Chapter 6

Once I’m awake for a few minutes, the bad thoughts retreat. It’s like this sometimes. Terrible notions hold me prisoner in the night, removing all hope and seeding doubt deep within.

There are devils in the dark. Search for the light.

That’s what Gran used to say. In the morning, she’d open the curtains in our apartment, and everything would look better when the light streamed in. I wonder now if she was plagued by bad dreams the way I was, if fear and anxiety overtook her at night, too. I wish I’d asked her that when she was still alive, but I was too young then, too fixated on my own devils to consider she might be contending with her own.

Now, Juan swipes the curtains open, then scoops me out of bed, giggling like a schoolboy as he carries me into the living room and puts me down in front of the Advent calendar. He stands impatiently beside it, hopping from one foot to the other, saying, “Open it! Open it!” Never in my life have I known anyone who loves gift giving as much as my beloved Juan Manuel.

I smile and slide open today’s Advent calendar drawer. Inside is a little bundle of greens with sprigs of white berries. I recognize what it is right away.

“Mistletoe!” I say as I remove the sprig from the drawer.

“Yes!” he says. “And I already have a perfect spot for it, right above the kitchen entrance.” He points to the passage, where I see he’s affixed a little hook.

He takes the mistletoe from my hands and shuffles toward the kitchen, reaching up to place it high above his head. Then he strikes a pose underneath. “I figure if I stand under here long enough, you’ll take the hint. Or at least the opportunity,” he says.

“You are the silliest man I’ve ever known,” I reply as I walk over to him.

“And? What else am I?” he asks.

“You are charming,” I reply. “And thoughtful.”

“Anything else?”

He leans on the entrance, waiting for more.

“You are perhaps a little bit handsome, even in reindeer pajama bottoms.”

“You mean especially in reindeer pajama bottoms.”

“Agreed,” I reply.

“And therefore…” he says, looking up at the mistletoe.

“And therefore,” I say, “I will kiss you.”

I step closer and press my lips to his. His arms wrap around me, and the moment they do, all is right in the world.

—

We hurry through our breakfast; we shower and get dressed as quickly as we can. Then, we’re out the door and walking briskly hand in hand to the Regency Grand, where a busy preholiday workday awaits us.

As we walk, Juan chirps away, filling me in on all the festive treats he’s been learning to make. He’s become quite a talented pastry chef, and his superiors have noticed. Gone are his days of toiling over the beast of a dishwasher in the steaming back room off the kitchen. Now, mixers and ovens are his domain, and he loves this new role.

“They’re giving me more responsibility this year. I’m not only baking the Christmas cakes and cookies, I’m icing them, too. Do you know the difference between royal icing and fondant?” he asks.

“Educate me,” I reply.

Juan launches into a detailed explanation not only of fondant and royal icing but of buttercream and marzipan, describing the full cornucopia of sweet delectables he’s learned to create out of sugar. He talks so passionately that by the time we arrive at the front steps of the hotel, visions of sugar plums are dancing in my head.

But those are quickly replaced by a new and equally wondrous vision. The Regency Grand is decked out for the holidays, with garlands of holly winding up the brass handrails all the way to the gleaming gold revolving front doors. Tinsel festoons the doorman’s podium, making it shimmer and glow in the morning light. Even Mr. Preston is wearing his holiday best—a long red greatcoat with a Santa hat in place of his usual doorman’s cap. If I squint, I could mistake him for Father Christmas himself. He’s chatting with an older couple, helping them carry suitcases and parcels up the stairs.

“Oh!” says Juan. “There’s something I have to ask Mr. Preston. You go in and I’ll see you later, Molly. Okay?”

“Sure,” I say. I offer a little curtsy and he gives me his best formal bow. We both agreed long ago that kissing at our workplace would be the height of impropriety, so instead we avoid shows of affection when we’re anywhere near the hotel, opting for formality instead.

Juan rushes up the stairs just as Mr. Preston returns to his podium, and I watch as he whispers in Mr. Preston’s ear. They both look my way, and I wonder what it is they’re whispering about. Still, there’s no time to ask. I wave as I walk past them and into the hotel.

I’m delivered into the glorious lobby, which is at its most magnificent during the holiday season. The scent of cinnamon spice hits my nostrils—mulled cider is offered to guests at the reception desk, comforting warmth against winter’s chill. The hotel staff don bell corsages throughout the month of December, which means the lobby rings pleasantly as valets, receptionists, and bellhops jingle-jangle across marble floors, luggage in tow.

But the lobby’s pièce de résistance is the breathtaking Christmas tree beside the main staircase, a live evergreen so tall that only from the very top of the terrace are you at eye level with the tree topper—an elegant jewel-encrusted spire that casts an enchanting glow over both floors. Winding up the tree itself is a miniature Santa sleigh pulled by nine mechanical reindeer circling a snow-covered track from the bottom boughs right to the tippy top. Guests sit on the emerald settees, watching in wonder as the little sleigh spirals on its course up and through the tree, appearing a minute later at the summit, laden with wrapped gifts. There’s nary a free seat in the lobby today as guests chitter and chatter, drinking mulled cider and planning their holiday shopping sprees.

“Molly!” I hear. I follow the sound to where our hotel manager, Mr. Snow—dapperly dressed in a forest-green velvet vest complete with a jingle-bell corsage—is waving at me from the reception desk. I walk his way.

“Just the person I wanted to see,” Mr. Snow says, offering a demure smile. “I do appreciate your early arrival, Molly, especially as we’re fully booked—and only a day away from our big staff party. Preparations are going well, but there’s much more to do. The maids are bound to be quite busy upstairs today, too.”

“Be a worker not a shirker,” I reply.

“Touché,” says Mr. Snow.

At regular intervals, groups of new arrivals stream through the gold revolving doors and into the bustling lobby.

“Listen, Molly,” says Mr. Snow. “I’ve been thinking a bit more about our holiday party. I realize you’re not a fan of the Secret Santa gift exchange, and I wanted to check how you’re feeling about the fact that we’re doing one tomorrow amongst the staff.” Mr. Snow eyes me in a curious way as he awaits my response.

“Perhaps you recall the Secret Santa debacle of Christmases past?” I say. “A few years back, your staff made me feel like an outcast on the very day when charity is expected. I will participate in the gift giving this year, but it’s not like I’ve forgotten what happened before.” What I keep to myself is that I’ve just relived that horrid event in my head, and I’ve no desire to re-create it IRL, as Juan would say.

“I do recall that dreadful occasion,” Mr. Snow replies with a little sniff. “But that will never happen again. Not on my watch.” To punctuate this, he removes his pocket watch from his green velvet vest. It is an antique timepiece, pure silver, with ornate, delicate hands.

“Careful!” I say as it slips from his grasp, as it so often does. I grab it just before it hits the hard marble floor.

“Good catch, Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “Oh, and since you’re here a bit early, could you have a word with senior managers and ask them to remind staff to bring their Secret Santa gifts to tomorrow’s party? As I’ve explained to everyone, there’s no need for extravagance. The theme is ‘recycle and reuse.’ If staff want to make gifts or regift items, not only will it be deemed perfectly acceptable, it will be lauded.”

“Waste not want not,” I say. “Put thrift in the gift.”

“Precisely,” says Mr. Snow.

“I do hope my Secret Santa likes my gift,” I say.

“Whoever it is, I’m sure they will,” Mr. Snow replies.

I try to stifle a smile so as not to reveal that the Secret Santa recipient I randomly drew is the very man standing before me—Mr. Snow himself. I’d hoped to select my friend Angela, the barmaid at the Social, or even one of the room maids I know so well. It would have been much easier to come up with a present they’d like, but alas, that did not come to pass. However, with a bit of thought and ingenuity, I’d figured out the perfect present for Mr. Snow.

“Is something humorous?” Mr. Snow asks, his eyebrows knitting together on his forehead.

“Not in the least,” I reply as I return my face to neutral.

“Very well,” he says with a little bow of his head. “You have my word that what happened to you the last time we did a Secret Santa will never happen again. Things will be different this year, Molly—I promise you.”

“I appreciate that,” I say as I hand Mr. Snow his pocket watch. “Be careful with this. Don’t let it slip from your grasp.”

“I’ll do my very best.”

—

I make my way to the basement change rooms in the housekeeping quarters. Inside, Lily, a marvelous young maid I hired last year, is already neatly dressed in her maid’s uniform. She stands in front of a mirror, adroitly affixing her jingle-bell corsage above her name tag.

“Good morning, Lily,” I say. “It’s good to see you.”

She smiles by way of reply but doesn’t say a word, not that this is out of character. Lily is the kind of person who speaks only when she has something important to say—unlike some. And by “some,” I mean Cheryl, my least favorite maid on staff and the bane of my professional existence. Cheryl is splayed on a bench in front of her locker, flipping through the pages of a gossip magazine with a highly unsanitary licked finger. She’s changed into her maid’s uniform, but it is rumpled and disheveled. It’s clear she’s wearing the same uniform she wore on her last shift. Her freshly dry-cleaned one, wrapped in gossamer-thin plastic, hangs untouched from her locker door. I’m about to raise this hygiene infraction, but Gran’s voice stops me.

Pick your enemies and battles wisely.

Cheryl is early for her shift (proving that wonders never cease), and given her fondness for tardiness and devious behaviors of all kinds, I must take this as a win. I breathe deeply, gathering strength. Then I pick up my own neatly pressed uniform hanging off my locker door and begin to change.

“Get a load of this,” Cheryl says. “Marriage on rocks. Trouble in paradise!” she reads from the gossip mag she’s been flipping through. She points to photos of a familiar celebrity duo on the center spread. The actor couple is well known to us at the Regency Grand. They stayed in our penthouse suite six months ago, causing quite a sensation. They seemed so happy at the time—newlyweds beaming in front of paparazzi lenses and joyfully signing autographs for guests and staff alike. But now, in these unauthorized photos, they’re caught fighting in flagrante at their beachfront property in southern climes.

“Marriage is a sham,” Cheryl says. “I wouldn’t get married if you paid me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lily quips. She knows full well Cheryl’s penchant for doing just about anything for money—including stealing tips meant for other maids. Lily catches my eye, and it’s all I can do not to LOL, as Juan would say.

“Lily, if that clingy boyfriend of yours asked you to marry him, please tell me you wouldn’t be stupid enough to say yes,” Cheryl says.

Lily’s boyfriend, Isaac, is devoted, not clingy—an upstanding young gentleman.

“I might say yes,” Lily replies. She takes a brush from her locker and begins to smooth out her hair. “What about you, Molly?” Lily asks. “Would you say yes if he proposed?”

“Goodness, no!” I reply. “I have no interest whatsoever in Isaac.”

Cheryl hoots with laughter, then wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Lily, you’re talking with Little Miss Literal. You gotta make things crystal clear,” she says, pointing a germ-covered finger at me.

“What I mean,” Lily explains, “is that if Juan proposed to you, would you say yes?”

I consider Lily’s question as I finish getting dressed. I’ve done up the last button on my uniform and attached my jingle-bell corsage. Now, I add my favorite accessory—my name tag, which reads Molly, Head Maid .

“My gran used to say that a successful marriage requires falling in love many times. But the trick is that it’s always with the same person.”

Lily nods knowingly. “Yes. That’s the trick.”

What I don’t say is that the last part of Gran’s pronouncement gives me pause. Of course I adore Juan Manuel. There’s no one else alive who makes me happier. Still, I’m not sure marriage is the key to assuring happiness will last. Gran never married, and she always warned me about making the wrong match, said it was hard to tell the difference between a good man and a bad one. Fly-by-nights and wolves in sheep’s clothing, Molly—some women become prey to them, learning the truth too late.

“Ow!” I say, flinching as I inadvertently stab myself with my Head Maid pin.

“Careful or you’ll stick that thing right through your heart,” Cheryl says, her words sounding more like a wish than a warning.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say. “Mr. Snow asked me to remind you to bring your Secret Santa gifts to the party tomorrow. And remember: recycle and reuse. That’s this year’s theme.”

“Let me guess—that was your idea,” Cheryl says as she sneers in my general direction.

“In fact, it was the brainchild of Mr. Snow—to discourage excess consumerism, reward thrift, and promote charity and thoughtfulness at this time of year.”

“Not that you’d know much about that,” Lily says so quietly I’m not entirely certain Cheryl hears.

“We’d best get going,” I urge. “I presume the other maids are already upstairs?”

“They are,” says Lily.

“I need to issue the same reminder to staff in the lobby, then I’ll meet you on the fourth floor in a jiffy,” I explain.

“I’ll head up when I’m finished reading this article,” Cheryl says.

“You’ll head up tout de suite, ” I reply. “The dream of clean works best as a team. Remember?”

Cheryl rolls up her magazine and jams it into her front pocket. “As if you’d let me forget.”

—

Lily and Cheryl take the elevator to the fourth floor and begin cleaning guest rooms while I trot up the stairs to the lobby, heading straight for the Social bar and grill. Not only is my friend Angela the bartender but she was recently promoted to manager as well. Despite the big step up, Angela remains exactly the same—fiery as her flaming red hair.

“I’m up in everyone’s grill. So what?” That’s what she told Mr. Snow just the other day when he asked why she reprimanded the cook after he substituted smoked Gouda with processed cheese slices in the Social’s signature sandwich, the Club Fromage.

“Standards, Snow,” Angela argued. “You of all people should know how important it is to maintain them.”

All of this was reported to me by Angela herself, complete with garnishes, side dishes, and an assortment of other verbal embellishments, because when it comes to Angela’s stories, her appetite for explanation outequals my own. One thing I’ve been listening to quite patiently for the last few months is Angela’s “five-year plan,” to which she’s sworn me to secrecy.

Angela’s saving to go back to school to become a private detective. She’s always been a true-crime aficionado, obsessed with criminal behavior. When that shady business went down a year ago and a famous author who shall remain nameless dropped dead— very dead—on the Regency Grand’s tearoom floor, Angela’s sleuthing powers proved helpful in solving the crime. Detective Stark, the investigator on the case, was quite impressed with her. And I suppose she was also impressed with me. In fact, Stark suggested I should retrain as a PI, but in truth, I think Angela’s much more suited to that career. I prefer to clean rooms rather than crime scenes. Still, I’m excited about Angela’s top-secret plan, and I look forward to living vicariously.

There she is now, batting an errant strand of red hair from her eyes as she pours two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice on a tray for a waiter standing by.

“Table two, be quick about it,” Angela tells the waiter, who rushes off with the drinks. “Molly! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be upstairs?” As she says this, she looks behind her into the storeroom entrance.

“Mr. Snow sent me on an errand,” I say. I launch into my reminder about the Secret Santa tomorrow.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t forget to bring my gift,” Angela says. “Would you believe I drew Cheryl?”

“So much for Secret Santa,” I say, though if Angela catches my admonishment, she doesn’t show it.

“I figured out the perfect gift for her,” Angela replies.

“What?” I ask.

“A lump of coal. Or something worse if I can fish it out of my toilet.”

“Now, now,” I say. “It’s Christmas, remember? The time of year to be generous and charitable.”

“Even to those who don’t deserve it?”

“Especially to them,” I say.

Just then, a streak of red and white flashes through the doorway behind Angela—someone running full tilt toward the Social’s back door. It happens so quickly, I barely have time to take it in, but if my eyes don’t deceive me, that flash was my very own Juan Manuel in his white chef’s uniform, carrying a huge bouquet of red roses.

“Did you see that?” I ask Angela.

“See what?” she asks, her fingers fiddling with her apron strings.

“Someone just ran through the storeroom behind you.”

“No,” she says. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone.” There’s a look on Angela’s face that’s very hard to decipher. She makes a futile attempt to arrange her restless hair, which as usual refuses to respect the boundaries of her hair tie.

“I think it was Juan Manuel,” I say.

“It can’t be,” Angela answers. “Why would your boyfriend be here instead of downstairs in the kitchen? You’re seeing things.”

“Someone was just there. I swear.”

Angela begins to aggressively scour spots from a glass while I make my way around the bar to stand beside her.

“What are you doing back here?” she asks.

I ignore her, walking straight into the storeroom toward the rear exit, Angela nipping at my heels.

She ducks in front of me, then blocks the back door. “See?” she says. “Look around. No one here.”

Indeed, the room is filled with bins and boxes, beer kegs and crates, but there’s no one in it except us.

“Excuse me,” I say as I sidle past Angela and push the long metal handle of the back door. I peek outside, looking left and right into the short alleyway out back—not a soul in sight.

I come back inside, shutting the door tight behind me.

“Honestly,” says Angela. “You should get your eyes checked. Professionally.”

I suddenly feel daft and ridiculous. Why am I chasing shadows that don’t even exist, and what did I think I’d see outside that door?

“I don’t know what got into me,” I say. “Looks like I’m seeing things. Sorry. I best be off. Guest rooms don’t clean themselves.”

“Catch you later?” Angela says, and I nod, making my way to the bar, then leaving through the front entrance of the restaurant without looking back.

Only when I’m halfway through the lobby standing by the gold revolving doors do I spot the red-and-green smear on the palm of my hand. The handle of the Social’s back door was sticky when I opened it, and whatever was on it is now stuck to me.

I hold my palm up for closer inspection. I sniff—the scent is sugary and sweet.

It may be fondant or royal or buttercream, but one thing is for certain—the sticky smear on my palm is icing…which means, contrary to Angela’s assessment, my eyes don’t require professional attention after all.