Beckett's Cinderella. Dixie Browning
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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.
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