The plain white #10 envelope had her name typed on the outside, and nothing else. Curious, Elaine pulled out the single crisp page.
"Dearest Elaine,
"How do I love thee? Let me count the aisles.
Nay first, let there be the produce section, especially the peaches,
so like your feminine wiles.
And your lips, so like raspberries
tempt me; there I would tarry,
beautiful one,
but for the cookies and granola, sweet as your smile
in aisle
one.
"How I would love to wake with you,
More welcome than the morning coffee in aisle two,
And like the cat food in aisle three,
we could be Frisky, just you and me,
that is of course if you would agree.
"Precious Elaine, lest you think I adore
only the notion of getting spicy with you, like the Mexican fare of aisle four,
please know I admire you: your brilliant command,
your sense of humour, even the way you drive,
Kind Elaine, if you would have me,
I would fall at your feet
in aisle five.
"Utterly smitten,
"Your Secret Admirer."
Elaine shook her head like an Olympic champion with swimmer's ear. What?!! Quickly she cast her eyes over the page again. As an assistant manager at the A&P, she had seen a lot in twenty-three years, but never anything like this. People had left nice notes in her mailbox from time to time, and certainly complaints. But a love letter? A poem, no less?
Carefully she turned the letter and its envelope over in her hands. There was no clue as to the sender. Any printer could have spit out the page. Well, there wasn't time to think about it now. She punched the clock and went to work.
The store was a real beehive for a Monday. The town's annual popcorn festival was in six days and all the vendors were placing last-minute orders for large quantities of food, food designed to feed masses such as the town rarely saw in one place -- maybe even hundreds. Elaine had her hands full, working the phones and the internet, dickering over last minute deals, quantity versus rush. The morning swept by.
Over her lunch hour she pulled out the mysterious letter. Who could it be from? Surely not her boss. She and Les had worked together for years. Anything flirty would have happened thousands of hours ago. There had been plenty of after-hours opportunities. But she didn't really suspect him. Not only was Les married, he was placid as a cow. Elaine simply could not imagine the man as "smitten."
Then she thought of Clark and Trent, the two high school kids.
Nah
, she thought.
I'm old enough to be their mother
. In fact she was very mom-like to them -- she had even hosted a graduation party for them and Lana, the other teenage worker, the previous month.
Now maybe that was it. With a start, Elaine realized she had been picturing the sender as male. Could a woman have sent the letter? She made a face.
But I'm not gay
, she thought.
Anybody who knows me would know that
.
One last thought occurred to her. Maybe it was misdirected mail, maybe the letter had been stuck in the wrong hole. After all with the festival coming up, there was a lot of confusion. Mix-ups were bound to happen. No -- she shook off that idea quickly. Her name was clear on the envelope, and repeated several times in the poem. The train of thought steamed on down the track -- maybe that was a clue, that the sender called her by her full name. Friends called her 'Laine or Lainey. She was not a formal person. Yet the sender apparently knew her well enough: "your brilliant command, / your sense of humour, even the way you drive."
She had no idea.
Tuesday slid by without further incident. The A&P was busy with moms and dads laying in supplies for the upcoming weekend. The last few Johnny-come-lately vendors came and went. Elaine had planned on that likelihood, and she was right. Decades in the biz had made her a salty veteran.
One of the teenagers watched in admiration as she handled a panicking customer. "No problem, Sal. We'll have your order in 48 hours."
"Way to go, 'Laine. You really had his number."
Elaine smiled at Clark. "Sal is late every year. I don't think he even knows he does this." Then she studied her employee a little more closely. Could Clark have written that poem?
"What's up?" He met her quizzical look.
"Oh, nothing. Hey, why don't you run out back for me and help that dairy driver?"
Clark nodded and took off. The kid would make manager one day if he wanted to. He paid attention and he knew how to hustle. His sneakers barked out a squeak as he zipped away.
It couldn't be Clark -- she was old enough to be his mother. Maybe she would never know. Maybe the whole thing was just a practical joke, a one-time thing.
But Wednesday morning there was another letter.
"Tender Elaine, more tender than the rib roast
swaddled in string in the butcher's case,
Allow me to tell you how much I adore you,
To be your lover I would boast,
If only I could speak these words of love to your beautiful face.
"Please don't think my words to you are just a trick,
they aren't. I would stick to you
like the display of school glue
in aisle six
and for your kiss, which would be heaven
I would not mind cleaning up 100 burst bags of sugar, flour, and cake mix
in aisle seven.
"Let me embrace you, let me whisper in your ear
how I think of you even when you are not near,
and how you do brighten my nights and days
with more wattage than all the light bulbs in aisle eight.
"Elaine, so badly do I want to ask you to be mine,
I would pile and re-pile the tediously slipping bags of jelly beans
in aisle nine.
"Completely Yours,
"Your Secret Admirer."
That's enough!
thought Elaine, and picked up the phone.
"Hey Krista, how you doin'? ... Fine, yeah, good here. Hey, is Barrett around? ... Yeah, I'll wait."
Barrett was a cop. They had dated in high school -- so many years ago! Many times Elaine had been thankful for his friendship. Besides, of all the people she knew in town, he was the only one she felt she could talk to about this problem. If it was a problem.
The black-and-white pulled up in front of her house. "I'm so glad to see you!"
"Good to see you, too. What's up?"
Elaine firmed her mouth. "I don't want you to handle this professionally, just yet. But would you please tell me if I've got a stalker?" She showed him the letters.
To his credit, Barrett didn't laugh. Elaine watched his eyes. They were a deep brown, almost black, with long lashes that put her in mind of a deer. His eyebrows jerked up as he skimmed the lines.
"What do you think I should do?"
The policeman rubbed his five o'clock shadow. "It's up to you, Lainey. You don't want to file a report?"
"No, I'm not sure this is a person with malicious intent."
"Okay, then." He put the letters down on the coffee table. "If you don't want me to act on this, I can only suggest you take basic precautions." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Don't walk alone at night, don't close up the store by yourself, do make sure someone you trust walks you to your car. Do keep your doors and windows locked. Don't go giving out your personal information over the internet. Although this character sounds local...who do you think it is?" He looked her directly in the eye as he asked.
"I guess I just thought it was someone at the store, some employee."
"In that case don't let yourself wind up alone with any one person." Barrett stood up and headed for the door. He hesitated, then pulled her to his chest. "Be careful, 'Laine."
It was uncharacteristic of Elaine to drink, but that night at bedtime she had a glass of wine. The letters were spread out at her feet. She hugged her knees to her chest and read them over. It was someone at the grocery -- probably -- and someone who "admired" her. Calling Barrett had been the right thing to do, but somehow she just didn't get a sense that the author of these letters meant her any harm. The poems didn't strike her as creepy; they seemed rather sweet. A bit juvenile, perhaps. Along with the whimsy she detected a sort of puppy love. And the writer was intelligent.
