Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 03 - Valentined (2 page)

When she arrived at her assigned table in the approximate
center of the large dining hall, she saw that her three friends were already seated. 
She scooted her walker into position beside her chair, just as her tablemates
had parked theirs.  The only exception was Fay on the far side of the table who
used a motorized wheelchair.  One of the kitchen workers always made sure that
the chair in Fay’s place was removed so Fay could drive her power vehicle
directly to her spot at the table.  Essie parked her walker abruptly, slammed
on the handbrake, and eased into her chair. 

“Essie,” said the tall, grey-haired woman to her right,
“you’re late!  So unlike you.”

“Yes,” agreed the lively brunette to her left, “you’re
usually here before us!  Always so impatient to eat!”

“Oh, jiggle jingles, Marjorie!” replied Essie to her
critical friend. “I’m no more interested in eating than anyone else.”  And, of
course, she realized that most residents were very interested in eating.

“Maybe not,” said the other woman, “but you usually are here
first!”

“I like to be on time, Opal,” replied Essie to her other
companion.  “It’s just one of my habits.”

“So,” said Marjorie with curiosity, “why are you late
today?  I think I saw you talking to Hubert Darby out in the lobby when I got
in line.  Don’t tell me he’s romancing you again?”

“It is closing in on Valentine’s Day,” noted Opal to
Marjorie.  “Hubert is notoriously romantic.  And we all know what a crush he
has on Essie… .”

“Stop it, Opal,” interjected Essie.  “Hubert and I were just
making polite conversation.”

“That’s where it starts,” said Marjorie with a sly shake of
her shoulders.  Her sparkling brown curls belied her age which was only
evidenced by her facial wrinkles. 
Marjorie is obviously enjoying this
,
thought Essie.  Whenever Marjorie puffed out her sweater as she was doing now,
Essie knew that Marjorie was no doubt reliving some of her past youthful follies.

“Not every conversation between a man and a woman is
destined to lead to romance, Marjorie,” said Essie with finality.

“Maybe not for you,” agreed Marjorie, “but I view such
conversations as rife with possibilities.”  She flipped her hands in the air,
tossing her curls up in the process.  Essie huffed.

“We can probably present this situation to our upcoming
guest speaker,” observed Opal, maintaining her distance.  Unlike Marjorie, Opal
never had a hair out of place on her neatly coifed grey head.  She was always
well groomed and totally inconspicuous, just as she had been in her career as
an administrative assistant to one of the top lawyers in Reardon. 

“Guest speaker?” asked Essie, happy to change the subject.

“Yes,” said Opal, nodding.  “You may have noticed the
signs.  Some gentleman named ‘Dr. Love.’”  Opal raised her eyebrows
dramatically.  “It appears that he’s an anthropologist who has studied the
history of romantic love.  He’s scheduled to speak here in a few days.”

“Oh, yes!” said an excited Marjorie.  “On Valentine’s Day! 
How appropriate!”

“Boiled bodkins,” said Essie.  “Not something that interests
me in the slightest.  Or apparently Fay either.”  She glanced across the table
at the fourth member of the group who had nodded off in her wheelchair.  “Was
it something we said, Fay?”  When her name was mentioned, the plump little lady
awakened abruptly and gave a puzzled smile to all three of her tablemates. 

At that point, Santos arrived at the table with his pad. 
The ladies quickly picked up the menus placed on their plates and glanced down
at the few entree selections for the luncheon meal. 

“Ladies need more time to make decision?” he asked.  “Santos
can return.”  He started to turn, but Essie grabbed his jacket. 

“No, Santos,” she said to the young Hispanic waiter, “we’re
ready.  Aren’t we, ladies?”

As each woman rattled off her choice of items from the menu,
Santos busily jotted down their preferences on his pad.  When he finished, he
turned to leave.

“Santos,” said Essie, pulling him back.  “I saw you headed
down my hallway this morning with a food tray.  Is someone sick down there?  I
think I know everyone in my hall and I wasn’t aware that anyone there was
ill.”  She smiled sweetly, waiting for Santos to respond.

“Not sure, Miss Essie,” he said, furrowing his brow and
biting his lower lip.  “Can’t remember.  I take meals to so many residents. 
Sorry.”  With that, he turned away and retreated into the kitchen. 

“How strange!” said Essie.  “I can’t believe Santos wouldn’t
remember whom he delivered breakfast to so quickly.  He’s usually so sharp.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to tell you, Essie,” said Marjorie,
poking her finger into Essie’s shoulder.  “You are a bit of a busybody.”

“Me!” replied Essie.  “If anyone should win an award for gossip-monger
of the year, Marjorie, it should be…”

“Stop it, you two!” cried Opal, gesturing firmly for her
friends to cease their bickering.  Fay mumbled in her sleep, raising an eyelid
at the increased noise level.  “See,” continued Opal, “you woke Fay up!”

Fay shook herself and looked around.  She peered down at her
empty plate, and seeing that it contained no food, she slowly drifted off to
sleep again. 

“That’s neither here nor there,” continued Essie.

“It’s actually here, Essie,” snapped Marjorie.  “Fay is at
our table.  She is about as ‘here’ as anyone can get, besides the three of us.”

“You know what I mean, Marjorie!  Anyway, that’s not what I
wanted to tell you all.  I actually have something I want to show you.”

“Show us?” asked Opal with a deep intake of breath.  She
peered down her long, aquiline nose at Essie, then quickly over at Marjorie,
almost as if daring her to interrupt.

“Yes,” replied Essie, as Marjorie pouted with her trademark
shoulder shake.  “I received a valentine in the mail this morning.”

“Oh, how nice!” exclaimed Opal.  “From one of your
children?”

“I wish,” said Essie, scowling.  Her shoulders slumped and
she stared at her plate in renewed contemplation of her dilemma.  Should she
show the card to her friends?  She knew that the minute they saw it, they’d
begin to imagine some major romantic tryst between her and this unknown
gentleman.  On the other hand, without their input it would be unlikely that
she’d ever figure out who had sent the card.  Truly, her three friends had helped
her solve other mysteries in the past and she had faith that their assistance
would be key in deciphering this one.  She leaned over to the seat on her
walker and lifted it.  Reaching inside, she drew out the large envelope on top.

“I got this in the mail this morning,” she announced.  She
removed the valentine from the envelope and handed it to Opal. 

“My goodness, Essie,” said Opal, “this is a beautiful
valentine.  I’ve never seen such an elaborate card!”

“That’s what I thought,” agreed Essie.

“Let me see it!” demanded Marjorie, reaching across the
table in an attempt to grab the card from Opal.

“Wait a minute,” said Opal, shoving away Marjorie’s hands as
she opened the card.  “It’s signed ‘your secret admirer.”

“I know,” said Essie.

“You have a secret admirer, Essie!” exclaimed Marjorie.  “I
want to see it!”  She reached for the card again, and this time Opal allowed
her tablemate to have the card.  Marjorie examined the card, both outside and
inside, ooing and awing at all of its parts.

“Who do you think sent it, Essie?” asked Opal.

“I wish I knew,” responded Essie.

“Hubert?” blurted Marjorie. 

“No,” said Essie.  “It can’t be him.”

“Why not?” asked Opal.  “You know he has a crush on you.”

“There must be other men here at Happy Haven, Essie,” noted
Marjorie, “that like you.  Any one of them could have sent this to you.”  She
continued to stare at the card, touching it almost reverently.

“It isn’t anyone at Happy Haven,” Essie said emphatically. 
“In fact, it isn’t anyone in Reardon.”  She turned over the envelope on her
plate and handed it to Opal.  “Check out the return address and the postmark.”

“Boston, Massachusetts,” Opal read from the envelope.

“Right,” said Essie. 

“Who do you know in Boston?” asked Marjorie, her eyes
flashing with excitement.

“No one,” replied Essie, slapping her palms firmly on the
table.  “That’s the mystery.  No one.  I don’t know a soul in Boston.  So who
could have sent this to me?”

“Now, Essie,” said Opal, grabbing the envelope from
Marjorie, and then examining it as if it were one of the crown jewels.  “You
probably do know who this person is; you’ve just forgotten that you know him.”

“Right!” agreed Marjorie.  “Maybe it’s an old college beau! 
He’s loved you for years and now is just making contact with you after all these
years because…because…I know!  His wife just died and he wants to get back
together with you!”  She clasped her hands together and almost swayed as if to
some romantic tune that only she could hear.

“So why didn’t he sign his name?” asked Essie.

At that moment, Santos returned to their table with their
four meals balanced expertly in his outstretched arms.  He carefully placed
each at the appropriate place and then turned to go.  Just then, he glanced
down and saw the elegant, flowery valentine in the center of the table.

“What beautiful valentine!” he cried.  “For you, Miss
Essie?”

“It’s from her secret admirer!” said Marjorie.

“Marjorie!” Essie scolded.  “That was supposed to be a
secret.”

“No worry, Miss Essie,” said Santos.  “Santos can keep
secret.  I no tell anyone you have secret admirer.”

“I know you won’t, Santos,” said Essie, looking pointedly
into his eyes.  “You’re quite good at keeping secrets.” 

The young man blushed and mumbled something about the
kitchen and then he quickly headed out.

“You shouldn’t have mentioned this to Santos, Marjorie!”
said Essie.

“Oh, Essie,” Marjorie replied flippantly.  “He won’t say
anything.  He probably won’t even remember he heard about it.”

“Even so,” said Essie.   “I’d like to keep this quiet.”

“We understand, Essie,” agreed Opal.  She nodded politely to
Essie while giving Marjorie one of her stern looks.

“Personally,” said Marjorie, ignoring Opal.  “If I had a
secret admirer—no matter where he lived—I’d shout it to the world!”

Chapter Three

“There is always some madness in
love.  But there is also always some reason in madness.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche

Essie had returned to her apartment.  She was no wiser about
the identity of her secret admirer, even though her friends all had numerous
ideas—most of them frivolous—about who the person might be.  She was peeved. 
As she rolled into her small living room, she headed immediately for her tiny
bathroom where she performed her post-meal ritual of potty, purifying, and
primping.  That is, she first relieved her bladder which was always full and
seemed to require constant attention.  Her daughters were forever after her to
wear those disgusting adult diapers, but Essie had too much pride, and as long
as she could move, she would go to the bathroom on her own.  After this, she
always washed her hands religiously with the hottest water possible to prevent
the spread of germs.  Her purifying routine.  Then, finally, after the
necessities were complete, she indulged in a few minutes of face-fixing.  That
meant a bit of hair fluffing, cheek squeezing, and maybe the addition of a bit
of lipstick.  That was all she ever indulged in.  Of course, she knew many
women at Happy Haven who did much more to maintain—rather enhance—their
appearance, but Essie was not particularly vain and she firmly believed that
her best feature was her gleaming smile which she exhibited freely to almost
everyone.  Indeed, her late husband John had never seemed to be upset with her
minimal use of make-up and that was all that mattered to Essie.

She looked in the tiny mirror in her bathroom and squeezed
her cheeks with her fingertips.  A rosy glow quickly bloomed on her face. 
Not
so bad
, she thought.  A friendly face with nice brown eyes encircled in her
glasses and also by a ring of sparkling, snow white curls.  She moved her lips
around, puckering them, frowning, giving the mirror various types of smiles. 
You
have a secret admirer
, she said to herself in the glass.  She tipped her
head to the side flirtatiously, pulling off her glasses seductively. 
Oh,
bungling burglars, Essie Cobb!  You sound like some teenage school girl!  Are
you going to let a silly greeting card get you in a tizzy like this?
  She
grimaced at her blurry reflection, the image seeming to provide her answer.  
She shoved her glasses back on over her ears and headed her walker out of her
bathroom and into her little main room.

Essie rolled her walker over to her favorite armchair, a big
paisley recliner.  She slid easily into the soft cushion, leaving her walker
nearby.  Placing the footrest up, she was now in her favorite spot.  From here
she could reach anything on her desk with her right hand and anything on her
end table with her left hand.  Pulling her walker closer, she lifted the lid of
the seat and pulled out the secret admirer card.  She leaned back and began to
contemplate the mysterious piece of mail.  For many minutes, she just stared at
the envelope.  Then, she removed the card inside and did the same for the
greeting card, staring at it for a long time.  She tried to describe the
envelope and the card to herself. 

First, the envelope. 
As greeting card envelopes go
,
she thought,
this one is fairly distinctive
.  The envelope was not plain
white like most envelopes; it was a cream, or more a yellowish color.  The
paper was not the typical typewriter paper quality envelope that most of her
bills came in.  The paper that this envelope was made from was thick; she could
see the weave in it almost as it it were closer to being cloth than paper. 
Very
beautiful
.  Not only that, the inside of the envelope was lined with a gold
foil, providing an extra layer of protection for the card inside.  Essie
thought that given how elaborate the card itself was, it was probably a good
idea that the envelope was designed to be comparable in quality to the card. 
She also examined the back flap of the envelope.  It was a typical gummed
closing.  She couldn’t tell if the sender had actually licked the envelope or
moistened it with a sponge or some other device. 
Not that that is an
important detail
, she thought.  Or maybe it was.  Maybe her secret admirer
was not only an over-the-top romantic, but maybe he was also a germaphobe and
didn’t want to get his bacteria on the envelope that he was mailing to his
beloved. 
Ridiculous, Essie
! she thought. 
Now that is a flight of
fancy.