Chapter 8

At last, it’s time for me to do the job I’m meant to do—clean hotel rooms. I take the elevator to the fourth floor, where Lily is returning suites to a state of perfection. She’s not engaged in this endeavor alone—Cheryl’s with her—but the one thing Cheryl excels at is doing very little, which is why I must check in with Lily before anything else.

There’s Lily now, dragging two enormous bags of soiled sheets into the hallway toward the housekeeping vestibule.

“Oh, Molly. Thank goodness you’re here,” she says. “I’m falling behind already.”

“Not to worry. We’ll catch up in a jiffy. I’ll deal with Cheryl,” I say.

“Thank you,” says Lily, with an audible sigh of relief.

“Where is she?”

“?‘Taking a load off.’ As usual.” Lily points to a guest room at the far end of the floor.

I make my way over to where Cheryl’s trolley is propping the door open. The moment I enter, Cheryl pops up from an easy chair and brazenly attempts to stuff her gossip magazine under the mattress of the unmade king-sized bed.

“I was just—”

“Shirking,” I say. With Cheryl, it’s best to interrupt the lamentable excuses before the offense to my ears becomes intolerable.

Cheryl has been on thin ice ever since she was caught last year handling hotel items that didn’t belong to her. While Cheryl wasn’t exactly penitent about her cleptomaniacal tendencies, I’ll admit I took pity on her and petitioned Mr. Snow to give her a second chance to prove herself worthy of a job. And she’s shown…mediocre improvement since then. But let’s just say there are times, including now, when I regret my inclination toward mercy.

“Might I ask,” I say, “how you intend to make up for leaving Lily in the lurch, cleaning rooms by herself all morning?”

As I say this, I remove the magazine Cheryl stuffed under the mattress and hand it back to her.

“I’ll finish the rest of the rooms on this floor while Lily takes a long lunch,” Cheryl says. “Fair and square, the maids all share.”

She’s quoting from A Maid’s Guide & Handbook, a set of rules I developed to codify proper conduct amongst Regency Grand maids. I’m pleased that, for once, she’s spouting something other than stories from her gossip rags.

Just then, a familiar sound echoes through the hallway— someone singing along to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I poke my head out the door, and Cheryl does the same. Both of us scan the hallway for the source of the sound.

“Oh look, it’s Se?or Dishy,” Cheryl says.

My hackles go up instantly. “You mean Juan Manuel,” I reply.

“I mean your lover boy, the dishwasher.”

“The pastry chef,” I offer by way of correction. “He was promoted as a reward for his hard work and loyalty—something to think about.”

“Loyalty? You sure about that?”

As we both look on, Juan knocks on a guest’s door, and a female patron dressed only in a bathrobe comes slinking out to greet him.

“Am I ever excited to see you! Especially after your special delivery the other day,” she says with a wink. “Come in! I’ve got a little something for you…”

As I watch, dumbfounded, the woman grabs Juan Manuel by the arm and pulls him into her room. The next thing I know, the door slams closed behind them.

“What was it you were saying about loyalty?” Cheryl asks.

“Best get started on the bed,” I reply. “Strip it bare and put on fresh sheets.” I grab clean ones from the trolley and thrust them at Cheryl.

Normally, I’d help her make the bed, but a vertiginous sensation has overcome me, and I’m struggling to remain upright. My entire equilibrium has been thrown so off kilter I fear I may faint right in the open doorway. I peek down the hall one more time and see Juan emerge from the mystery guest’s room, the door clicking closed behind him. He folds a few fresh bills in half and stuffs them into the breast pocket of his chef’s uniform. Then he saunters down the corridor humming “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” and acting like entering a woman’s hotel room is the most quotidian thing in the world.

Cheryl throws the fresh sheets on top of the bed, then joins me again at the lookout spot. “Men,” she says, once Juan is out of sight. “Just when you think you know them, they make you question everything.”

“Best not to jump to conclusions. I’m sure there’s some logical explanation,” I say in a voice so unnatural I sound like a braying donkey.

“Oh, there’s an explanation all right,” Cheryl says. “Here.” She hands me her magazine, flipped open to an article with a headline that reads: 3 Surefire Ways to Know If He’s Cheating on You .

I don’t want to read this rubbish, but my eyes have ideas of their own.

#1. Does your boyfriend disappear and reappear with no explanation?

Once yesterday, and twice today.

#2. Is he tired all the time? Cheating takes energy!

The dark circles under his eyes, the sleeping in when he’s never done so before.

#3. Does he give you gifts out of guilt?

Every single day. The Advent calendar, each drawer filled with a new and exquisite treasure. I thought it was generosity, but what if it’s something else entirely?

The floor beneath my feet starts to tilt again. I push Cheryl’s magazine back into her hands and grip the maid’s trolley in an effort to remain upright.

“Most princes turn out to be frogs in really good costumes,” Cheryl says, her lips curling into a smile bereft of all joy.

“It’s time for lunch,” I say. “I need a break.”

“Good idea,” says Cheryl. “Let’s take a load off.”

She ambles over to the chair by the king-sized bed and flops down on it, licking her finger and turning the pages of her trashy magazine. For the first time ever, I don’t have the strength to do anything about it.

—

Somewhere deep in my chest, my heart protests. I hear it pulsing all the way to my ears, feel it pounding against my rib cage—an empty cup clanging against iron bars. Dear heart, there is no escape—that’s what I tell it, but the message isn’t getting through. The futile protest continues.

I always believed this: that love was a safe haven, a refuge for those lucky enough to find it. But what if I was wrong? What if love is actually a prison with no escape?

Love is the greatest gift of all.

I head downstairs to the housekeeping quarters, where I grab my coat from my locker, ignoring the paper bag lunch, which Juan made me in the hotel kitchen. He does this every day, makes me lunch, then slips the bag onto the shelf in my locker while I’m cleaning rooms upstairs.

I can’t eat, and I don’t even want to think about the contents of that paper bag, with a note tucked inside as usual:

Sweets for my sweet. Love Juan

You are the butter on my bread, the cheese in my sandwich. Love Juan

Just a few days away from a Molly Jolly Christmas! Love Juan

I put on my coat, then tromp up the stairs to the lobby. Cinnamon spice assaults my nostrils the second I ascend the final tread. The Christmas tree, so majestic just a few hours ago, suddenly looks sinister. It’s only a matter of time until its needles drop and it’s hauled to the curb—used up, discarded forever. Does this same fate await me?

Think the best, not the worst.

I’m doing it again, jumping to conclusions, rushing ahead before I really understand what it is that’s happening. Juan deserves the benefit of the doubt. I must speak to him as soon as possible, once we’re done with our shifts for the day. I must tell him what I’ve witnessed, ask him directly what he’s been up to. Surely there’s some explanation, some obvious facts I’ve managed to misinterpret.

Keep calm and carry on.

I march through the lobby and the cliques of jubilant guests vibrating with Christmas cheer and make my way out the revolving front doors. I rush down the red-carpeted steps before my gran-dad can stop me. I have an errand to run, and the fresh air will clear my head.

It takes eighteen minutes of brisk walking until I’m standing in front of the jewelry store that Juan and I walked by just yesterday. I pull open the door and walk in.

A pretty shopkeeper wearing a festive, form-fitting dress recognizes me right away.

“Oh, you’re back to pick up your custom piece, right?”

“I am,” I reply. “Is it ready?”

“It is,” she answers.

She retrieves a small box from inside a cabinet, then opens it for me on the glass countertop. “Here it is. It was a simple adjustment—just a matter of changing the clasp to a T-bar.”

“So the price you quoted me remains the same?”

“Yes,” she replies. “Just ten dollars.”

“Oh, that’s excellent,” I say. “Thank you.” I take a bill out of my coat pocket and place it on the counter.

The shopkeeper looks at me, squinting, her head cocked to one side. “Weren’t you outside our store just yesterday? I saw you with someone, but you didn’t come in.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I say. “I was with my boyfriend. He wanted to come inside, but after reading the fine print on your advertisement out front, I dissuaded him. My gran always told me it’s dangerous to have expensive taste without a wallet to complement it.”

“At least your boyfriend wants to buy you nice things,” the shopkeeper replies. “You should count yourself lucky.”

Usually, I do count myself lucky. But today, I’m filled with doubt. And for the first time in a long time, I’m no longer sure I’m so lucky after all.