Chapter 11

T he suspension of disbelief. Dictionary definition: to believe something is true even though it seems impossible.

That is the peace I have come to this morning, at least for the time being. I will spend the day looking for proof that Juan loves me instead of proof that he does not. Once the Christmas party is behind us, Juan and I will sit calmly and talk everything through. But now, we must focus on the big day ahead.

On our way to work, Juan is jumpier than I’ve ever seen him. He startles every time a bird flies by or a car honks its horn.

“If you’re worried about the holiday staff party,” I say, “you don’t need to be. It’s going to go fine.”

“I’m hoping for the best,” he replies. “Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, right?”

“Correct,” I reply.

We arrive at the hotel, where my gran-dad is standing at his podium on the red-carpeted stairs. He ambles down the second he spots us.

“The beautiful couple has arrived,” he says as he throws an arm around each of us, pulling us into his Father Christmas greatcoat.

“I’ve got to get to work right away,” Juan says. “Mr. Preston, you catch up with Molly, okay? Have a good, long chat, you understand?” he says as he takes the stairs two by two and disappears through the revolving front doors.

“Don’t ask me what that was all about,” I say the moment Juan’s gone. “He’s been acting strange lately. And as for a good, long chat, I hardly have the time. Nor do you by the look of things.”

Hordes of guests are leaving the hotel while new ones arrive in taxis and airport limousines.

“Oh, my dear girl,” my gran-dad says. “None of that matters. Today is a very special day.”

“Don’t tell me you’re in a tizzy over this staff Christmas party, too. Juan is beside himself.”

Before I even know what’s happening, my gran-dad wraps me in a hug so tight I fear I may burst at the seams. When he releases me, I see his eyes are wet. He pulls out his hankie to wipe tears away.

“What on earth has gotten into you?” I ask.

“I…I can’t quite say,” he replies.

“Well, there, there,” I reply as I pat his arm. “No need for tears over a Christmas party.”

He recovers and puts his hankie away. “I’ll see you at noon?” he asks.

“You will,” I reply as I head up the stairs and make my way through the gold revolving doors.

The hotel lobby looks even more resplendent today than it did yesterday. It’s as though elves worked through the night to add more touches of Christmas cheer. Giant silver snowflakes hang from the ceiling on invisible strings, and the tree is lit and shining bright. The area around it is cordoned off for the party, and beneath it are stacks of beautifully wrapped gifts, delivered by Secret Santas in preparation for today’s festivities.

The grand staircase has new decorations, too. Fresh garlands wind down the brass railings, and at the bottom, on the last stair, is a holiday décor piece I’ve never seen before—an enchanting evergreen archway that looks like the entrance to a magical Christmas land. Dangling from its center is a sprig of mistletoe held by a red velvet ribbon. As I take in the scene before me, I breathe deeply, the fragrances commingling in the air—pine needles and mulled cider, cinnamon and spice.

Mr. Snow is standing by the cordons, giving instructions to a valet. “Molly!” he calls out when he spots me.

I walk over as the valet trots away. “What do you think?” he asks, holding a hand up to the gloriously festive scene behind him.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Mr. Snow,” I say. “The hotel has never looked better. But why go to such lengths this year?”

“Look your best for every guest — advice straight from your handbook, Molly. It applies as much to our lobby as it does to our staff, don’t you agree?”

A blush rises in my cheeks. “I heartily agree, Mr. Snow. But I must get going. Much to do today before noon. See you then with bells on?”

Mr. Snow jingles his corsage. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

—

The rest of my morning is spent toiling upstairs with the other maids. We’re working hard to clean as many rooms as possible before the commencement of our holiday party, when Housekeeping will be down to a skeleton staff, as will all departments in the hotel. Remarkably, even Cheryl is pulling her weight today, for the most part.

That being said, after a couple of hours laboring under my supervision, Cheryl does her usual disappearing act, carting laundry out of the room we’re supposed to be cleaning together and never returning. By the time I’ve changed the sheets, vacuumed the floor into Zen garden lines, sanitized all glossy surfaces, and scrubbed until the washroom is spotlessly clean, there’s still no sign of her. I wheel my trolley out of the room to look for her. It doesn’t take long to spot her. She’s just down the hall, leaning on Sunitha’s trolley as Sunitha and Sunshine replenish it with supplies. I make my way over.

“I saw him with my own eyes, and so did she. Mr. Dishy was up to something fishy,” she says with a hearty guffaw.

“Cheryl,” I cut in, my voice a sharp blade. She jumps at the sound, knocking over a tower of toilet paper on the trolley, which Sunitha bends to collect before the rolls make their way farther down the hall.

“Cheryl, what were you just saying?” I ask. “Something about Juan Manuel?”

She stares at me, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water.

“She was saying something so ridiculous it doesn’t bear repeating,” Sunshine offers as she dumps a handful of miniature shampoos into the tray on Sunitha’s trolley.

“It’s no secret,” says Cheryl. “Molly saw him, too.”

“I swear,” says Sunshine, “if you open that piehole of yours one more time, I’ll take one of these little shampoo bottles,pour the contents into your mouth, and scrub it clean myself.”

“You shouldn’t spread rumors,” Sunitha adds. “It’s wrong.”

They both appear ready to hop over the trolley and scratch Cheryl’s eyes out.

“Now, now,” I say. “I realize Cheryl’s affinity for spreading intracompany news often surpasses our internal memos, but in this case she’s right. Juan Manuel was upstairs yesterday. In a guest’s room.”

“Maybe he was,” says Sunshine, “but there must be a good reason why.”

“Or Cheryl has the facts wrong,” Sunitha adds. “As usual.”

Sunshine checks her watch and sighs. “Molly, it’s noon. It’s time for the party. Can we let this go? Clean the slate? Wipe it away for another day?”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do than that,” I reply.

—

After parking the trolleys in the housekeeping quarters and refreshing ourselves in the change rooms, I lead the maids upstairs. Fortunately, the tension brewing among them earlier seems to have abated, at least for now. And as for whatever Juan was doing in that woman’s room yesterday, I’m just not going to think about it right now. Maybe Sunitha’s right—the facts are not what they seem.

When we arrive at the lobby, staff members are streaming in from various hotel departments. There’s Mr. Preston, sans greatcoat but still wearing his Santa hat. He’s chatting with the valets and bellhops, sipping on mulled cider, and chuckling as he listens to some story or other about long-departed guests. Beside the glittering Christmas tree are the receptionists, dressed in black and white, like neat little penguins. They’ve helped themselves to red-and-green iced cookies and cupcakes from silver trays on a long serving table—Juan’s creations, no doubt—and now they take seats on the plush emerald settees. The kitchen staff are arriving, too. They duck under the cordon, heading straight for the beverage and sweets table, backslapping and complimenting each other on a job well done. Angela and her waitstaff join me and the maids by the magical evergreen archway at the bottom of the grand staircase. As I look about, I see almost everyone, including Mr. Snow. But one person is notably absent.

“Where’s Juan Manuel?” I ask Angela as she takes her place by my side.

“How would I know?” she replies as she tucks an errant tress behind her ear.

Just then, Mr. Preston and Mr. Snow step forward.

“Attention, everyone!” Mr. Snow says as he taps a Regency Grand silver spoon against his Regency Grand porcelain teacup, which makes a pleasing tinkling sound. “Welcome to our staff holiday party. We’ve made it through another year of buzzing activity!” he says. “And all because of you, the worker bees.”

“Omigawd, here he goes…” says Angela as she shades her eyes with one hand.

“We are a team, a family, a colony,” Mr. Snow continues. “As devoted bees, you have cultivated and cared for our hotel hive all year long, and now, during this festive season, we reap the honey,” he says as he points to the array of delectable sweets laid out on the serving table.

“So who’s our Queen?” one of the bellhops calls out.

Titters and whispers, laughs and jeers, but I don’t join in. Whatever remarks Mr. Snow has prepared, he’s clearly forgotten them. He sniffs and adjusts his cravat.

“What our dear colleague and esteemed hotel manager is trying to say,” says Mr. Preston, “is thank you to one and all for everything you do to make this workplace great. I, for one, am grateful.”

“Here, here!” says Mr. Snow. “And since you’re already by the tree and wearing the right hat, I nominate you, Mr. Preston, to be Santa’s little helper. Will you pass out the Secret Santa gifts?”

“Ho, ho, ho!” says Mr. Preston. “Let’s find out who’s been naughty and nice.”

As he passes out presents, I search the room for the one face I’m looking for, but Juan Manuel is still nowhere to be seen. Where could he be? How could he miss the party he worked so hard to throw?

There’s no time to ask anyone these questions, for the staff have begun to open their gifts one by one. A sous-chef from Juan’s team receives a “top chef” apron and joyously puts it on. A receptionist opens a white box full of Christmas cookies and gobbles one immediately. Mr. Preston is gifted a handmade scarf, which he wraps around his neck with glee. Angela opens her gift and is pleased to receive a bestselling true-crime book, used but in perfectly good condition. And when Cheryl opens her gift—a stack of old gossip mags—she’s as thrilled as Cheryl ever gets.

“The crossword puzzles are filled in, but I guess that’s okay,” she says. “Thanks, whoever my Secret Santa is.”

“You’re welcome,” Angela replies, then under her breath to me, “That’s my good deed done for the year.”

I poke her as a stern warning to hush.

“There are just two more gifts left under the tree,” Mr. Preston announces as he hands Mr. Snow a small box I wrapped in brown paper earlier in the day.

“Go ahead, Mr. Snow. Open it,” I say as the staff look on.

Mr. Snow removes the lid. His eyes grow wide and so unmistakably forlorn that while I know I’m not supposed to reveal my identity as the gift giver, I can’t help myself.

“Don’t you see?” I say. “It’s a chain for your pocket watch so you never drop it again. I had it repurposed from a silver necklace my gran gave me years ago.”

New creases appear on Mr. Snow’s forehead, stacked over his eyebrows like pancakes on a platter.

“Aren’t you going to try it on?” I prompt.

“I can’t, Molly,” Mr. Snow replies.

“Why not?” I ask.

“You’ll have to open your gift to find out.”

On cue, Mr. Preston reaches under the tree for the very last gift—the one meant for me. He places the shiny wrapped offering in my hands.

The box is small and dainty, no bigger than a tin of shoe polish. I remove the pretty paper and draw back the lid. Nestled inside, inlaid in a round silver medallion, is the most beautiful pendant made from one of my Head Maid name tags— Molly, Head Maid , it reads. I gasp out loud. “I love it! What a treasure!”

“But you can’t wear it,” says Mr. Snow. “Because you turned your necklace into a watch chain for me.”

“No matter,” I say. “I shall cherish this pendant regardless. And I’m pleased my necklace will be put to good use to protect your pocket watch from further mishaps.”

“I’m afraid it won’t, Molly,” Mr. Snow explains. “That old watch of mine was always falling out of my pocket, so I upcycled the watch frame to have that pendant made for you.”

“I can’t believe my ears,” says Mr. Preston. “It’s like that old story by O. Henry—nothing goes right, but all is well in the end.”

“Speaking of ‘all’s well in the end,’ it’s time,” says Mr. Snow.

I’m about to announce to my maids that the party is over and we must get back to work, but before I can get a word out, my gran-dad puts a hand on my shoulder.

“There is one more gift, Molly.”

“You mean for Juan Manuel?” I ask. “I’m afraid I don’t know where he is.”

“I mean for you.”

Gran-dad turns and looks up, way up, at the shining star rising above the terrace on the very tippy top of the Christmas tree. But then something, or rather, someone, moves behind the tree. It’s Juan. He steps out from the boughs and looks down at me from the starlit terrace. He’s dressed in crisp chef whites but with a black bow tie around his neck. In his hands he holds a bouquet of red roses.

“Juan?” I exclaim as I look up at him. “What in heavens are you doing up there hiding behind the Christmas tree?”

Suddenly, all of my misgivings flood back—the comings and goings, the strange behaviors, the explanations that make no sense. I can’t make heads or tails of any of it. And now, it’s happening here, in public, before the entire hotel staff.

Waiters and receptionists titter and laugh. Bellhops and valets chortle out loud. It’s déjà vu, like being haunted by the ghost of a Christmas past. Yet again, I’ve said something foolish, and I have no idea what it is.

“They’re laughing at me, all of them,” I whisper to Angela as I take in their jeering faces.

“They’re laughing with you, not at you,” she says. “I promise.”

Just then, Juan descends the stairs, step by step, slowly, stopping on the final tread underneath the evergreen archway.

The laughing stops, and silence descends. Everyone gathered becomes so still that not a corsage jingles or a spoon tinkles. Somehow this hush is more discomfiting than any noise I’ve ever heard.

“Molly,” Juan says, as he turns his dark-eyed gaze my way. “Will you join me?” He points to the archway above his head and the mistletoe dangling there.

I look at my gran-dad, searching his face for some clue as to what on earth is going on.

“It’s all right, Molly. Come.” He offers me an arm, and feeling quite unsteady, I take it, allowing him to lead me up the step to stand beside Juan under the archway.

“Molly,” Juan says. “This morning I told you I have a question for you, and now, I’m going to ask it.”

“You’re going to ask it here?”

The crowd laughs again, and I feel the room tilt underneath my feet. I grab a garland-wrapped balustrade to keep myself steady and upright.

“Molly Gray, Head Maid and love of my life,” Juan says, “will you marry me?”

Before I can even process the words, Juan reaches for a silver clamshell box tied on a gold ribbon around the bouquet of roses. He opens the box. Though I’ve seen it before, what’s inside is confusing—a Claddagh ring, the one my gran-dad showed me yesterday, the one that was going to be given to some lucky young lady.

My chest is tight. My breath stops short, and suddenly, I’m seeing stars. I don’t know if the lights twinkling in my peripheral vision are the tree’s or my own. An arm grips me to keep me upright.

“Molly, please don’t faint,” says Juan.

His eyes are liquid chocolates. The moment they meet mine, my breath returns, and the room rights itself. Juan stands there, awaiting my reply.

“This question,” I say. “You can’t be serious. Why would you want to marry me?”

“Because I do !” he exclaims. “Except those two words are the ones I’d hoped you’d say, not me.” He pauses, holding the bouquet and ring box in one hand while he wipes his brow with the other. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.” He takes a deep breath and looks at me again. “Molly, I know you’ve had your doubts about me, especially lately, but they’re unfounded. Nothing is as it seems.”

His hands are shaking. The roses tremble.

“Red roses,” I say. “Didn’t I see these yesterday?”

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “I brought them to Angela to hide in the storeroom of the Social, but then you caught me in flagrante, so I beelined out the back door.”

I look at Angela.

“He sure did,” she confirms. “A streak of red and white, like a candy cane on the run.”

“And then, to make matters worse,” Juan says, “Cheryl caught me upstairs going into that woman’s room.”

“Very fishy, Se?or Dishy,” Cheryl says with a waggle of her finger.

“Not fishy at all,” says Mr. Snow. “I gave Juan my express permission to enter that guest’s room. He’s been baking extra Christmas cookies in the kitchen downstairs, earning a bit of extra money by offering them on consignment to hotel guests. Our guests love his baking, and it’s bringing the hotel great publicity, too.”

“Extra dough for extra dough,” says Angela. “Get it, Molly?”

“A pun,” I reply. “Understood. But why do you need extra dough?” I ask Juan.

“To buy you an engagement ring, a new one. I’ve been working as Mr. Rosso’s superintendent for the last three months. That’s why I’m racing around all the time when we’re at home, fixing things and trying to hide what I’m up to. I made Mr. Rosso promise not to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Your affairs are none of my business. Mr. Rosso’s words ring in my ears, another thing I’ve gotten wrong.

“I had the ring all picked out. But I didn’t know your ring size, which is why my mom sent the atrapanovios. ”

“The stain on my finger.”

“A measurement,” says Juan. “Then I dragged you to that jewelry store to see how you felt about diamonds. I wanted to buy you a fancy new ring from that place. But when you said the bracelet on the poster was too expensive, I started to think maybe I messed up—that an expensive, new engagement ring wasn’t what you’d want at all. Recycle and reuse. Waste not, want not. That’s what you always say.”

“And that’s when Mr. Preston came up with an idea,” Angela adds.

My gran-dad steps forward. “Molly, that Claddagh ring was your gran’s,” he explains. “I once put it on her finger, but it wasn’t meant to be. I know for certain she cherished that ring and hoped with all her might that, though she never wore it on her ring finger, one day you’d wear it on yours.”

I look down at the ring nestled in satin and shining like a star in the clamshell box. Oh, how I’ve gotten everything wrong—Juan’s exhaustion, his mysterious disappearances, the women who meant nothing at all. I’ve done it again. I’ve misread all the clues.

“Juan,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I assumed the worst of you instead of the best. I made an A-S-S, not out of U but out of ME. I see it now, all that you were trying to do—for us, for me.” I look at him and see his eyes are glassy and he’s on the verge of tears. He’s been with me all along, right by my side, though I doubted him. He’s put everything into this moment, and I long to make it right. “Will you please repeat your question one more time?” I ask.

Juan nods and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Molly Gray,” he says, “Head Maid and love of my life, will you marry me?”

There is only one answer. It was there all along, and now I see it, plain as day.

“Yes,” I say. “I would be honored to be your wife.”

Juan removes the ring from its box and gives the roses to Angela to hold. He slips the ring on my finger, a perfect fit—a heart held in hands that remind me of my gran’s.

I have never been proposed to before. I don’t know what to do next, so I curtsy. Everyone laughs.

“Molly, I know rules are important,” Juan says, “and far be it from me to break one, but do you think that maybe just this once we could break our rule?” As he says this, he looks up at the archway above our heads and the mistletoe hanging there.

I look out at the staff, the maids gathered on one side, the cooks on the other, the bellhops and valets, the receptionists and waiters. Mr. Snow stands in front of them all, and Mr. Preston, the doorman (a.k.a. my gran-dad), has taken a place by his side. All of them, even Cheryl, have tears in their eyes.

I turn back to Juan Manuel. “What I think,” I say, “is that you should kiss me.”

Under the mistletoe, Juan’s lips meet mine. They are lush and warm, and as I close my eyes, all my troubles, all my strife melts away. It’s as if we’re in a snow globe, a tiny perfect world where only the two of us exist.

Juan pulls away and his eyes meet mine.

Suddenly, I understand what I failed to comprehend before. Just like that, the mystery is solved. “A bride and groom!” I exclaim. “The two figures! That’s what you saw in the snow globe.”

“Yes,” Juan replies. “I saw our Christmas future. And I’m so glad you see it now, too.”

—

When I was a child, my gran loved to entertain me with parables and fairy tales. She always put her own spin on them, embedding a moral or a warning of some kind.

Once, she told me the story of a maid who’d been wrongly accused of stealing a piece of silverware only for it to be discovered too late that a rat was the real culprit. She also told a tale about a poor young couple who were very much in love and wanted to exchange gifts at Christmas. The wife cut her hair to buy her husband a chain for his watch, and he sold his watch to buy her combs for her hair, rendering both gifts useless in the end, but it didn’t matter. As Gran always knew, love is the only gift that lasts.

It is Christmas morning. Juan Manuel is humming carols in the kitchen and preparing a sumptuous brunch with more food than we’ll ever be able to eat in one day. My gran-dad and Charlotte will arrive soon, wearing silly Christmas sweaters, laden with gifts and good cheer. We will eat and laugh and sing—all of us together, our special found family.

But before they arrive, I’ve slipped away for a quiet moment to myself. It’s strange for me to come here twice in one week, to the room that used to be Gran’s. I’m seated on her bed, holding a heart-shaped jewelry box in my hands. I look at the ring on my finger. It’s a near-perfect match—my hands hold her heart, and her hands hold mine.

I open the box, and I swear on my life, I hear her voice, merry and bright, singing the last line of her favorite carol:

Have yourself a merry little Christmas now.