Page 13 of The Christmas Mittens
“Oh shit,” I gasped while easing my hand out of my pants. Ugh, what a mess. I kicked the covers off, tugged a dirty shirt out of my hamper, and wiped off my hand. I fished some clean clothes out of the laundry basket on the dresser—Katie would have had a cow if she saw me working out of a basket instead of putting the clean wash away—and tiptoed to the door. Nothing was stirring, so I snuck like a thief into the bathroom to wash my joggers in the sink. I showered, rubbing some thickening shampoo into my hair as my thoughts drifted to the imagery of Anders sucking me off. My cock started to fatten up again at the mere remembrance, so I quickly made a leap to some other mundane worry, and within seconds, my dick was flaccid again. Nothing takes the starch out of your collar like thinking about the sewage bill.
As I washed, I mulled over the fact that I’d gotten so hot so fast over just the thought of being with Anders. Yes, he was handsome and charming and well-dressed, but I’d known him less than a week. That was ludicrous to get so hard over a guy whom I barely knew anything about. Right? Yes, he was not a baby-ignoring bastard. That we now knew. We being me. I’d be sharing that information at church later today. Besides that, I knew little to nothing about him other than he had a fancy mountain bike and wore Prada. Oh, and his purebred dog had cashmere blankies. So he was wealthy. His donations surely pointed to him being rich or richer than anyone in Grouse Falls. So why him? What was it about the man that had me creaming my joggers in less than a minute over the thought of his mouth on me?
Rinsing off the lather, I cranked off the taps, dried myself, and got dressed. I’d have a few hours to work on Gilda’s sweater while I drank coffee and tried to figure out what the hell was up with my cock and my head and my chest because every time I thought of Anders, my heart did a little dance. I’d not been this enamored of someone since I’d laid eyes on Katie.
It was crazy. Simply mad. And yet I couldn’t stop the goofy smile that pulled at my lips just recalling how sweet and gallant Anders had been with Gilda. Bowing over her hand like some kind of fairy-tale prince. No wonder she had talked about him all night. Oh, and of course, Della. They’d both made huge impacts on her in a very short time. Just as he had with me.
I heard the squeak of her bedroom door. I jammed my tote of knitting, which held her nearly completed sweater, into the skinny broom closet. It would be safe there. The only time that girl picked up a broom was when I nagged her for half an hour. Most times I just swept the floor myself. It was faster and far less irritating.
“Morning,” I called as she shuffled into the kitchen looking like she’d just crawled out from under a rock. Her hair was knotted, and her face was crinkled with pillow marks. I did notice a new pimple on her chin but did not comment. No way was I remarking on that. We’d just gotten over the monthly gaffe. I was turning a blind eye to the red spot. Nope. Not gonna do it, as Dana Carvey used to say while impersonating a past president. “You’re up early.”
“Yeah, I want to get Della’s sweater done before church. If we’re going?” She pulled the fridge open to examine the contents.
“I think so. Pastor Pete and I have seen each other daily this week, and he has graciously made mention of our absence several times.” I stood with my back resting against the broom closet just in case she had a sudden urge to sweep the floor. Yeah right. “I’m not really keen on it, but I know your mother would like you to attend on occasion so that when you’re old enough, you can make up your own mind about religion.”
She pulled out a carton of orange juice before bumping the door closed with her hip. Her pajamas were still wound around her calves. Such a rumpled little gremlin she was in the morning. So reminiscent of her mom.
“I’m old enough already. I can take it or leave it. I mean, if the pastor is cool like Pastor Pete, then it’s fine but those other hateful church leaders are terrible. I’d rather spread love than hate.” She went to her toes to pull down a juice glass. I was so darn proud of her. She was a clever young woman who knew her own mind.
“I tend to agree with the take it or leave it, but…”
“I know. Honoring Mom’s wishes. It’s okay.” She turned to face me and took a sip that made her pucker. I didn’t buy sweetened drinks. Her last dental appointment had been dismal, to say the least. “That is so sour.”
“It’s not that bad,” I countered with a smile. Such a little theater queen.
“Would you help me with the sweater so we can maybe drop it off before church? I don’t want Della to be cold,” she wheedled like the champion wheedler that she was. Not that she had to coax me all that much. I was always happy to sit and knit with my baby girl.
“Sure. Let’s eat, then you can shower, and we’ll get to work on that sweater for Della.” I was more than happy to drive out to find Anders’ campsite. I hoped it was a decent one. We’d gotten about seven inches of snow last night, so the thought of him curled up in a flimsy tent was upsetting.
The man wears Prada, rides a Pike Climber bike, and stuffs hundreds into a mason jar.
Okay, right, he did. And I may have done some online searching last night to locate the type of bike Anders rode. It was one of the most expensive brands money could buy, coming in at fifteen thousand dollars. Yes. Fifteen thousand dollars. For a bike. I’d stared at the price tag for a good ten minutes. So yeah, fine, he was probably not sleeping in a box beneath an underpass. Not that we had any underpasses in this county.
“Cool.” She gave me a sleepy smile and went off to shower. I hurried to hide her sweater in my bedroom closet and then set about making Sunday breakfast. We had French toast with syrup and butter, juice, and coffee for me. Gilda wasn’t into coffee at all. Said it tasted like rust. After the dishes were washed, and with a few hours to spare, we sat on the sofa and got to work. The sun was out and bright. Bluejays scolded the chickadees coming to the little feeder outside the bow window. We’d turned on a movie as we worked diligently on Della’s pretty red sweater. By the time ten rolled around, the sweater was done. I’d not offered to help, but Gilda had insisted I do so, which sped things up tremendously. We’d used a simple garter stitch for the body asGilda was not as advanced as I was, and it had turned out quite well.
“Hopefully, she won’t eat it like she does her mittens,” I said while holding the sweater up in the morning sunshine.
“Seriously. She must poop a rainbow,” Gilda joked and plucked the gift from my hand. “I’m going to change into something nice for church. Why don’t you clean the car off?” I had to chuckle. “What?”
“You sounded so much like your mother,” I replied. She smiled at me in that sweet way she always did when I mentioned how similar she and Katie were. “You’ll make someone a fine wife someday.”
“Gah, please, I’m never getting married. It’s such an antiquated and patriarchal institution.” With that, she bounced off with a doggie sweater. I sat there on the couch, staring. I’d not found marriage to be antiquated at all. I rather loved it. I always felt the most complete when I was in love. Making love to someone whom I had deep feelings for was my jam. One-night stands and indiscriminate hookups had never appealed to me. I needed that connection of one heart bound to another to truly feel passion. Call me silly or old-fashioned but two souls bound as one just did it for me.
However, my outspoken daughter was right. The car did need to be cleaned off. So out into the cold I went with a broom and a bounce in my step. I was going to see Anders again. That really should not have stirred me as much as it did, but it did. I hurried to pull on a clean sweater and black jeans and tossed a small roast into my old crockpot. Sunday dinner was a tradition here and one that I was pretty firm about. During the week, we sometimes could only do sandwiches or takeout while Gilda did homework after her extracurriculars. It wasn’t ideal but that was life when you had a busy and popular soon-to-be teen in the house. So Sunday was a big meal day where we sat down andate, talked, and just spent time together before she would run off to one of her friends’ houses. How I wished she were still six. All her time when not in school was spent with her dad. Now I shared her with school plays, sports in the spring, her friends, and probably soon a boy or girl who would catch her eye. My days of having her all to myself were dwindling…
“Enough. No sad thoughts on such a sunny day,” I scolded myself as I salted the roast and placed the lid on the pot.
While I swept the car and shoveled the paths, I whistled a tune that a male cardinal sitting up in a snowy pine enjoyed, for he called back to me a few times. Yes, it was going to be a fine morning even if I did have to sit in church for an hour.
When Gilda was ready, we set off. She looked quite pretty in a wintry skirt and sweater with fluffy boots. She’d applied some lip gloss and some sort of cover-up on her pimple. Her hair was curled at the ends, and she smelled of lemon verbena. On her lap rested a red dog sweater. She held it as if it were a crystal goblet.
The roads had been plowed and salted, so with the help of the sun, most of the thoroughfares were fine to drive on. A few of the backroads were a little dicey in the shady spots, but overall, the trip to the campgrounds was uneventful.
“Why don’t we ever go camping?” Gilda asked as we pulled off the road into the campgrounds.
“I’m not a fan. I mean, if we lived in Manhattan or LA and never saw trees, creeks, or forests, then sure, but we just have to step outside and see all of that in our own yard.”
“Hmm, well, I guess that’s true. Tim Brittans goes camping all the time with his family. He asked me to come during spring break since they were heading to the Adirondacks of New York.”
