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RETURN TO SENDER: AN ACCIDENTAL VALENTINE by Katie Crow
RETURN TO SENDER: AN ACCIDENTAL VALENTINE by Katie Crow
The stifling heat of the train pulled Eliot out of his seat. The next station rolled into view, and he pushed through the sea of passengers to the cool air on the platform. A slight unevenness under his foot stopped him. He glanced down to find a bright red envelope sullied by the parade of hurried feet. Someone had scratched through the address and written in bold letters:
RETURN TO SENDER
Those words smacked of rejection.
Eliot had never received a valentine, and that was just fine by him. Some time ago, he concluded it was a foolish celebration pushed by the florists, chocolatiers, and greeting card companies. Yet, for an instant, Eliot felt the pang of regret. At forty, he had launched another unsuccessful foray into cyber dating, where love proved to be as elusive and mercurial as ever.
The next train lurched along the platform with its windows fogged by the breath of impatient commuters. Curiosity drove Eliot to grasp the envelope just as it screeched to a stop. A rush of passengers carried him up the stairs and onto the pavement.
He glanced at the address.
14 Bluebird Lane, London WC1.
It was only a street away.
Eliot hesitated.
No good could come from this intervention, yet he felt strangely compelled to return it.
A letterbox beckoned as Eliot walked into Bluebird Lane. His fingers tightened against the envelope while his mind railed against the foolishness of this mission.
He stopped outside number fourteen. Had fate sent him so hope wouldn’t linger on
Bluebird Lane? His fingers loosened against the red burden, and he was about to leave when the door opened.
Cornflower blue eyes, soft brown curls, and full lips held his stare.
“Er … Sorry, I found this,” Eliot said, thrusting the envelope toward her.
A frown cast a shadow across her face.
“I live around the corner,” he babbled. “Just thought I should ……”
“My sister. I told her it was a waste of time.”
The soft lilt of her accent left Eliot wanting more.
“Unrequited love.” She smiled ruefully, and then her eyes narrowed. “I know you. You’re always on the 7:15 train studying your Financial Times in the fourth carriage, second seat from the end.”
Eliot’s mouth opened and closed. He willed his brain to produce a clever response, but it floundered in a cloud of conflicting emotion. Finally, he mumbled something as he hastily retreated down the path.
Faltering footsteps led him home, but all the while, he picked away at her words. She had observed him, and he had been oblivious. Safely tucked into his newspaper and absorbed by world events, he had missed something much closer to home.
Something important.
The 6:15 alarm roused Eliot from a fitful sleep, and he started his well-trodden routine. A cup of coffee lightened with just a splash of milk. A slice and a half of whole wheat bread toasted only on one side. Picking up his newspaper from the doormat, he noted the date.
February 14th.
“Bah humbug.” His smile quickly dissolved when the other traveler with a penchant for the fourth carriage on the 7:15 pricked at his thoughts.
As always, Eliot left his house at precisely 6:55 and headed for the station. He boarded the train and buried himself in an article on the front page of The Financial Times. It wasn’t long before his thoughts wandered.
He glanced over the paper.
In the fourth seat from the end, he caught cornflower blue eyes, soft brown curls, and a hint of a smile on full red lips.
Perhaps a valentine lay in his future after all, courtesy of ‘return to sender’.
