutched in his arms and a guilty look on his face.

She got up, slipped on a T-shirt and loose jeans and stared at herself in the mirror. Yuck. Magic hadn't happened over the past hour. She was still plain old Liza, bony face, messy hair and all, only now she had a look in her eyes that shouldn't be there.

Sadness. She was finished with sadness. She'd sworn off sadness when she'd left Texas and headed east to start over again.

How many fresh starts was one woman allowed? She'd made her first one when, hungry for the close family she'd been missing ever since her mother died and her father had remarried, she had married James.

She'd made another start when she'd moved to North Carolina.

Another new start wasn't going to happen, because
Uncle Fred needed her. He'd been barely hanging on when she'd turned up on his front porch, uninvited. Somewhere he had a nephew—his wife's kin, not his own, but family was family. The nephew was a sailor of some sort, and evidently he wasn't into family relations.

Bracing one hand on the iron bedpost, Liza slid first one foot and then the other into a pair of sandals and set out to put things back in order. They still had produce out there that needed spreading out to dry. Some of it would be beyond salvation. Then there was that blasted roof….

The bathroom door opened and Beckett joined her in the kitchen. Pretending an intense interest in the list she was making, she ignored him. She'd managed to blunder through seducing the man. Trouble was, she hadn't a clue when it came to postseduction protocol. Neither of them smoked. Besides, that probably only worked in old movies.

Maybe she could come up with a smart quip, something like, Well, my, that was fun, wasn't it? Do you want a cup of coffee before you hit the road?

Yeah, that ought to do it.

He came to stand behind her chair. “Is that the list?”

“Is that what list?”

“The stuff you want from the grocery store. What about the things your uncle wanted?”

She stole a glance at him, gaining some small satisfaction from the fact that he seemed as ill at ease as she was. “This is all I can think of now. I'll get
together the things to take to Bay View, but, Beckett, you really don't have to do this. I know you're eager to get back to Charleston.”

“Am I?”

Scraping her chair back, she stood and glared at him. “Stop it. Just stop it right now. I know this is awkward and embarrassing, and if you're looking for an apology, then here it is. I'm sorry, okay? Sorry I—that I—”

“I'm not,” he said quietly. “Now give me the list and go round up whatever you want me to take to Fred.”

Without another word she stalked off, plastic bag in hand, and filled it with the things her uncle had requested, throwing in several apples and a peach that wouldn't last another day.

“Here. Thank you very much,” she snapped.

Her temper seemed to have a peculiar effect on him. He started to smile. The smile broadened to include flashing teeth and sparkling eyes.

Liza's eyes narrowed. Her jaw clenched, and then he confounded her completely by saying, “PawPaw's going to flat-out love you, honey. I'll stop somewhere on the way back and bring us a couple of barbecue sandwiches, okay?”

T
o Liza it seemed as if days should have passed, but actually it had been than less two hours. The sun shouldn't be shining so brightly, she thought. The sky shouldn't be that incredible shade of blue, but it was. Glaringly bright, setting millions of diamonds to sparkling on emerald-green grass that was littered with storm debris.

It could have been worse, she told herself as she circled the house, surveying the damage—mostly minor—and making a mental list of what needed doing immediately and what could wait.

Another section of gutter had come down last night and was lying across the hood of the old Packard. More shingles blown off—no big surprise there. One of the oaks had lost a big limb, and the front yard
was littered with leaves, twigs and green acorns. She would have to rake and tote, as Uncle Fred called it—but not today. Today she had other priorities.

Such as seeing Beckett off with a smile that would linger in his heart long after he'd said goodbye.

Oh, sure. “Grow up, Eliza,” she muttered, hurling a short, dead branch over into the cornfield.

Her immediate concern was the stand. Everything inside the security fence would be drenched, but otherwise more or less intact. She had covered the cash register—her roadside antique—with a large plastic garbage bag. The three country hams she'd taken to the house, along with the soft goods. Water shouldn't hurt the produce as long as it dried off quickly enough.

In other words, she had her work cut out for her.

By half past noon, her stomach reminded her that she'd skipped breakfast. Peanut butter didn't count. And then she had to go and remember just why she'd skipped breakfast.

A few minutes later she found herself sitting in Uncle Fred's rocking chair, a sack of wet Mattamuskeet sweet onions on her lap, with tears overflowing her eyes.

It wasn't because of the onions, either.

“Well, damn,” she growled, scrubbing at her cheeks with the now-filthy apron.

Carefully setting aside the onions a few minutes later, she climbed up onto her stool, hammer in hand, and managed to remove the last few nails anchoring the strip of tin roof. Once the place dried out thor
oughly, she might replace it with a heavy tarp, but for now the fresh air was welcome.

She was carrying out the last few ears of corn and arranging them on the twisted tin to dry in the sunshine when Beckett pulled up in the graveled parking lot.

Oh, damn. She was filthy. Her hands…her apron. Her shoes were caked with mud, and her hair was, too, where it had escaped her clip and she'd raked it back again and again.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Beckett demanded.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” she returned, hoping there was no visible sign of her recent tears.

“That could've waited until I got back.”

“Fine. I should've stayed in the front parlor sipping tea and reading the
Ladies' Home Journal
.”

They were glaring at each other like a pair of feral dogs. Beckett held out a paper sack. “I brought lunch.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Don't start with me, Liza, I've got a category-four headache.”

That brought on a smile that was patently false. “Oh, what a pity. Take two aspirin and call me in the morning, all right?”

“And then you'll start with me?” The twinkle of a smile crept into his eyes, into his voice.

“You wish.” Getting up off her knees, she winced, shook the wet grass and gravel from her apron and reached out for the paper sack he held tauntingly just
out of reach. Her empty stomach reacted audibly to the tantalizing aroma of pit-cooked barbecue with a light, vinegary sauce.

Instead of handing over lunch, Beckett grabbed her hand. “What the hell have you been doing?” he growled.

“What do you think I've been doing?” She looked around at the onions, potatoes and cantaloupe, the watermelons and squash and corn, all of it spread out in the sunshine like a huge, colorful quilt. Some of it wouldn't make it—the rest would serve as hog food for the farmer who lived down the road. But whatever she could salvage would be produce she wouldn't have to restock.

Her shoulders drooped, and she sighed. “How's Uncle Fred holding up? Did he say when he wanted to come home?”

“As a matter of fact, we had a long talk about that. Let me get the groceries out of the car and we'll go inside and eat.”

“What do you mean, you had a long talk about that? Is he coming home this afternoon? Because I really would like to do a lot more cleaning up before he sees the place. At his age, something like this can be upsetting.”

Beckett steered her past the rumpled section of rusty tin roofing. He should have known she'd tackle it the minute he was gone. “Dammit, Liza, would it have killed you to ask for help?”

“I asked. You helped. What did you expect me to do, cry on your shoulder?”

Whatever he'd expected, he'd got more than he'd bargained for. A hell of a lot more. Trouble was, he didn't have it yet, not signed, sealed and delivered. “Let's get you cleaned up and rebandaged, then we'll eat, then we'll talk.”

He was tempted to sweep her up in his arms and carry her up the front steps—whether on account of her scraped knees or his newly awakened caveman tendencies, he couldn't have said. Instead, he took her arm and steered her toward the house. It was time the lady learned to let someone take care of her. He was going to have a devilish time trying to convince her of it, though.

After putting a pot of coffee on to brew, he sat her down at the table, lifted her voluminous skirt and folded it back over her lap. “Hell of a thing to be working in,” he grumbled, careful to keep the concern he was feeling from his voice. “Climbing up on stools, you could have—”

“But I didn't, all right?”

He grunted. “Okay, let's see how much damage you've managed to inflict on yourself.”

It was a mark of how exhausted she was that she didn't protest. Beckett took full responsibility for some of her tiredness: he hadn't let her get a whole lot of rest lately.

The damage was mostly superficial, but just to be on the safe side, he bathed her injuries. When tears sprang to her eyes, he said, “Oh, hell.” Laying aside the towel, he reached for her, toppling her forward. Holding her, he did his best to soothe away the fresh
pain, drawing from dim memories of the way his mother had held and comforted him back when he was a brat in short pants, daring the devil and quite convinced he was invincible.

“I know, I know—hurts like hell, doesn't it? Let me pat it dry, and we'll put some more of that gunk on it. Seems to be doing the trick.”

Liza took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. He smeared antibiotic ointment on her knees and the heels of her hands. Digging into the sack of groceries, he produced a big box of gauze and proceeded to bind her wounds with yards of the stuff.

“I feel like a mummy,” Liza said, feeling shaky all over again. Not from any great pain, other than the pain of seeing Beckett kneeling before her, and knowing this was probably the last hour she would ever spend with him. In which case, she would much rather have been wearing something filmy and romantic.

Or at the very least something clean.

Candles would have been a nice touch, too, although candles in a kitchen at high noon might be overdoing it. Still, a woman could dream, couldn't she?

“Poor Uncle Fred,” she said, making a determined effort to shift her mind away from the mess she'd made of things. “At his age he shouldn't have to come home and find everything all torn up. He can't do much of anything himself, and he probably knows we can't afford to hire anyone. Although he's not real
good when it comes to managing money. Maybe I can convince him—”

“Liza, about Uncle Fred.”

“Oh, I know, I know, he's a lot tougher than he looks, but all the same, I wish—”

“Liza, listen to me. Your uncle's been through a lot worse than the little blow we had last night. He might not be good at handling money, but he's handled more than most men—wars, depressions, grief.”

“I know that. I'm whining on his behalf because he won't. All the same…”

“All the same, there comes a time in a man's life when he wants to shed a few responsibilities, settle back and enjoy the things he can still enjoy, preferably with friends.”

“Didn't I just say that? That's why I want to get everything all cleaned up here. Then maybe I'll suggest he invite a few friends over for baseball and supper. Or maybe we'll drive down to Manteo and watch
The Lost Colony
. He told me he hasn't seen a performance since his wife died.”

Rising, Beckett shoved aside the first-aid materials just as the coffee gurgled its last gurgle. He took down two cups. Liza watched him, but made no effort to interfere. Good, he thought. He was going to need a docile Liza to get through what he had to tell her.

Over barbecue sandwiches, he brought up the first topic under consideration. “About Fred…Liza, you do know he has a nephew, don't you?”

She reached for a French fry. He snagged his lower lip with his teeth, trying to think how best to break
the news. “Well, sure. I know his wife had—has—a nephew,” she said. “I told you that, remember? I've never actually met him, but he calls to talk to Uncle Fred whenever he's in port. I think he works on one of those big container ships, I'm not sure.”

“You're right. But he's thinking of retiring as soon as he can get on with his plans here.”

“Here where?” She took a big bite of her barbecue sandwich, closed her eyes and sighed. “Heavenly. It's even better than Texas barbecue, and if that sounds traitorous, Texas can sue me.”

“The lot next door?” Beckett indicated the east-facing window. To the west and north of the Grant house were cornfields. On the east side was a cleared lot surrounded by several hundred acres of soybeans.

“What about it?” she asked with her mouth full.

Leaning across the table, he brushed a streak of barbecue sauce from beside her mouth, then licked it from his thumb. “Yeah, well, the thing is, all that belongs to Fred's nephew.”

“Fred's wife's nephew,” she corrected. “I'm his only blood kin.”

“Dammit, Liza, I'm trying to tell you that this place—the house, the lot next door—they belong to Solon Pugh. The nephew.”

“In-law,” she supplied, frowning.

“Right. The thing is, they don't belong to Fred.”

She stopped chewing. Her eyes went round, narrowed, then widened again as she absorbed the full impact. “You mean this Pugh fellow—he's just letting Uncle Fred live here?”

This was going to be painful. He figured it was best to get it over with quickly and let the healing begin. “Fred's wife's folks built the house. It belonged to her, and when she died, it went to her nephew, with Fred retaining a lifetime right.”

“So?” She had carefully laid her sandwich on the napkin. Her freshly bandaged hands were resting on her lap. “I don't see that that changes anything.”

“It doesn't. You did.”

“I don't think I want to hear this. If you don't mind, I'm going to go back out to the stand and—”

He caught her by the arm before she could leave. “You're going to have to hear it. Honey, Fred was all ready to move into Bay View with his friends when you turned up one day, needing a place to stay. Needing someone to help you get started again. Fred recognized that. His hearing might not be what it once was, but his mind is as sharp as ever. He called Pugh and told him he'd changed his mind and was going to stay on awhile longer. As he told me this morning, you needed something to latch on to to get you back on your feet, and he didn't mind helping you out.”

“Helping me out?” Liza repeated, a stricken look on her face. “But I'm the one who was helping him. He couldn't have stayed here without me—without someone…”

He came around the table and knelt beside her, holding her while she sucked in great gulps of air. “I'm not going to cry, don't worry,” she said. “Just give me a minute, will you?”

“All the time in the world, sugar babe. Go ahead and cry, if you need to, sweetheart.”

That got her attention. Rearing back, she glared at him, her elegant, patrician features no less beautiful for the smear of grime across her forehead.

“What, I can't call you sweetheart?” he challenged.

“Sugar babe?”

“Hey, it's what the men in my family call the women—and the women call them that right back. It means ‘I love you.' Don't people in Texas talk that way?”

“Not the people I knew.”

He waited for her to pick up on what he'd said. It might come as something of a shock. It had shocked the hell out of him, but once he'd realized it had happened, he'd accepted it. Felt pretty damned good about it, matter of fact. No more running away. This was it—this was what he'd been running toward all these years.

Now all he had to do was convince Liza.

“You see where I'm going with this, right?”

“Uncle Fred wants to stay on at Bay View so that his nephew can move in here.” She nodded slowly. “I understand.”

Beckett's reputation as a negotiator had never been in question. He was among the best. But negotiating with hijackers—modern-day pirates—was one thing. Reaching a mutually satisfying agreement with a woman who was both proud and needy…that called for an altogether different set of skills.

For a guy who had commitment avoidance down to a fine art, he was digging his own grave here. Never had a grave been dug more willingly. “You heard what I said, then?”

She nodded. Her fingers, which were the only parts of her hands not swathed in gauze, walked their way up his chest and latched on to his collar. She still refused to meet his eyes.