Cactus Flower by Alice Duncan

subsided almost
at once, with William, the youngest boy, slowest to obey. Little Penelope,
who had turned five-years-old the week before, clung to Nick’s big
hand. “Did we hurt you, Uncle Nicky?” she asked in her sweet, piping
voice.
           “It
would take more than a little mite like you to hurt me, Miss Penny,”
Nick assured her.
           Mrs.
Johnson had been taking stock of Eulalie while she was disciplining
her children. Now she turned to her and held out her hand. “I’m
mighty sorry for the ruckus, ma’am. I’m Louise Johnson—Mrs. Ezekiel
Johnson, who’s gone on to his maker, God rest his soul—and these
here are my children. They act like a pack of wolves, but they’re
not so bad once you get to know them.”
           Wide-eyed
and staring, Eulalie gave a small start, as if she’d been transfixed
by the swarm of children and suddenly jerked out of her trance. “Oh!
Oh, yes. I mean no, I’m sure they’re not. Bad, I mean.” Eulalie
flushed and took the other woman’s hand. Then she flashed one of her
patented, knock-’em-dead smiles. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnson. I just
didn’t anticipate them. I’m really quite fond of children. My name
is Miss Eulalie Gibb.”
           Mrs.
Johnson nodded. “I heard all about you, Miss Gibb. But here, there’s
no need to stand out in the sun. Come on indoors, and have a sit-down.
It’s not elegant, but it serves us all right.”
           She
ushered Nick and Eulalie into her house, which boasted a total of five
rooms and a sun porch. The children slept on the sun porch in the spring
and summer. Nick didn’t know where they slept in the wintertime, but
he began to question his wits in bringing Eulalie here. It was true
that Mrs. Johnson had the kindest heart in the territory, and it was
also true she needed money, but her comment about lack of elegance struck
Nick where it hurt.
           As
he gazed around the shabby little house, he understood for the first
time since he’d proposed the idea that Miss Eulalie Gibb, actress,
from Chicago, Illinois, was probably accustomed to grander surroundings
than this. She might not be thrilled to rent one of the only five rooms
in this house, especially since the house came equipped not only with
bedrooms and a kitchen, but a pack of unruly kids. Damn. Where had his
wits gone begging?
           “Have
a seat, you two,” said Mrs. Johnson happily, waving them toward a
faded sofa that sagged in the middle. An obvious effort had been made
to perk it up with homemade throw pillows and an afghan no doubt crocheted
or knitted by Mrs. Johnson or one of the girls. “I’d offer you a
cold drink, Miss Gibb, but I’m afraid there’s no such thing to be
had in this little town of ours. But I will take my apron off and put
up my scrub brush.” Taking the apron off and sinking into a chair
that was as faded and saggy as the sofa, she called, “Charles! Come
here and take this to the kitchen.”
           Charles
Johnson, fifteen years old and excessively sober for so young a lad,
probably because after his father’s death he’d been designated as
“man of the family”—a position that Nick had held, too, once upon
a time—appeared in the parlor. All the Johnson children had reddish
hair and freckles, and Charles looked particularly small and vulnerable
to Nick, who’d always been big for his age.
           Because,
in spite of himself, he had a lot of sympathy for Charles, Nick smiled
at the boy, who smiled back, shyly. “How’re you doing, Charles?”
           “Fine,
Uncle Nick. Thank you.” His gaze shifted from his mother, who had
taken a chair, to Eulalie, who sat on the edge of a sofa cushion, as
if to assess their willingness to put up with a kid. Nick’s heart
twanged.
           “What
projects you got going, Charles? Need any help?”
           Another
glance at his mother, who smiled