A Maddening, Mystery Valentine

10:00 AM, Valentine's Day, the offices of Salvatore77, Newport Beach, CA

__________

Lauren tore up the card while screaming out her frustration. Of course, even a short scream aloud at her desk was a bad idea. Seconds later four coworkers stood at the entrance to Lauren's large cubicle staring at her with puzzled, concerned, or alarmed expressions. Three dozen long-stemmed, red roses and a Waterford crystal vase were the last straw. Those had been delivered to the reception desk, and one of the two young receptionists carried everything back to Lauren's cubicle. Seconds later Lauren Tanner was on her feet, fists clenched, exasperated and screaming.

"He won't stop. It's making me crazy. I'm sorry I screamed, but it is totally frustrating." She offered nothing more in explanation. And her coworkers withdrew without a word. They all knew much of the backstory.

Seven months earlier, with her newly-minted marketing degree from UC Irvine, Lauren had landed her dream first job -- account coordinator with the advertising / media / design firm Salvatore77 in Newport Beach, California. Her commute took nineteen minutes, a dream in Southern California and Orange County. From the Costa Mesa apartment she shared with two roommates, she drove her Mini Cooper to Newport Center Drive which circled Fashion Island. Salvatore77 occupied the entire seventh floor in one of a dozen high rise office buildings in the high-rent commercial area. Lauren was living her best life.

The Valentine's cards began arriving in mid-January, weeks ahead of the February holiday. And once the cards began, at least one arrived every single workday. Tuesday's were the worst because her office snail mail would have two or three of them from the weekend. All were Hallmark cards, all had a shiny, gold crown sticker on the back flap, and all were romantic. There were no funny or light-hearted cards. Each one was hand-addressed in calligraphy, and each was signed exactly the same: "Affectionately, ERIC3." Other than the printed sentiment in each card, there was no further personalization. And each was sent to her office. The problem was simple. Lauren didn't know an Eric. Lauren had never dated an Eric. Lauren didn't remember an Eric from UC Irvine or anywhere else. To the best of her knowledge, her life was completely Eric-free.

Then, ten days ago, "Eric" had upped the ante. Flowers and gifts began to arrive. A small bouquet was the first. Then a book of poetry, Pillow Thoughts by Courtney Peppernell. Five days before Valentine's Day, Eric kicked into high gear. The Hallmark card included a $600 gift card for Cinq à Sept, the boutique in Fashion Island, a five minute walk from Salvatore77's offices. But Lauren was freaked out because the gift card could only be used to purchase the "Sheryl" dress she'd actually been lusting over for months.

Cinq à Sept's "Sheryl" dress walked right up to the edge of the Office Siren style without crossing a line that would cause trouble for Lauren. Black with long sleeves and an ivory collar, the dress has embellished buttons. It would be prim and conservative were it not for its mini length. The hem would fall halfway between the bottom of Lauren's butt and her knees, showing a lot of leg. And she wanted it badly. She'd stared at it through the storefront window at Cinq à Sept, and had gone in to inquire about the price. But at over $500, Lauren hadn't even bothered trying it on, despite the insistence of the store clerk. It was impossibly out of her budget. And now she had been given a gift card for the exact dress she wanted badly. But no one else could possibly know she wanted it.

Three days before Valentine's Day, a second gift card was included in the Hallmark envelope. This one was for Beach Bunny Swimwear, also in Fashion Island. The card had a value of $500.00, and was limited to the purchase of a new bikini and coordinating cover-up. Lauren knew that tops and bottoms sold separately to guarantee fit, and that the card would cover the price only for a top, bottom, and cover-up. Like Cinq à Sept, Lauren had window shopped Beach Bunny, and wished for a new bikini before spring warmed the weather. She'd never owned swimwear that cost more than $75 for a matching top and bottom together. Lauren had looked several times at a new arrival bikini in Beach Bunny's window, a bandeau top and side-tie bottom in ivory with a navy dot pattern. The top and bottom were each over $100 and any cover-up would be even more.

Lauren had indulged on her lunch hour, walked to Fashion Island, and stood in front of the Beach Bunny window with the gift card in her purse. But she stood there in frustration. She'd been gifted something she'd imagined buying when she could afford it easily, and now had the means in her hand. But it came from a mystery. She walked away.

Then, the day before Valentine's Day, "Eric" had crossed a line. The Hallmark card included a gift certificate from A Perfect Fit Fine Lingerie in Tustin. The boutique was widely known as the only purveyor of made-to-measure, custom-fit lingerie in Orange County. The gift certificate carried a value of $2,000, sufficient for the fitting and making of a single bra and panty set designed and made solely for Lauren. She dared not breathe a word of this to anyone else. This was a more intimate gift than Lauren could imagine. Lingerie from A Perfect Fit had the reputation of living up to the hype, and lasting for years. Lauren briefly sat at her desk with the gift certificate in her hands, frustrated and overwhelmed. And then she put the certificate away alongside the other two.

She'd been teased about the Valentine cards from her secret admirer. When she complained about being stalked, her roommates and her coworkers pointed out that she'd gotten nothing at home, had never been followed, and really couldn't claim any sign of surveillance. Rather, she was being romanced by someone with the resources to do it well, and with persistence. So, when three dozen roses and a huge Waterford crystal vase arrived on the morning of Valentine's Day, something snapped. She'd expected and hoped for a big reveal, and gotten nothing of the kind.

Who gets three dozen long-stemmed red roses from a passionately obsessed admirer? Who gets Waterford crystal for Valentine's Day? Who gets a dress, and a bikini, and custom lingerie from someone she doesn't remember -- if she ever knew him at all?

She wracked her memory, trying to surface a single "Eric" and coming up with none -- no former fellow student, no client, no colleague, no neighbor, no one. It was maddening. And it was in the midst of that frustration that Lauren got a text message from an unknown and unidentified number.

"Hi. I hope the roses and vase have made you smile today. Sending them has made me smile all morning."

Lauren stared at her phone. The message seemed as ordinary and low-key as she could imagine. But it came from a complete stranger.

"WHO ARE YOU? I DON'T KNOW YOU."

"Of course you do, Lauren. But I can understand you not remembering yet. No worries."

"I don't know anyone named Eric. How would I know you?"

"Not Eric, silly. ERIC. Actually ERIC3. But you can call me Trey if that's easier. A few other's do."

"What? I don't know what you mean."

"Then we'll preserve the mystery for a bit longer. But you can take my word for it, you do know me. Our meeting was very memorable. You left an indelible impression. I've been quite captivated ever since -- for a few months now."

Lauren thought for a moment before replying. The MacBook now displayed the text message on her huge desk monitor, and the cursor flashed slowly and steadily, waiting for her as she thought.

Did she know anyone who used the nickname "Trey?" She knew it was shorthand for 'third" which followed a "junior" of the same name. She didn't think so. And what was with the capital letters? Initials for someone with four names and a "third?" That rang no bells at all.

ERIC3 texted her again.

"I hope you'll use the gift cards I sent you, too. The dress, bikini, and lingerie should all be fun and useful for you, and I'm hoping each will make you feel both beautiful and desirable."

Okay, now he was really pushing it, prompting Lauren to reply.

"I'm not dressing for someone I don't know. You are getting cringe and simp."

"You'll feel differently when you remember me. For now, use the gift cards entirely for you -- because you'll like what you get with them. Leave me out of it. Consider them an unexpected windfall -- all yours with no strings attached."

Lauren wondered. Who talks like this? He sounds old, really old. Too formal. Too precise.

"Are you British?" Lauren texted back.

"Uh, no. I'm well-educated. But not British. To be clear, that's not an evasive answer. I'm not from England, Great Britain, the United Kingdom, or anywhere in the British isles -- however one might define such."

"What do you want?"

"Want? That's easy. You! The Valentine's Day cards should have made that clear."

Lauren's phone rang. Not the desk phone. Her phone. The call was from the same unidentified number. She hesitated but then answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Hello Lauren. I thought this might be better than endless texting."

His voice was older but not old. It was warm and deep, with no discernible accent. That probably meant he was a California native. It had a resonance, almost gravitas. It carried weight but none of the urgent, longing energy of someone simping. There was no urgent need in it. And it instantly awoke all of Lauren's deep and latent "daddy issues."

"Maybe." Lauren replied, with an effort to sound noncommittal and disengaged.

"I don't believe you're actually confused about what I want, Lauren. I very much want you. But that's all desire rather than need. I believe we'd be great together and for each other. And I wanted you to know I'm focused and serious. The cards and gifts seemed a fun way to give you that sense."

Lauren replied: "It's too much. You're too much. Even if I knew who you are it's still too much. People don't do that any more."

"What people?" He asked. "There's no universal standard for the beginning of a courtship, Lauren. And there's no right and wrong way either. It comes down to what's right for the two people involved. And I think you've actually loved the attention, the singular focus, and the thoughtful gifts. The only thing frustrating you is not having realized yet who I am."

Lauren sat silently for a moment, and then asked the obvious next question.

"You're claiming we've met, right?"

"Yes, we have. Twice, actually."

"Why don't I remember you?"

"Oh, I think you remember me well enough. You just haven't connected me as a suitor with the me you've met. I'm certainly memorable enough that you've not forgotten me."

Lauren's frustration was still growing.

"Look, you sound nice enough. But this is really starting to irritate me. Why won't you just tell me who you are? Come on. Help me out here."

"Not over the phone, Lauren. I'd like you to have dinner with me. That's why I called. I have reservations for us already. And I made them early and nearby to make it easy for you to say 'yes.' You'll get each and every one of your questions answered over a lovely meal."

"I have plans." Lauren replied, after a momentary lag.

"I'd appreciate you being truthful with me, Lauren. Especially since I know already that you don't have dinner plans... or any other plans... for this evening. And I'd very much like for you to say "yes.'"

"There's no way you could know what plans I have or don't have. You're just playing me." Lauren pushed back.

"Then I'll ask. Do you have specific plans for this evening other than your standing backup plan to go out for drinks with your roommates if none of you find dates before the evening rolls around?"

He had her. The agreement to go get drinks at The Harp -- their favorite Irish Bar -- was the standing backup between Lauren, Erin, and Maddie.

Lauren replied honestly, although reluctantly. "No, I don't have any other plans."

"I have reservations for us at 6:00, at the Ocean Grill. It's the restaurant atop the RH Interiors Gallery in Fashion Island. It's rooftop, and has wonderful views of the coastline. It also has a first rate menu and an excellent wine list. I believe you'd enjoy it."

Lauren had only heard of the RH Ocean Grill. It was far too exclusive and expensive for her to have dined there. She knew the seating was almost all outdoors, and it offered commanding views of the coastline to both the north and south. It offered the best opportunity in Newport Beach to indulge her love of seafood, especially lobster. He'd chosen well. Trying to turn him down now would be very difficult.

"Maybe. If I agree, what name will the reservations be under?" Lauren asked.

"Nice try, but I'll meet you at the host's station when you get off the elevator." He replied. "Plan to meet me there at 6:00."

Lauren sighed, mostly to herself. The reservations were early and nearby. The restaurant was outstanding, an amazing choice for a first date. She loved seafood and this might be the best seafood restaurant in Orange County.

"Okay. But I'm only coming for dinner."

"I only invited you to dinner, Lauren. I've no other intentions for this evening. You can rest assured." He replied.

"Okay, good." She said.

"Then I won't keep you. I'll look forward to seeing you at the Ocean Grill at 6:00. Goodbye now." And with that he hung up, leaving Lauren no opportunity for the last word. That was telling.

12:30 PM, Valentine's Day, Cinq à Sept, Fashion Island, Newport Beach CA

__________

Lauren stood on the sidewalk, staring into the window at the "Sheryl" dress on display. And she knew she'd be snatched in the dress -- she'd look amazing.

Ten minutes later she was wearing it, and having the sleeves marked for alterations. She wanted it perfect, and Cinq à Sept would have the simple alterations finished by 5:00. The service had been amazing, and the dress in a size two fit her perfectly. In fact, it showed off her figure better than anything Lauren already owned.

Lauren wasn't merely petite, she was tiny. She stood 4-feet 11-inches tall, and had always believed she was easy to overlook. With dark brown hair and eyes, she wasn't the prototypical California blonde. She had barely sufficient curves to look feminine, an unremarkable chest and an equally unremarkable butt. Her younger brother and male cousins had long teased her as being "built like a 12-year-old boy." She was grateful to be a size 2, and glad not to be any smaller. But she had well-shaped legs which she considered her best feature.

Now she needed shoes. The navy, slingback pumps she was wearing wouldn't work with the dress. Five minutes later she was in Nordstrom, looking at a pair of sand-colored Sam Edelman pointed-toe pumps with a four-inch heel.

"Can I be of service?" Asked the Nordstrom salesperson.

Lauren pointed. "I need those in ivory and a size five."

"I'm sure we have them. Give me a moment."

Lauren tried on the shoes when the salesperson returned a moment later, and was pleased with the fit.

"Those are good. Is that the lightest ivory or tan color you have?"

"No, I have them a shade lighter. Are you trying for a true ivory?"

"Yes." Replied Lauren. "I need them for a dress from Cinq à Sept that they are altering for me."

"Let me guess. The Sheryl dress in black and ivory?" The salesperson asked.

"How did you know?" Lauren asked, surprised.

"It's a great style, and looks best if the shoes are ivory rather than black. When you said Cinq à Sept and ivory, it was a pretty easy guess. I window shop on my lunch hour, and I've seen it in their window. I love the dress. It should look great on you."

Lauren smiled. This felt like good karma or kismet or something like that.

"Let me find the lighter ivory. I'll be right back."

The salesperson disappeared for two minutes, and then returned with the lighter color. Lauren tried them on, declared them "perfect," paid for them and walked back to Salvatore77's offices, the Nordstrom bag swinging from its handles as she walked. Lauren was now smiling.

5:55 PM, Valentine's Day, The RH Ocean Grill, Fashion Island, Newport Beach CA

__________

Lauren waited for the elevator. She'd changed in the fitting room at Cinq à Sept, In the mirror, wearing her new dress and heels, she looked great and she knew it. All three clerks in Cinq à Sept had raved about her fit, declaring new heels perfect for the dress. She'd briefly considered adding stockings, but they had talked her out of them by suggesting the dress looked sexier with her bare legs and heels. So, she moved her car from the boutique and parked opposite the Apple Store which was next to the RH Gallery. Carrying only her phone and her wallet as a clutch, she turned heads as she walked from the parking deck and into the RH Gallery.

The elevator opened facing the host's station, and she saw Roman Clarkson leaning comfortably against the nearby wall. And Lauren instantly made the connection, stopping and staring in shocked surprise.

Roman Clarkson was a client of Salvatore77. Not quite the agency's largest client, but close. The agency did anything and everything marketing-related for the company Clarkson owned, Emerald Forest Technologies. And Lauren had met him twice before, shortly after joining Salvatore77. She'd been assigned to backup the primary Account Coordinator for Emerald Forest, and met with EF's own marketing team during her onboarding. Clarkson had stepped into the first meeting to introduce himself, and sat in on the second which was a full year marketing planning session.

"Hello Lauren" Clarkson said to her, smiling warmly. "I'm glad you chose to join me."

Roman Clarkson was in his late 40's Lauren guessed. Deeply tanned, she knew he sailed on weekends. He wasn't remarkably tall, standing about 5-feet, 11-inches. He was fit but not buff, and wore khaki-colored trousers, a navy blazer, a French blue button-down shirt, and saddle brown loafers. It was the classic, Newport Beach Yacht Club uniform. Old school preppy, perfectly executed.

Lauren had trouble finding her voice, but finally stammered out her first response:

"You? Mr. Clarkson, you're ERIC3?"

"In the flesh. Edward Roman Isaac Clarkson, III" which he enunciated as "the third."

He continued:

"My grandfather was known as Edward. My father prefers Isaac. As a kid I was called Tray and a handful of very old friends still do. I never cared for that nickname. 'The Third' sounded pretentious to me, so I chose to be called Roman. Which is what I'd like you to call me. We can leave Mr. Clarkson in the office. Please."

It dawned on Lauren that she was about to be the dinner guest of one of the most quietly successful men in Newport Beach, perhaps all of Orange County.

"I'll do my best. Roman." Lauren answered. "But it probably won't be easy."

"I understand. And, by the way, thank you for accepting at least one of my gifts and for wearing it to dinner tonight. You look lovely."

Lauren now knew she was in over her head. No one had ever called her "lovely" before. And she was taken aback. Cute? Maybe. Hot? Once in a while. Not often. Pretty? Something her mother called her. Lovely? Never. Lovely was new.

They were escorted to a reserved table with a view, seated, and left with menus. Notably, her menu lacked prices. That was very unusual in 2026. It meant that Roman had requested that menu in advance, and she was free to order without any idea of the expense. Roman stood until the host had seated Lauren, and then seated himself, smiling broadly.

"I've a confession, Lauren. This is a first for me. I've never arranged an anonymous, blind date before. I'm glad you accepted." Roman said.