“And apparently, he’s a poet,” Miranda said.
Samantha couldn’t tell if she was making fun of her.
Denise disbelievingly snatched the small card from Miranda’s clutch. Her lips moved as she read the words. “Yeah, a terrible poet, maybe.”
“Oh just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean that it’s terrible,” Miranda said. “You don’t know anything about poetry.”
Denise gave her a dirty look and then looked at Samantha, handing her the card. “So, who is it?”
The curiosity on their faces was sincere and unmistakable. They hadn’t done this.
So then who had?
There was literally no way that she had a secret admirer.
No way.
When the clock finally struck five, Samantha was no wiser. She grabbed her roses and got out of there as fast as she could, heading for the bookstore, scared that they too closed at five.
As she walked, she worried. Did this secret admirer of hers have something to do with the night she’d blacked out, the night of the blood? Had she ... she didn’t want to think it. Had she met a man that night? Someone she didn’t remember? Someone who was now sending flowers to her work?
She fervently hoped not. She didn’t want to be dating anyone. Didn’t want to be courted by anyone. Didn’t want any of this. She was just trying to survive this life. That was hard enough. Trying to get sober and stay sober.
More than a few people stared at her as she walked. Most people didn’t take giant bouquets of roses out for a stroll. She was embarrassed to be a spectacle—and also a little proud. It felt good to be a woman someone sent roses to, even if she couldn’t imagine how that had happened.
The bookstore’s warmth and the soft background music created a welcoming, comforting effect. Samantha felt a pang of guilt. When she’d first come back to Jesus, she’d visited this store again and again, scooping up every book she could find that would help her get to know Jesus better. Devotionals, commentaries, study guides. She’d been so on fire back then. And then she’d cooled off. Why had that happened? She didn’t know.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes.” Samantha laid her purse and her roses on the counter and pulled her phone out of her coat pocket. After fumbling with her phone, she got the email open and held it out toward the woman. “Could you tell me if this is legit?”
The woman put on her reading glasses and took a closer look. “It sure looks like it!” She handed the phone back with a mischievous smile. “Congratulations!” Her eyes flitted to the roses.
Again, there was this weird niggling pride. Samantha tried to push it away. She really shouldn’t be enjoying this at all, not if it wasn’t a real thing. Even if someonethoughtthey admired her, they didn’t really because they didn’t know her, didn’t know the train wreck that was her life. “Can you tell me who sent it?”
The woman frowned and held her hand out. Samantha gave her the phone again, and she turned to her computer and tapped on the keyboard. After a minute, she said, “No, I’m afraid I can’t. It was ordered online.”
Yeah, Samantha had figured that much. “But can’t you tell who ordered it online?”
The woman looked at her like she was stupid. She pointed at the email. “It says their email address right there. You know as much as I know.”
Oh. That’s all they had for info? An email address? She tapped the down arrow to see the sender’s address: SecretAdmirer04801 @ Tmail.com.
Well, that wasn’t helpful. At all. She forced a smile. “Thank you.” She picked up her flowers and purse and turned away from the counter to scan the small store.
She had no idea what she wanted to buy. She wandered up and down the narrow aisles, giving the small addiction and recovery section a wide berth. She’d read quite a few of those books back when Brent had first left her, and while a few of them had been encouraging, most had left her feeling ashamed and discouraged. She didn’t want to read another addiction book written by a man who’d never had an addiction. No, thank you. She could dose out enough shame to herself; she didn’t need to pay someone else to do it—even if it was actually her secret admirer doing the paying.
A small smile played on her lips at this thought. Did she really have a secret admirer? It didn’t seem possible, but what else could be going on? If it wasn’t a prank, then someone was actually doing nice things for her. A gift certificate, the roses, the bad poetry—she stifled a giggle and looked around self-consciously.
After a few more minutes of wandering, she gave up. This was futile. Nothing was jumping out at her, and it wasn’t as if the gift certificate was going to expire in the next few hours. She’d come back another day when she wasn’t so distracted and when she wasn’t carrying around a giant bouquet of roses.