Chapter 7

I scrub my hands in the lobby washroom to remove the icing caked on them. Out, damned spot. The phrase repeats ad infinitum in my mind.

As I stare into the flow of tepid water, I remember how some time ago, a hotel guest used a word I was unfamiliar with, and when I later asked Angela about it, she said it had nothing whatsoever to do with electrics. The word was “gaslighting.”

“It’s when someone messes with your mind, makes you question reality,” Angela explained.

Now, as I scrub out this red-and-green spot, her words return. Isn’t that precisely what Angela just did to me—gaslighting? She made me doubt myself, question what I saw with my own two eyes—Juan Manuel, running full tilt out the back door of the Social with a big bouquet of red roses.

But why? Why would she pretend he wasn’t ever there?

A thought crosses my mind, but I banish it before it can take root and spread like a contagion. Not only is it absolutely improbable that Juan was at the restaurant, but it’s equally improbable that he was there to see Angela.

Or is it?

Juan often asks about her. “Did you see Angela today?” he’ll query on our way home from work. “Have you spoken to her on the phone? How’s she doing?”

I always fill him in on this or that, the most recent true-crime podcast she told me about or some shocking turn of phrase she used that made me BOL—blush out loud. I’ve always interpreted Juan’s interest in her as friendly, a natural extension of caring for someone near and dear to me.

“Never in my life have I seen anyone with hair the color of flames—and a personality to match it,” Juan said the other day when I was talking about Angela. I thought nothing of it at the time, least of all that he might find her attractive, which she most certainly is. But now, I have to wonder…

When you assume, you make an A-S-S out of U and ME.

It is absurd. I will give this notion no further thought. I will wipe it clean from the slate of my mind.

I pump the soap dispenser until my fingers are thick with lather, then I scrub my hands one final time. I wash the soap off, then dry my hands. But before I can head upstairs and resume the job I’m best at—cleaning up messes I can actually see rather than those streaking past into obscurity—I have one more reminder to issue, to Mr. Preston, the doorman, a.k.a. my gran-dad.

—

“Molly, my dear!” Mr. Preston says the moment he sees me. I’m standing on the red-carpeted stairs outside the main entrance of the Regency Grand, hugging myself against the mid-December chill.

“What are you doing outside? And without a coat?” He rushes over, about to remove his Father Christmas greatcoat, when I stop him.

“I won’t be out here long. Just running an errand for Mr. Snow.” I remind him of tomorrow’s Secret Santa gift exchange.

“I, for one, am glad we’re reviving that old tradition,” he says. “Mark my words, it will be a memorable holiday party this year, Molly, with lots of surprises.”

“Speaking of surprises, don’t tell me who you picked,” I say.

“I won’t,” Mr. Preston says, “but I do have a question for you regarding a gift for a very special lady.”

“Very well,” I say, pleased that he’s taking pains to hide the identity of his Secret Santa recipient.

He reaches into his greatcoat and pulls out something shiny and gold from deep within, holding it in his enormous, bear-like hand.

“It’s a Claddagh ring, Molly. Have you seen one before?”

I gaze at the lovely ring nestled in Mr. Preston’s palm. It’s a gold band with a heart in the center, held in place by two tiny hands. On top of the heart is a crown that catches the light, sending hopeful beams radiating out.

“My goodness, it’s beautiful!” I say. “Did it belong to your wife, Mary?” I ask. Mary, a lovely woman and a good friend to my very own gran, died many years ago.

“It did not,” my gran-dad replies. “I bought it long before Mary was even in the picture, and in the end, it has remained tucked away in a box all these years. Best that it sees the light of day, don’t you agree?”

“I completely agree,” I reply. “But it sure is extravagant,” I add. I can only imagine the lucky lady at our Christmas party who opens her Secret Santa gift to discover this treasure is hers.

“It’s interesting, Molly,” he says. “Not everyone would appreciate this ring the way you do. From what I gather, these days young ladies prefer things modern and new, fresh from a fancy store. But I’ve always loved this old ring, simple though it is. Are you sure you like it?”

“Of course I like it,” I say. “But that doesn’t really matter since it’s not for me. My gran always taught me to give a gift for the other person, not for yourself. That’s real generosity, don’t you think? And the true spirit of Christmas, too.”

I wait for my gran-dad to answer, but he doesn’t, and when I look up at him, I’m not quite sure what I’m seeing. Is it the cold, or are those tears welling in his eyes?

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Never better,” he replies. “Now remember, this chat we just had, it never happened.”

“Of course,” I say with a wink. “Your Secret Santa is safe with me.”