Free Beckett's Cinderella by Dixie Browning Page A

up for sale and liquidating every possible asset. Evidently, Kit hadn’t heard about the scandal. At least she hadn’t mentioned it.
    Liza bent to retrieve the book she’d flung across the room in disgust, mostly at herself for not being able to concentrate. She reached behind the door for her nightgown just as the phone rang in the kitchen.
    It was too early for her creepy caller. On the other hand, it was too late for any of her suppliers. Uncle Fred’s friends usually called during the day.
    She reached for the phone on the fourth ring, then waited until the fifth to lift the receiver. “Hello?”
    â€œEliza?”
    Air left her lungs in a whoosh. She felt behind her for a chair. “What do you want?”
    â€œWould you please just set aside your suspicions and think about what I said? Ask your uncle if he knows anything about your family’s history.” Before she could respond, he said, “But I guess he’s the wrong side, isn’t he? He’s your mother’s brother, not your father’s.”
    She hooked a chair with her foot and sat, willing her heart to slow down. “Actually, he’s my maternalgrandfather’s brother, but that’s none of your business.” The silence lasted for three beats. Then, in a quieter tone, she said, “How about your grandfather, uh, PawPaw? Is he all right?”
    â€œThanks. Yeah, he’s still hanging in there. Waiting for you to come to your senses and let me square things so he can die in peace.”
    She took instant offense, as if his grandfather’s health were somehow dependent on her. “You’re waiting for him to die? What kind of creep are you, anyway?”
    Too tired to try to justify himself, Beckett cut her off. “Eliza, PawPaw’s over a hundred years old. We’re not quite sure how old he really is, but I don’t think he’ll be around too much longer. And, yeah, before you ask, I’m sorry. I’ll miss him—we all will. Now, how about it, can we talk again? This time will you just listen while I explain and then take the damned money?”
    â€œI’ll think about it,” she said after a long pause. Great. She’d think about it. “Fine. You do that.”
    Beckett decided to hold back on asking about her cousin Kathryn and any other cousins they hadn’t been able to confirm until he’d solidified his position. After that, with any luck, he would be able to concentrate on business long enough to meet with a couple of ship owners in Newport News, maybe another one in Morehead City, and get back to Charleston in time to help deal with whatever came next, be it a nursing home or a funeral home.
    God, he was tired.
    Had he or had he not told her to expect him to show up in the next day or so?
    Dammit, PawPaw, hang in there. I’m not ready yet to let you go!
    After hanging up the phone, he sat in the semi-darkness of the east room of the elegant old house where the distinguished old man had once read him stories about Blackbeard’s exploits off the Carolinas. Oddly enough, he could easily picture Eliza here in the same room, maybe arranging flowers or talking over the day’s events with his parents, his friends.
    The room no longer smelled of cigar and pipe tobacco, but of leather, wood polish and the eucalyptus oil his mother used to refresh her bowls of potpourri. It was a familiar smell, one he hadn’t realized he’d missed until lately. Lavender in the linen closet, cedar in the coat closet, eucalyptus in the potpourri. Funny the way different scents could arouse different emotions, different memories. A whiff of cinnamon always made him homesick, no matter where he happened to be. His mother’s cinnamon-raisin bread, fresh from the oven…
    Rebecca Jones Beckett was a terrific cook. She and Miss Dora, the housekeeper, fought for kitchen dominance. Miss Dora usually won because of his mother’s many social