Little Gale Gumbo by Erika Marks

home.
    â€œThe stove can be tricky,” Ben said, twisting the knobs on the range. “The pilot goes out from time to time. The house is old and temperamental, but the water pressure is good and the heat works well enough.” He watched Camille wander around the perimeter of the apartment, the girls trailing close behind. “I did warn you it was small,” he said. “I’d understand if you’ve changed your mind, now that you’ve seen it.”
    Camille stopped at the window and turned toward Ben, where he stood in the narrow opening between the kitchen and the living area, wondering for a moment whether Benjamin Haskell was of the same breed as the innkeeper, too clever to be outright discriminatory but not pleased with the idea of housing a Creole woman with two daughters.
    Camille studied his eyes, a deep, soft brown behind his round glasses. He was really a pleasant-looking man, she thought. Not the sort who was so handsome you’d reel at first sight, but the kind whose nice looks revealed themselves over time. He had a kind face. Plenty of thick, sandy brown hair. A shapely nose. She guessed him in his late thirties, not much older than she was.
    No, he wasn’t like the innkeeper. His sensitivity was real.
    â€œHow much is it?” she asked.
    Dahlia and Josie disappeared into the bedroom, their high voices blending with excitement at the view of the ocean from their very own turret window.
    Â 
    The sisters met Matthew that afternoon when he came home from school. It was Dahlia who encountered him first, having discovered his failing orchid in the living room window and deciding it had to be moved at once.
    â€œHey!” Matthew dropped his books into the wing chair and charged across the room, grabbing the shiny pot from Dahlia’s hands. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, setting the orchid gently back on the sill.
    â€œIt’s getting too much light,” Dahlia said flatly, and without even a hint of apology in her voice. “Orchids like filtered light.”
    â€œHow would you know?”
    â€œAnd I can tell you aren’t misting it, either.” She bent down for a closer look. “The roots are soaking wet and the leaves are like cardboard. You only wet the roots when they’re bone-dry. Otherwise, you should just be misting it regularly.”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œI live here.”
    Matthew snorted, the idea preposterous. “Since when?”
    â€œSince an hour ago. My mother just rented the apartment for me and my sister.”
    Matthew swallowed, having calmed down enough now to study her at last, and deciding she was awfully interesting-looking, and tall. Maybe too tall. She was actually as tall as he was, and worse, she wasn’t even wearing shoes, he realized, glimpsing her long, wiggling toes.
    â€œYou should let me keep this in my room for a while,” Dahlia said. “I know a ton about plants. I could bring it back for you.”
    â€œBring it back?” Matthew crossed his arms. “What are you talking about? It’s fine.”
    â€œIt’s not fine. It won’t survive the winter, let alone the week.”
    â€œWhere’s my dad?”
    â€œHow the hell should I know?”
    â€œDahl?”
    Matthew turned to see a slight, red-haired girl in the doorway, her pale skin sprinkled with freckles.
    â€œDahl, Momma’s been looking for you,” Josie said softly, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of them, her lips lifting each time her gaze landed on Matthew. “Hello.”
    â€œThat’s Josie,” Dahlia said. “My younger sister.”
    Matthew frowned at them. Sisters? They didn’t look a thing alike.
    â€œIt’s Jose phine ,” Josie corrected proudly, blushing as she did. “And I’m barely younger. Only by fourteen months.”
    Matthew turned back to Dahlia. “What kind of name is