Read Beckett's Cinderella for Free Online

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?”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œUncle 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.
    â€œLet me guess,” she said when he came up onto the porch. She made no move to unhook the screen