Free Christmas at the Hummingbird House by Donna Ball

else are they gonna earn money for that goat? I’m paying them a nickel an hour.  Lunch’ll be ready in half an hour.”
    With that, she sashayed out of the kitchen, swinging the door in her wake, and there wasn’t much left for Paul or Derrick to say.
    In a moment Derrick ventured, “They seem nice enough.”
    “As far as children go,” agreed Paul.
    “But they’ll never earn enough money for a goat before Christmas,” Derrick said.
    “Not at a nickel an hour.”
    “I understand the concept of working for a reward, I do.  It’s rather sweet, really.  But …” 
    “Perhaps we could offer to increase their salary,” Paul suggested.
    “You’ll do no such thing!” Purline called from beyond the swinging door, and Paul and Derrick both winced guiltily.
    She pushed back through the door, hands on her hips, glaring at them.  “They’re my kids and I’ll raise them the way I see fit.  Don’t y’all have some trees to put up?  Do I have to chase you out of here with a broom?”
    “But Purline …”
    She shifted her eyes around the kitchen.  “Where’s my broom?”
    Paul raised a hand in self-defense. “What I was going to say,” he persisted, “is that it looks as though we’re going to require some additional assistance with the trees.”
    “All of the decorating really,” Derrick put in, “if we expect to have it done before Sunday.”
    “Do you know anyone who might be able to help?” asked Paul.
    A corner of her lips turned down sourly.  “That’s what you get for leaving everything till the last minute, and depending on that crazy woman to get it done.  And no, I don’t know anybody that’s got time to help.  Besides, the Lord …”
    “Helps those who help themselves,” Derrick finished with a sigh.  “Yes, we know.”
    “I don’t even know what that means,” Paul grumbled.
    “It means you’d better get busy,” retorted Purline.  She turned smartly on her heel to leave and then stopped, head cocked toward the window.  “Y’all expecting company?”
    It took them a moment to realize that the low rumbling that grew louder with every moment was the sound of a motorcycle engine, and even when they went to the window and saw it for themselves they could hardly believe it.  The big black beast skirted the mountain of Christmas trees in the drive and made its way to the back parking lot, powerful engine chugging and pulsing.  There it stopped, and the rider got off. By this time there were three faces crowded at the kitchen window, their breath making individual circles on the pane.
    “I wasn’t expecting anyone, were you?” Paul said.
    “He certainly doesn’t look familiar,” Derrick replied.
    He was a big man in jeans and boots with chains, wearing a black leather jacket and blue bandanna skull cap, beneath which a long ponytail trailed down his back. Tattoos were visible on his hands and neck.  He approached the porch of the Hummingbird House with a swaggering, confident stride.
    “Looks like he’s up to no good to me,” Purline observed suspiciously.
    “Patrons of the Hummingbird House don’t ride motorcycles,” agreed Derrick. He thought about that for a moment.  “At least they haven’t so far.”
    Paul pushed away from the window and started toward the back door.  “Well, we can’t just stand here staring at him.  We’re in the hospitality business, after all.”
    “You be careful,” Purline urged, following close behind.  “My kids’re out there.”
    Paul gave her an uncertain look, and then opened the door.
    “Good morning, sir!” he called out, perhaps a trifle too heartily.  “How are you this fine morning?”
    Thus encouraged, the stranger took the steps two at a time, his hand extended. “Top of the world, my brother,” he replied in a distinctive Australian accent. “And yourself?”
    He was an interesting-looking fellow.  He had bright blue eyes, mutton chops down to his chin, and a nose that appeared to have been broken