Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The following day I was back at work enjoying my midday meal.
A ham sandwich, some salty chips, and a giant dill pickle.
I’d fished several out of a barrel at the Shopper Mart yesterday as a treat for myself and Gilda, who had aced her essay about George Washington.
The girl had worked her butt off in study hall to turn it in on time for her sixth-period history class.
Even with the cover being the rapping Washington, she’d gotten an A.
Seemed her teacher was a fan of Christopher Jackson, just like the rest of us were, but he was hoping for a more sedate man on the cover of her paper.
In all honesty, the man is divine. Mr. Jackson, that is, not the junior high history teacher.
So we’d both had a baggie with a fat dill in it for our lunches today.
She’d texted me at lunch to tell me how crispy hers was and to remind me she was staying late for drama club practice.
I remembered, of course. It was in my little phone calendar.
I’d told her I would be outside the gym at six, which would give me time after I closed the shop to work on her sweater.
Just as I had taken a bite of my gherkin, the bells over the door rang out.
Silently cussing the person interrupting my meal, I nonetheless tossed my pickle down next to my sandwich and rose from my stool at the workbench.
I’d been elbow deep in replacing spark plugs in a snowblower for Phyllis Parks, who worked at the library where Katie had been employed, before I started work on yet another snowblower for Gregg Tillmans, a county worker, who had discovered a mouse had not only nested in his snowblower but had chewed through several wires.
Good thing he had noticed the smell of mouse pee before trying to start the Cub Cadet. He might have had a fire on his hands.
I took a moment to wipe my fingers on my napkin before rising from my stool to saunter through the old curtain separating the workshop from the storefront.
Oldies from the ’60s were playing on the radio as I entered the showroom.
Pausing, I stared in surprise at a stranger dressed in a dark blue, single-breasted wool coat that hung to his knees.
He had a glorious head of chestnut curls, nicely tended eyebrows, and a rather well-groomed beard.
He was possibly the handsomest man I had ever seen, and yes, that included Christopher Jackson.
I thought to speak out, but he was removing two sets of baby mittens from the line, and so as not to embarrass him, I merely smiled when he glanced my way.
The man had exquisite eyes. Honey brown framed with lush chocolate lashes.
He nodded at me, shoved the mittens into the deep pockets of his coat, and then placed some cash into the donation jar.
“Oh, you don’t have to—” I started to say as he turned to exit the shop, the tiny brass bells jingling merrily as he disappeared from sight.
There was no car in the parking lot out front.
I scurried around the counter, nearly knocking my old cash register askew, to dart after him, but when I reached the door and peered out, all I saw was a milk truck followed by a silver van with a spare tire stored on a rack across the back doors.
What make of van it was, I had no idea. I’d never seen anything that looked remotely like it, but surely it wasn’t the ride of the man who had just taken two sets of mittens for a baby.
Where on Earth had he come from? Where had he parked?
Scratching my head, I blew out a confused breath before going back inside.
Maybe the van wasn’t his at all. Perhaps he had walked down the road from a camping site in the state game lands.
If he was camping with a baby or two, I hoped he was well-stocked. It was getting darn chilly at night.
Padding over to the donation jar, I peered down into it and sputtered at the sight of a hundred-dollar bill tightly wrapped around other bills.
Slowly reaching down, I plucked the tidy roll from the jar, opened it, and discovered nine more hundred-dollar bills.
Mouth agape, eyes flared, I ran back outside with a thousand dollars in my hand.
My sight flew left and then right. Hell, I even glanced skyward, but all I saw was a formation of Canada geese making their way south, their honks bold in the crisp air.
“What the hell?” I murmured, glancing up the road.
The milk truck and the odd van were gone.
Not knowing what else to do, I shuffled back inside, tucked the huge donation into an envelope, and made a note to stop at the New Overture Church on my way to pick up Gilda.
Pastor Pete would likely be just as shocked as I was, if not more so.
***
“The Lord works in strange and mysterious ways,” Pastor Pete whispered after I handed him the big donation from the handsome mystery man.
The good pastor was perhaps a year or two older than me, a newcomer to the parish, and a vocal supporter of human rights.
He and his partner, a sweet man named Nigel who played the organ every Sunday, had been together for ten years.
Pete Pilkowski had grown up in Grouse Falls, left to attend the seminary, and returned with his darling British soulmate to open a tiny church in his hometown.
He glanced at me with teary blue eyes. “Truly, this is a miracle. We can do so much with this generous gift. Add more to the food bank stores and perhaps even buy some toys for the Christmas toy drive.”
“All very worthy causes,” I said with a smile.
I liked Pete quite a bit. And Nigel. And this little white clapboard meeting house they’d redone.
The doors were bright blue and open to all, no matter their religion, color, or sexuality.
I’m not a big churchgoer, but I did come here for the big services as well as helping with the dinners they put on for the locals who were suffering from hard times.
He nodded and rubbed his very pointy chin in concentration. “You say you never saw this man before?”
“Nope, never. I’d remember.” Oh yes, a man that fine was hard to forget.
Pete sat on the edge of his desk while Nigel could be heard out in the nave rehearsing a song for the Sunday service. I think it might have been “Song of Joy,” but I wasn’t positive.
“Did he have any outstanding characteristics?”
“Well, he was about as tall as me, incredibly handsome, with brown curly hair, soft amber eyes, and wearing a coat that looked pretty swanky.”
“Hmm,” Pete hummed, his round face set as he tried to search his memory. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Perhaps he’s a transient. We do still have gas workers in the area.”
I shuffled from one foot to the other, the scent of beeswax and the sound of organ music making me feel guilty for not attending more often.
Katie came regularly when she was alive and would be quite displeased with me for not bringing Gilda.
Perhaps I would make an effort to do better in her memory if nothing else.
“Maybe, but he didn’t seem like a gas worker.
He seemed…” I floundered for the proper words.
“I don’t know. Not a common man, though.
I saw his hands. They were not like mine.
” I held up my mitts as an example. Short nails, cuts, stained skin from years of working with dirty oil.
The hands of a man who had never had a manicure in his life and probably never would.
“Whatever you do, work heartily. There is no shame in having hands roughened and hewn from good hard labor,” he softly reminded me.
I bobbed my head. “So, we have a mysterious man in the area who possibly is traveling with two infants, wears a long blue coat, and either drives an imported van or has perfected the art of teleportation.”
I chuckled at the wink the good pastor gave me. “Okay, when you put it like that…”
“No, no, I’m teasing. Surely this man has fallen on hard times if he’s visiting your winter-wear line. Perhaps he stole the coat, and the money was in the pockets?”
We both nixed the suggestion. If he were poor enough to steal a coat, would he give up the grand in a pocket?
Doubtful. Especially if he were traveling with twin babies.
I knew from experience infants—heck, kids from birth to possibly well past college—were expensive.
Giving away that kind of cash didn’t jibe.
We tossed around ideas for a few moments while Nigel continued to play. Each growing more and more odd as we went.
“Maybe he’s just camping in the woods.”
“Maybe he’s a hunter.”
“Maybe he’s a prospector.”
“Maybe he’s a hit man who needs itty-bitty mittens to keep his trigger finger warm,” I tossed out at the end. Pete gave me a look that said he highly doubted that scenario. “Okay, sorry, watching too many John Wick movies.”
That made him snicker. “Well, whatever the man’s story, all we can do is offer him kindness if or when we see him next.”
“Right, yes.” The alarm on my watch chimed. “I have to go get Gilda. She’s landed the role of Sophie in the junior high spring production of Mamma Mia.”
“Oh, we love that movie! Remind me when tickets go on sale, and I’ll pass it along to the congregation at the end of my sermons. Have to support the arts.”
“Thank you.”
We walked out of his cramped office to stand at the front door. The church vibrated with a soft hymn Nigel was now playing.
“Will we see you and Gilda on Sunday?” Pete asked as I shrugged into my work coat.
“Probably,” I replied due to guilt. Gilda enjoyed the songs and seeing some of her friends. I wasn’t really religious at all, but Katie’s voice still had the power to prod me into action even after all these years.
“Good! We miss you two.” Pete said and then opened it, shook my hand, and waved me off.