Chapter 4 #2
His dark eyes flared. I felt rather bad for being so defensive, but I’d taken a lot of shit over the years for being a knitter and crocheter.
“Of course not. I think it’s amazing that you have that skill. My grandmother always made my brothers and me the thickest scarves and sweaters to keep us warm during our cold winters.”
“Okay then. Sorry to be so short. People tend to poke fun at men who knit.”
“People are fools,” he assured me with a warm glance that made me tingle from head to toe. “I’ve never held to the belief that men or women could only enjoy certain activities based on their gender. It’s nonsensical. You like to knit, and I enjoy making holiday eggs.”
That brought me up short. With a pair of little mittens in my hand, I stared at him openly. His tender smile broke into a full-blown grin that robbed me of breath. I’d said he was pretty before, but that was not at all accurate. This man was gorgeous.
“Uhm, I’m not sure I know what holiday eggs are.” I passed over the itty-bitty mittens, pink and purple, that he graciously accepted.
“Well, they are blown-out goose eggs that I then decorate for the holidays. My mother spends many hours every winter creating them to be passed out to others for the feast of St. Lucy. My brothers never quite caught the crafting bug like I did, so it would generally be her and me sitting in the library in front of the fire, working on the delicate creations. I have some with me. I would be willing to donate a few to your church for its upcoming holiday bazaar and fire engine fete.”
“They sound lovely. I’m sure Pastor Pete would be most appreciative of your donations of holiday eggs.
He’s been pretty flabbergasted by the monetary gifts you’ve left in the jar.
” I glanced at the front window and back at him.
Asking about the money, the baby, and what the heck he was all about was right on the tip of my tongue when the door opened with a ring of bells.
Larry from Auto Parts Express hustled in, cheeks red from the cold, eager for a chinwag and some hot coffee.
Which was something I was usually up for as Larry was pretty comical, but today I wished he had just dropped the box outside the door.
“It’s colder than a well digger’s ass today,” Larry announced as he sauntered up to the counter to place my part down beside my knitting bag. “Got any coffee ready?”
“Yes, of course. Let me get you a clean mug from the back.” I gave my new crush a long look and dipped behind the curtain, taking my tote bag with me.
I didn’t need to hear the bells ringing to know that he had left the building, but they rang out nonetheless.
With a sigh, I plucked a clean mug from a covered plastic tote on one of the cleaner shelves and stepped through the curtain to find Larry at the window, donation jar in one hand and a tight roll of hundreds in the other.
“That guy just dropped a thousand bucks into the jar!” He sounded gobsmacked, which was exactly how I had probably sounded the first time my Scandinavian Heartthrob had visited. “What’s he like some sort of fancy millionaire or something?”
I shrugged. I had no clue what he was other than he was beautiful, smelled divine, and camped out in the woods with a toothy baby while working on holiday eggs.
If anything, with all the new information I had gleaned, and it wasn’t much, it ramped up my curiosity even more.
I might just have to turn to the big guns of Grouse Falls information and gossip hotline: the ladies of the knitting club.
Seeking help was nothing to be ashamed of.
Every great detective had a sidekick. Adrian Monk had Sharona and Natalie.
Sherlock Holmes had Dr. Watson. Nero Wolfe had Archie Goodwin.
And Columbo had a basset hound called Dog.
So if I turned to six women with yarn fuzz in their hair and the skills of Poirot for ferreting out info on people, that was surely nothing to feel any chagrin over.
Every detective needs someone to discuss theories and evidence with.
My fellow knitters and crocheters were just my sounding board.
If Kojak could have Bobby Crocker, I could have the Woolverines.
***
The knitting group met at Franny’s shop at seven p.m. sharp.
And when the gals said seven sharp, they meant seven sharp.
Punctuality was right up there with tidy yarn balls for this group.
I arrived with six minutes to spare after picking up Gilda, taking her home, and ensuring she had a decent meal of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup and was working on homework.
Of course, she could stop doing homework the minute I left, but overall, she was a good kid who took pride in being in the honor society.
A landmark that I had never come close to during my school years.
If I brought home an A in anything other than shop and farm engine classes, my parents did a dance in the street.
“Evening, Mitchell,” the six called out in unison as I dropped my tote beside my usual seat by the stove. The six gals were already busy, needles clacking, as the mad rush to finish holiday projects and last-minute donations for the outerwear drive was in full swing.
Maggie, Lorna, Franny, Chloe, Meredith, and Jessica.
All lovely ladies, ranging in age from mid-thirties—Chloe and Jess—all the way to early seventies.
I made number seven. To say I stuck out like a sore thumb wouldn’t be a falsehood, but the women had always been accepting of a rooster in their henhouse.
Possibly they were even more welcoming to me as I had lost my wife and was left with a young child.
Gilda had more sweaters and crocheted stuffed animals than any child should.
The Woolverines had become adopted aunts and grandmothers to my daughter.
“Evening, all,” I said as I dug into my bag to remove my Christmas gift sweater for Gilda. It was coming along nicely, even if I did have a few issues early on with the fish that swam across the sea of light blue. “It’s been a week.”
They all nodded, heads bobbing as needles clacked in time to the holiday music playing through the shop radio behind the register.
The store was closed now, obviously, but the spirit of Christmas was strong.
Cheery bolts of fabric lined one wall and glitter and sequins by the bushel lined another.
Skeins of yarn in every color of the rainbow sat along the back wall and shelves and cabinets packed tight with books, floss, and ribbons had been crammed into every available foot.
In some parts of the shop, you had to turn sideways to pass.
The smell of cinnamon and pine wafted upward from a wax warmer by the coffee pot behind the till.
“How’s Gilda?” Franny asked. The scarf she was working on was flowing along nicely.
“She’s fine now. A few nights ago we had an unexpected visitor.” I settled in with a needlepoint pillow behind my lower back for support. The women all glanced up from their rows questioningly. How do I phrase this delicately? “Her monthly friend arrived for its first visit.”
All six women said “Ah” in understanding.
“The poor thing. Did she have any difficulty?” Franny asked, her scarf lying on her lap for a moment as a log popped in the wood stove in the corner.
“No, some cramping but nothing too bad. We had a little talk, then she went back to bed,” I explained, taking my yarn up to pick up at the end of the row. “She was fully prepared for the onset, but I assumed, stupidly I guess, that we’d have more time. I had to run out for supplies.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Mitchell,” Meredith said with kindness. “My husband made many a run for me and my two girls when they were teens.”
Everyone nodded along with that statement.
“Seems to me that girls are starting younger and younger. I didn’t get a visit from Aunt Flow until I was sixteen,” Franny announced, which then kicked off a discussion about changing times, growth hormones in milk, and which remedies for cramps worked the best: pain relievers, a heating pad, and chocolate, according to the six women clicking and clacking away.
I made a mental note to buy everything Gilda may need from here on out.
I didn’t feel uncomfortable as we discussed something that was perfectly normal for half the population.
I’d never been one of those delicate, flowery men who can’t abide even hearing about menstruation.
If marriage taught you anything, it was that sharing bodily functions was all part and parcel.
Granted, it had been a while since I’d shared anything bodily with anyone, but if I had a choice, I would love to share my body with my sexy Prada Man.
Which shook me enough that I dropped a stitch as my mind wandered to places it had not ventured since Justin Timberlake’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling” was popping.
“So, not to sidetrack the discussion of Susan Fillmore’s latest conquest, but has anyone laid eyes on that good-looking guy in the dark blue coat?” I tossed out as nonchalantly as could be.
The six of them exploded into rapid-fire conversation about him—whatever his name was—and where he had been spotted over the past few days. At the grocery mart, at the library, at the Suds-N-Soap laundromat, and riding a bike out on one of the old logging roads in the state game lands.
“Did the bike have a baby seat?” I asked and got a sound shake of the head from Chloe, whose boyfriend Bert had been in the woods doe hunting.
“Bert said it was just some sort of fancy mountain bike. He didn’t mention anything about a baby seat.
Why do you ask?” Chloe enquired so I found myself instantly on the spot.
I hated to tell tales about the man behind his back.
If he did need assistance from the church, which I was beginning to think was not the case because Prada coat, fancy mountain bike, and generous cash donations, I shouldn’t be gossiping about someone in need.
That seemed tacky. But on the other hand, how could I get information from this buzzing nest of busy bees if I didn’t offer some pollen?
Or something like that. I was terrible at analogies.
“Someone said they saw him strolling down Main Street with a baby stroller,” Maggie chimed in. Franny set her knitting aside to make more coffee. “Of course the child was wrapped up tight and someone couldn’t see the baby. Do we think the baby is ugly?”
“Margaret!” We all chided at once. The retired tax collector blushed ten shades of red. “Well, it could be. I’ve seen some truly horrible-looking babies.”
“And this is why people always mailed in their taxes instead of paying them at the courthouse,” Franny whispered to the side.
I smirked at the corrections from all in the circle, saying no baby was ugly.
Maggie argued her point until I slipped in to calm things down before we had a knitter’s battle breaking out.
No one wanted irate women with sharp needles going at each other.
“I’m sure the baby is adorable. Its father is delectable,” I rushed to say.
The bickering stalled as all eyes flew to me.
Shit. I’d not meant to drop that kind of nugget.
These gals were romance prospectors big time.
Each and every one would stand at the creek of love for days, panning for little flecks of gold amid the dirt.
Gold being any kind of attraction from one person to another.
“I meant to say that he’s quite attractive in the way that European men are attractive. ”
“So, he’s attractive,” Jessica clarified. I nodded.
“Very,” I added and pressed my lips together to keep anything else from bubbling out.
“Well, if this man has a baby and is camping out there all alone, perhaps someone should go out to the campgrounds to check on the infant. What if it’s too cold and he can’t afford propane for heat?
Is he in a camper? A tent? What kind of facilities are there for bathing the child and washing its clothes?
” Meredith asked and got a wave of worry from the others.
I tried to wedge a word in to support the guy. I mean, he was wearing Prada.
Was he or did he steal it?
We are not going there again. He had money. End of that, thank you, me. Also, he was dropping cash like a horny goat at a…goat show. Ugh. That was a terrible comparison. Suddenly, and quite scarily, they all looked at me.
“What?” I asked, lowering the sweater for Gilda to my lap.
“You should go out and check,” Franny said and rapped me with her knitting needles right on the kneecap.
“Me?! Why me?” That seemed like quite an intrusion into someone’s personal life.
“There are no bees flying around this time of year,” Franny fired back.
“I…what?” I asked, but the others dove into the discussion, saving me from trying to decipher Franny’s reply.
To my credit, I did put up a valiant battle, but by the time we were all heading home, I’d somehow been elected—forced seemed a better word to me, but the knitting club felt elected was the proper terminology—to venture out to Kerry Run to do a wellness check on a toothy baby who ate mittens.
How I got wrangled into these things, I did not know. Katie had always said I was a pushover when it came to kids, dogs, and pretty faces. Guess she was right. She generally had been.