Page 15 of The Christmas Mittens
“No, it was the name of my late wife’s favorite comedian,” I confided over my cup of pale tea. “I’ve always been a fan of Ms. Radner as well, so picking her name for our new baby was an easy choice. We both hoped our Gilda would be just as generous and compassionate as her namesake, and so far she seems to be.”
“I can tell you are proud of her. She is a kindhearted, caring young woman.” He reached out to pat my knee. The tingles raced to my groin as tea trickled down the wrong pipe. I began coughing violently. Anders was at my side in a flash, patting my back, removing the hot cup from my hand, and generally fussingover me until the fit was over. “My goodness, that was quite the spell. Would you like some tissues?”
He was bent over, his hand resting between my shoulder blades. His lips—soft and pink—were mere inches from mine. Twisting slightly to look at him, I only needed to sit up a fraction of an inch to be able to taste his mouth. I bet it tasted like tea and ginger cookies. Lord, but I was hungry for cookies…
“I know this is forward, so please forgive me, but I just need to say that you have the most beautiful mouth I have ever seen,” he whispered. “If I’m reading things wrong between us, please—”
“No, no, not at all. You’re reading things right.” I wet my lips. He did the same.
“Mitchell.” He sighed. I had never heard my humdrum name said more beautifully before.
The kiss was inevitable. I longed for it. Needed it, like air or water…
Then, the sliding door opened. Anders took a step back and tripped over his dog. I began coughing again. Actually, I was choking on repressed lust more than plain coughing, to be frank.
“I think she ate too many mittens. She has a green bit of yarn hanging out of her butthole,” my child announced as she climbed back into the warmth.
Talk about a bucket of ice over your head.
***
Chloe patted the empty space next to her and a few of the other Woolverines in the fourth pew. Gilda and I wiggled in, sat, and picked up our hymnals.
“Where have you been?” Maggie asked, leaning around Chloe, who shushed her and returned to singing “All Creatures of our God and King” at the top of her lungs.
Franny was knitting away, humming a totally different hymn as she couldn’t make out what the rest of us were singing.
“I was making a delivery to Anders,” I replied in a hushed tone between stanzas. Gilda was belting it out, the little Broadway star, as I dipped my head to continue sharing the news. “He’s a very nice man with a small dog. No child. It’s his dog that he carries around on his bike so everyone can stop giving him dirty looks.”
All the knitter’s heads bobbed, even Chloe, who was singing and listening simultaneously.
“Oh, a dog. Well, that’s okay then. Dogs can be left alone for a little while. I left my Trixie alone for four hours every other day when I was working at the frozen yogurt stand out by the campgrounds,” Jess chimed in while her husband napped, chin on chest. “I’d always bring her some of that doggie ice cream home. I wish they’d reopen that shop. It did such good business, but then Edgar got lumbago.”
“No, no, it ain’t no Winnebago that fancy coat man drives,” Franny barked just as the hymn ended. All eyes craned our way. Pastor Pete gave us that mild scolding look that most men of the cloth deliver when their sheep aren’t paying attention.
I felt my face warm and fell into silence for a good five minutes as the pastor delivered the start of his sermon. It was all about the blessings of generosity, the heart of giving, and the impact of those gifts we gave of ourselves freely. Gilda smiled at me, her thoughts surely on her gift of a new sweater for Della. My mind wandered from the sermon to the man in the solar-powered van. What kind of life had Anders lived before hitting the road, and what brought him to America and to our little neck of the woods in particular?
As I ruminated on Anders and the two men in the dark suits—were they mafia or some other gangland types—someone tappedmy arm. I looked over to find Jess looking at me around Chloe yet again as Franny’s clicking needles could be heard.
“So what about the money?” she asked on the sly. Chloe’s lips flattened.
“What money?” I asked in a whisper. Priscilla Dooley, the mayor’s secretary, turned in the pew in front of us to deliver a dark look upon us. I did my best to ignore her. Most didn’t care for Priscilla much since she led a protest last year to have the main street businesses take down any Pride flags. Most of the shops stood firm, and the rainbow flags flew in June, much to Priscilla’s consternation. The old cow, as Gilda liked to call her.
“The donation money. Where does he get his money?” Jess asked. Her husband snorted in his sleep but didn’t wake, drool pooling on his tie as he napped. He was a rural postman, so he was up early six days a week. Sunday, he napped. Pastor Pete forgave him for his Sunday slumbers because he was doing the Lord’s work in bringing Social Security and pension checks.
“I don’t know. I think he might be rich but rich from what we’ve not discussed. His camper is really fancy—a Mercedes.”
Jess’s thin eyebrows rose. Chloe, who had been trying to be respectful of the preacher’s words, was now drawn into the conversation. Gilda had zoned out about five minutes ago and was on her phone chatting with her friend a few pews back.
“A Mercedes? Wow, that’s rich all right. I wonder if he’s on the run from some drug cartel,” Chloe ventured, which triggered my curious mind to begin cooking up more scenarios for the man who I nearly kissed. Ah, it had been so close. If not for Della with her yarn dingleberry, we would have smooched. A flare of heat pooled in my lower belly. I quickly yanked my thoughts from the ribald to the respectful. Thiswasa church after all.
“I hope not. That could be really dangerous. Remember when Allison onDays and Nights of Laguna Beachfound out that Robwas not only her husband’s long-lost twin but was on the run from that Simi Valley cartel?” Jess, who loved her soaps, asked.
“Wait.” I leaned up even more so much that my elbows were on my knees. “They have drug cartels in Simi Valley? I thought that was a little conservative town in the San Fernando Valley whose claim to fame was the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library?”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know that Rob was not Ron at all and that he had been sleeping with Allison for eight months while his twin brother Ron was suffering from amnesia and living with a woman on a coffee ranch in Costa Rica.”
“I’d love some coffee!” Franny announced with such volume that it bounced off Nigel’s bald pate way up at the front of the chancel, right by the altar. “Not too much sugar, though. Doc says my numbers are high.”
