Page 7 of The Christmas Mittens
“Oh, I see. You must live in an apartment then. They have some nice ones over at Pinnacle Place Complex.”
I was being incredibly nosy, I knew that, and I shouldn’t be. His life and his story were his to tell or keep to himself. If he had recently moved into the low-income housing complex and was strapped for cash, then I should ease off. I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, but I was so damn curious. Then again, he had left thousands of dollars for the church over the past few days, so would he be living in a low-income apartment? Gah. The mystery surrounding this man was making me twitchy. I was not doing well with my investigation. Ellery Queen would be ashamed of my questioning technique.
He took a step closer. I could smell his cologne now. It was deep woods, thick with spice and something earthy. My dick reacted instantly. That was something that hadn’t happened since I buried Katie. I wiggled behind the counter to hide my erection.
“No, I don’t live there.” His reply was short but not sharp. He placed his coat on the counter as he and I conversed. The man was not jumpy or suspicious in the least. “I am spending time in the woodlands. There’s a small camping area called—”
“Kerry Run Kampground. I know it well. So you’re camping in December?” That seemed odd to me, but hey, people do all kinds of crazy things. If he had a warm place for him and his baby, who was I to judge? Hard times came for us all.
He nodded. “Mm, yes, for a while. I like it here. The people are very kind, and I’m the only one at the camping grounds. I think it’s going to snow soon. I heard snow geese flying overhead, and they usually herald snow.”
“Oh wow, I didn’t know that.” He smiled sweetly as he leaned an elbow on the rough wooden counter. My sight darted down to the counter to make sure he didn’t put his coat or his elbow into a puddle of grease, oil, or old coffee. That was when Ispotted the nametag in the collar of his coat. Prada, it said. My brain stalled much like the Tecumseh I had been working on just a few minutes ago. Okay, so this man with his toothy baby was camping out at Kerry Run in December while wearing Prada coats and dropping hundred-dollar bills like they were breadcrumbs at the park. What the hell was going on here? “Let me go dig around in my bag. Be right back.”
I surreptitiously—I hoped—locked the register as I should do all the time when I’m in the back but never do because this was small-town USA and all that. Now I was worried that Prada Coat Man was possibly an international thief.
With a toothy baby?
Oh right. Well, maybe he stole the baby!
And brought it to Bung Lick, Pennsylvania? Come on, Mitchell, get a grip. There’s a story here, and you need to keep a cool head and examine the facts. Like Columbo, but without the nasty stogie.
Right. I was right. I needed to rein in my imagination and ferret out the facts. Throwing Prada Coat Hunk a smile before I slipped through the raggedy curtain, I hurried to grab my tote bag and darted back to the storeroom where I’d left him standing, reading one of my dusty business cards.
“Mitchell Baxter,” he read my name as he peeked at me through stupidly long lashes. God above, he was pretty. I liked the little lilt his accent added to my humdrum name. “You own this shop?”
“I do, yes. It’s been in my family for three generations.” I plopped my overflowing cloth bag on the counter beside his coat. His Prada coat. What the ever-loving hell was a man who wore Prada doing in my depressing little village? “I think I have a few left at the bottom from what I made last year.” I glanced at him on the sly. He was slipping my card into his back pocket. I hurried to get my attention back on my yarn bag. “There aren’t alot of babies around here, so I usually only make a few. Most of the people who need outerwear seem to claim bigger sizes. Does your baby need more? I can knit up a few pairs of them in a couple of hours.”
His expression shifted from placid to amused. “My baby? Well, I suppose she would consider herself to be my child. I certainly spoil her like one. Thank you. She gets very cold quite easily.” That was definitely a cryptic reply. Of course the child thought she was his. And while it was nice to hear that he spoiled the infant, I wasn’t sure—“It’s amazing that you knit.”
My gaze flew from the tiny yellow mittens I’d just dug out to him. “Are you saying that men shouldn’t knit?”
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.
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