Chapter 5
Bree
I close the door to my tiny office. It’s more of a utility closet with a window, but I still love it because I love how cozy it is.
I settle behind my desk with my coffee in hand. I still have a few minutes before I have to start my work day.
Lately, I spend my mornings here rereading the love letter while sipping coffee. I’ve read it so many times that I have parts of it memorized.
I’ve searched the text for clues as to the writer’s identity, but so far I’ve found nothing.
I’m not sure how to find this secret admirer.
They haven’t left me any more notes, and there are moments when I’d almost think that I imagined this letter.
Then I feel the crisp paper underneath my fingertips, and I know it’s real.
Someone really did write me a love letter.
Someone did take what must have been hours to pour out their heart to me.
I only wish that I knew who it was. Why would someone go to all this trouble if they weren’t willing to come forward?
I’m still trying to puzzle that out when Lauren bursts into the room.
She usually comes in here early and helps me organize my work day.
Now it’s just a habit for her to show up in my office.
We spend a few minutes gossiping and catching up before we both go about our work day.
Only this time she forgot to knock, so she finds me holding the love letter.
I quickly fold it, put it in the envelope, and shove it in my desk drawer.
She narrows her gaze. “What was that?”
“Nothing, just some patient files,” I tell her, hating the fact that I’m lying to Lauren. She’s becoming a good friend outside of work. In fact, I’d argue that we’re even on the path to becoming best friends.
She shakes her head. “That’s not a patient file. What is it?”
I let out a soft sigh, hesitating. I haven’t told her about this because I wanted to hold it close for a while longer to savor the words and let them wrap around me before I brought anyone else in.
But Lauren might have some idea about the identity of the writer since she’s been here so much longer than I have.
In fact, she’s grown up around all the people in this town.
“It’s kind of a letter, an anonymous one.”
Her eyes go wide. “Like good anonymous or bad anonymous?”
“Like a love letter,” I answer and pull it from the drawer. I hold it out to her, but she doesn’t reach for it first thing. I can see the curiosity burning in her gaze, but she shoves her hands into the pockets of her vintage dress.
“I don’t want to pry,” she says.
“You don’t understand. I need to know who wrote it. It’s driving me nuts, and you’ve been here the longest. You probably know who’s behind it.”
She chews on her lower lip. “Are you sure?”
I give her a nod. She breaks into a smile and takes the letter, carefully pulling it from the envelope. “This is so exciting. I’ve never met anyone in real life who’s gotten an actual love letter.”
“Me either,” I agree. “I couldn’t believe it when I found it.”
I watch her read through the message, feeling oddly exposed and vulnerable as the emotions flicker across her face. When she’s done, she swallows hard and blinks at me.
“Wow.” She breathes out the word in a wobbly voice.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I just wish I knew who wrote it.”
She folds it carefully and passes it back to me. “Well, there is one way. We could launch our own investigation. Do you have any suspects?”
I refuse to let myself glance to the window where Dalton, the grumpy gardener, is often outside.
I haven’t let myself entertain the possibility that he might be behind it.
Sure, he’s been flirty with me twice. But we’ve barely interacted since then.
He’s given up and isn’t interested in pursuing me any longer.
“I mean, I guess it’s possible that Ryan is behind it,” I tell her.
She frowns. “Ryan, the security guard? Why do you think that?”
“The letter writer mentions being here last night when we were putting the mail in the cubbies. He was working then. Plus, when I come into work in the mornings, he always stops me and talks about the book he’s reading.
” I stop there, then glance up at her. “That’s kind of flimsy, isn’t it?
I don’t think I’m a very good investigator. ”
She thinks for a moment. “Whoever wrote this letter wanted to be anonymous. So, rather than trying to build a case of facts around someone, let’s examine handwriting samples.”
“Handwriting analysis isn’t an exact science,” I tell her.
She chuckles. “Are you planning on trying the love letter guy or kissing him?”
My cheeks flame as I think about Dalton and what it would be like to kiss him all over his beautiful golden chest. “Point taken.”
Then I remember something. “Wait, Ryan is always at his desk either reading a thriller or scribbling in his yellow legal pads.”
She snaps her fingers. “You’re right. All you have to do is look at a few of those pads and see if the handwriting style matches. If it does, then we’ve found the guy.”
“But how do we get him to show us the legal pads?”
“You leave that to me,” Lauren says.
Later that morning, my phone buzzes with a text from her. I hurry into the reception area. Ryan is at his desk working on one of his legal pads.
I’m not sure what the game plan is, but Lauren says loudly, “Bree, can you sit here and answer the phone if anyone calls? I want to grab a snack from the vending machine.”
I agree to do it and take her seat.
She disappears down the hall to the vending machines, only to reappear about sixty seconds later. She pokes her head into the reception room, focusing her gaze on Ryan. “The vending machine is stuck again, and I can’t get my candy bar out. Would you help me?”
He glances at the security monitors, scanning for signs of trouble, before he nods and follows her out of the room.
The moment he’s gone, I make my move. I hurry over to his desk and start searching for the yellow legal pads. They’re in the bottom drawer. I pull the one on top out, scanning the first few pages.
I quickly realize that his writing style doesn’t match. It’s more than just the quick, messy scrawl he has. The way he forms his letters is all wrong. Unless he spent a couple of hours working on unusual penmanship, he’s not my guy.
I hear Ryan and Lauren’s voices getting closer. I shove the yellow legal pad back in the drawer and close it as quietly as I can then sprint back to the reception desk.
My butt has just graced the seat when Ryan pops in, carrying an energy drink. He hurries back to his desk, scans the monitors, and picks up his thriller book.
“So what did you think about Ryan?” Lauren asks me at lunch when we’re alone in the employee kitchenette.
I stab a bite of my casserole and shake my head. “He’s not it. That’s definitely not his penmanship or his style of word choice. The letter was flowery and the penmanship flowed too well. Though Ryan is an amazing writer, so I’m not sure who our next suspect is.”
Lauren looks around the room to make sure we’re alone. When she’s certain we are, she leans across the table to whisper, “Ethan.”
I frown. The doctor working here hasn’t paid me any special attention. When I point this out, she shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe he’s just shy. Besides, he was working late when we were at the cubbies.”
I think of that for a minute, then shake my head. “I’ve seen his signature on countless documents. He’s way too messy of a writer.”
“Or maybe he’s trying to throw you off his trail,” Lauren suggests, then gives me a wink. “Don’t worry, I have a foolproof idea.”
A few minutes later, Ethan comes into the kitchenette, and Lauren magically produces a greeting card.
“Hey Ethan, Joyce is recovering from her hip surgery in the hospital. She’ll be back here in a few days and some of the staff were signing a get well card.
” She opens the card where she’s already added a message. “Elaine signed too.”
Ethan takes the pen from Lauren. He leans down and quickly adds his name. Lauren frowns at it. We both know that we need a larger sample of his handwriting to compare to the letter.
“We really need a personal message, so it feels warm,” Lauren says to Ethan.
He takes the pen from her and adds a few words before handing the card back to her. We wait until he’s gone to open it and examine the message. Get well soon. Don’t sue us for those wet floors.
I drum my fingers on the table. “Well, Ryan is not it. Ethan is not it. Maybe you should cross out his note for Joyce.”
“Joyce isn’t even in the hospital. She’s here, and she’s teaching the tango class in five minutes. But there goes my last suspect. Also, she only fell one time. I put down a non-slip mat after that.”
I blow out a soft breath, disappointed that I can’t figure this out. I didn’t want it to be Ethan or Ryan.
“Maybe your secret admirer will come forward all on his own,” Lauren suggests, but her tone doesn’t sound very hopeful.
I don’t blame her. I’m not sure we can hope for that. If he doesn’t come forward, I may never know the identity of the man who made me feel seen.