Chapter 2 #2
Inside my Subaru, I stared at the tall steeple, illuminated from the ground with two spotlights.
A million stars shone in the inky darkness behind the spire.
If Katie were looking down on us from one of those bright points of light, I hoped she felt that I was doing a good job of parenting our little girl.
My phone buzzed, making me jump. Snickering at myself, I checked the incoming text.
It was Gilda. I was five minutes late. Oh yes, she was Katie’s daughter.
I replied I was on my way and left the church, the donation, and the striking mystery man behind.
There was homework to help with and a tuna noodle casserole to create.
***
After scraping the burned-on noodles off the side of the casserole pan, I filled it with hot soapy water to soak overnight.
Gilda was in her room, homework completed, switching back and forth between belting out “Honey, Honey” at the top of her powerful lungs or stomping about to a popular song from a new animated movie about K-pop vampires.
I tended to be more of a ’60s and ’70s music fan, so as I wiped the kitchen counters one final time, I tried to block out the pop song shaking the dust from the tops of the picture frames and focus on the ABBA tune playing instead.
Not that I disliked K-pop, it had its merits but listening to the same song on a loop became tiresome after a bit.
When the tiny kitchen was tidy, I was ready to settle down and watch some TV.
After I poured myself a cup of coffee, I made my way to the sofa via a short trip down the hall to knock on my daughter’s door.
Instantly, the volume died down. She was a good kid.
She knew I enjoyed my shows on Motor Trend TV as well as the old detective shows as I unwound from life.
“Okay!” she shouted, and the sound of five boys singing in unison halted.
She had her headphones on now and would probably spend the next hour or two either chatting with her friends in the drama club, reading the latest book for a report due in Pre-AP English at the end of the month, or if she was feeling cuddly, she would join me to watch Kojak, The Rockford Files, or Simon & Simon, and make fun of the clothes and hair the entire time.
Or lack of hair in the case of Telly Savalas.
I flopped onto our worn sofa, kicked my socked feet up to the coffee table, and took a moment of quiet to reflect on the day.
This brought my thoughts to the mystery man in the dark blue coat.
Where had he come from? Where had he gone?
Would he show up again? Was there any way I could aid him?
Obviously, he was taking care of little ones and needed mittens.
But—and this was a big but—if he had a thousand bucks to drop into a donation jar, why not just buy his twins mittens?
His coat was rather plush-looking and incredibly well-cut.
The man had me curious, that was for sure.
He was a paradox. Taking mittens from a line for the needy then dropping a grand into the jar.
Maybe he was a thief who had purloined that plush coat and found the wad of cash in it, and when the guilt over stealing got to him, he left the money for those less fortunate than him.
But was he in need or was he not? I felt like a hound chasing its tail.
“All right, enough.” I rubbed my brow and took a sip of coffee.
The man in the blue coat was an enigma for sure.
And I loved trying to solve whodunits before the cops, the little old lady in Cabot Cove, or the rumpled lieutenant with stubby cigars wearing wrinkled trench coats.
How did Columbo manage to wear that coat in LA all the time, anyway?
It had to be like having a sauna on your back.
“This is not an episode of The Streets of San Francisco, and you are not Michael Douglas.”
Nodding at my firm handling of myself, I pushed the man in the blue coat aside and pulled up a show about some garage in Texas that was rebuilding a car for a man with way more money than I would ever have.
A twinge of envy bit at me, but I nudged that aside as well.
My life was not bad at all. I’d never be rich, or even well off, but I had Gilda and a home that was partially paid off.
That was more than many people, even here in our little county, had.
So what if I could never afford to have a classic GTO redone by famous mechanics?
“Daddy, are you drooling over cars again?” Gilda asked, flopping down beside me.
“Maybe,” I confessed, lifting my arm so she could curl up beside me.
Her jammies were soft flannel with tiny stars she was nearly too big for, but she held onto them.
Perhaps she was scared of letting go of her youth to enter teendom.
She would never say that, of course, but maybe she was leery of the things she was facing as she matured.
“Did you want to knit a bit and watch an old cop show?”
“Yeah, that would be cool. I want to make a scarf for the line this year.” She was quite a good little knitter.
So we dug into our totes, removed our needles and some brightly colored yarn, and began working on mittens and a purple matching scarf while we poked fun at Starsky and Hutch.
Who needed millions, fancy cars, or enigmatic men with curls begging to be touched?
Ugh. There he was again. I shoved him to the back of my mind once more and pointed out a dropped stitch in Gilda’s scarf. Now this was what I needed to focus on. Begone and good riddance, Blue Coat Man! Take your auburn curls and your unfathomable aura and hit the bricks.