Pretty Lady by Marian Babson

Denny? Denny?
    Not another of Denny’s crushes! They had been spared one for some time now, had been hoping that that phase might be over. Not that he was any great trouble. Like a child, he just wanted to follow the woman around, grateful for a few words, and he’d stand outside her house, just staring at it. Mind you, it often made the woman concerned very nervous (one had actually moved away because of it), and it added fuel to Aunt Vera’s constant flaming concern. ( ‘It may be all right this time,’ she’d say darkly, ‘but one of these days ...’ )
    â€˜What lady?’ The sharpness of her voice surprised herself as much as Denny. It brought him sitting upright, injured innocence on his face. He’d done nothing to deserve that tone of voice. Nothing that he could remember, anyhow.
    â€˜Merelda,’ he said, as though that explained everything. ‘Merelda.’
    â€˜Merelda,’ she tried to keep her tone quiet and even. ‘Merelda – who? What’s her last name?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ Denny said cheerfully. ‘Just Merelda. Pretty lady.’
    â€˜And where –’ she was calmer now, Denny looked like his old self again, she must have been imagining things – ‘did you and Merelda go for tea and all those cakes?’
    â€˜Her house,’ Denny said.
    â€˜And where –’ it was like sweeping water with a broom, you seemed to be getting somewhere and then you realized you’d made no progress at all – ‘where is her house?’
    â€˜That way,’ Denny gestured happily.
    â€˜Don’t point! I’m sorry, Denny, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Just tell me in words, can’t you?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘Along the river.’ He was turning sulky now. He sat there, hunched up, and stabbed at his chop, pretending to concentrate on his food. She’d get no more out of him now.
    Well, what did it matter? He was good-natured, but you could only push him just so far. Let him be now. So, some woman had taken him in and fed him like a stray cat – it probably wouldn’t happen again. If it did, then she could find out more about the woman. Probably the woman had just been acting on a random impulse – it had happened sometimes when Denny was a little boy – and it would never be repeated. It would be too bad, though, if Denny built it up to more than face value somewhere in the mazes of his cloudy child’s mind. But that was another risk you couldn’t protect him from, another area where he had to take his chances with the rest of us.
    Unconsciously, Sheila sighed. Denny looked up quickly, still defensive.
    â€˜It’s all right, Denny,’ she said quickly. She stood and moved to the stove, filling the teapot.
    Denny ducked his head with relief. She turned in time to catch his other gesture.
    â€˜Use your handkerchief, Denny.’
    Denny nodded, groping in his pocket. His hand connected with something greasy and unfamiliar. He pulled it out with his handkerchief. The remains of the buttered breakfast toast he had forgotten.
    â€˜What’s that, Denny?’ Sheila walked over to stand behind his chair, her hands on his shoulders, looking down at the greasy crumbs.
    â€˜Toast,’ he admitted. ‘To feed the ducks.’ He looked up at her cautiously, waiting for the reprimand. ‘I forgot it.’
    â€˜All right, I’m not going to scold you.’ Sheila laughed abruptly, giving his shoulders a tiny shake. ‘Oh, Denny, Denny, the tightrope you walk.’
    Denny whirled suddenly and clutched her about the waist, his head burrowing for the sanctuary between her breasts. Like a child, responding to kindness like a child, but with a man’s strong body.
    She stiffened for a moment, then detached him gently and moved away. ( Oh, Denny, Denny, the tightrope we all walk. )
MERELDA
    â€˜I don’t like