Epilogue

Never fear a new beginning. One chapter must end for another to begin.

I’m standing in front of Gran’s curio cabinet in the apartment I used to share with her and will soon share once more with my beloved Juan Manuel, who is returning from his trip in just a short time.

In one hand, I hold a cloth. In my other hand, I hold an ornamental egg. The Fabergé has not been cleaned in well over a decade. I’m certain I was the last to clean it, getting in trouble for wiping the patina of age away, for restoring the tarnished jewels and gold to a perfectly polished shine.

I don’t care if my cleaning it makes the egg less valuable. I don’t even know if this egg is a rare treasure as Mrs. Grimthorpe suggested it was all those years ago. That’s not what matters—not to me. What I behold is a thing so radiant and enchanting, it takes my breath away every time I look at it. I give it one final buff and polish, then place it on top of Gran’s cabinet right beside the photo of my mother as a young girl. Maggie, the stranger at my door. Maggie, who said she had once worked with my gran as a maid. Is that true? Did she, too, work in that loveless mansion, polishing silver and suffering Mr. Grimthorpe’s abuse? Three years after her mysterious appearance at our door that day, Gran told me my mother died. And yet, even so, I sometimes have visions of her appearing in my life out of nowhere, knocking on my door again the way she did all those years ago. But she hasn’t yet. And I suppose I must accept that she never will.

As soon as I think it, there’s a knock on the door, which makes me gasp and jolt. I look out the fish-eye peephole and am relieved to see Mr. Preston, right on time, wearing his plain clothes rather than a doorman’s cap and coat. He shifts from one foot to the other.

I open the door. “Mr. Preston, do come in,” I say. “I have our tea ready. We have just enough time for a chat before Juan Manuel arrives.”

“Wonderful,” he says as he steps inside. He passes me a box.

“Raisin bran muffins,” he says. “Your favorite,” he adds with a wink.

“How very thoughtful. I’ll add them to our tea service,” I say as I take them to the kitchen.

Mr. Preston removes his shoes, wipes the bottoms with the cleaning cloth in the closet, then neatly slips them onto the mat inside.

“How did the rest of today go, Mr. Preston?” I ask.

“I survived,” he replies. “When the press conference let out, the valets and I were mobbed on the stairs. I practically had to beat the crowd off as poor Ms. Sharpe made her escape in a taxi.”

“Did you know her when she was a child?” I ask.

“No,” he replies. “Unlike your grandmother, Abigail Sharpe never brought her daughter to the mansion. You were the only child around—our bright spot of hope amidst all that dreary darkness.”

The kettle boils. I transfer water into a proper teapot on Gran’s thrift-store silver tray and bring it to the living room along with two porcelain cups.

Mr. Preston takes a seat on the sofa, but he’s clearly unsettled. He fidgets and shifts in his place.

“Juan will be here in a bit,” I say. “He’s landed. But we have time for a spot of tea now.”

“Lovely,” says Mr. Preston. I pour tea into my favorite cup, the one with pretty white-and-yellow daisies on it, and I pass it to him. I fill Gran’s country cottage cup for myself.

“I better get to it, then,” he says as he takes a sip, then puts the cup down on its saucer. “There’s no easy way to say this, Molly, though I suspect you’ve known what I’m about to say for some time.”

“I’ll admit I do know, Mr. Preston. And it’s okay. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to retire. You deserve to enjoy your time off. No one can work forever.”

Mr. Preston stares at me with a look I can’t quite read. After a moment, he says, “Molly, I’m your grandfather.”

At first, I’m certain I’m hearing things. But then I realize what’s really going on. Poor Mr. Preston is older than I think and is losing touch with reality. Goodness me, his mind is starting to curdle like warm milk.

But when Mr. Preston repeats it—“Molly, did you hear me? I really am your grandfather”—I put down my teacup. The world begins to spin. Fabergés and muffins and Gran’s thrift-store silver dance before my eyes.

“Molly. Please don’t faint. Here,” he says, picking up my cup from the table and putting it in my hands. “Tea cures all ills.”

“My gran used to say that,” I say between long, unsteady breaths.

“I know,” he replies.

I look at him as the spinning world slows to a standstill. “Mr. Preston, are you of sound mind?” I ask.

“What? Of course I am,” he replies.

I wait for him to say more.

“Molly, years ago, when your gran and I were young and in love, her parents were desperate to keep us apart. Once upon a time, your gran had money. Her parents were very well-to-do. She was upper crust, and in her parents’ eyes, I was just a poor, useless crumb. But, you see, her parents failed to keep us apart.”

“Failed how?” I ask.

Mr. Preston takes a sip of tea. “I mean it literally, not figuratively.” He clears his throat and squirms in his seat.

It takes me a moment. “Oh,” I say. “I see.”

“Molly, when I found out your grandmother was pregnant, I wasn’t upset. Not at all. I told Flora it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I wanted to elope and live happily ever after. We made a plan to do it, but it never happened.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“On the day we’d planned to run away together, I went to her home, a posh three-story mansion in a neighborhood far from my own. I knocked on the door, but I wasn’t allowed in. Her parents didn’t even have the nerve to speak to me themselves. It was the butler who told me she was long gone.”

“She’d run away?” I ask.

“No. She was shipped away against her will. By her parents. They sent her to a home for unwed mothers, the kind where they take the baby away from its mother once it’s born.”

“But they didn’t take the baby away,” I say, my eyes turning to the photo on the curio cabinet. “Gran kept her. She raised my mother.”

“Yes, because she ran away from that loveless place. She escaped. She came back to the city. She showed up on her parents’ doorstep begging for forgiveness, but her parents disowned her. She was eight months pregnant, Molly. She accepted a job as a domestic maid, working for a very wealthy family. When her time came, she took a few days off to have her baby, and then she kept working with the infant bundled on her hip.”

“But why didn’t she come back to you? Why didn’t you help her?” I ask.

“She wanted nothing to do with me. Her parents had filled her with shame, told her she was a failure and a good-for-nothing who never understood the reality of things until it was too late. For years, your gran refused to see me. She rented this very apartment, Molly, and she lived here until the day she died. Did you know any of this?”

“No,” I say.

“I tried many times to help her. She wouldn’t let me. She wouldn’t let me see my child either. Eventually, I gave up trying. I met my wife, Mary, and we married, had our daughter, Charlotte. And we were very happy. But I never forgot Flora. And I never forgot your mother either,” he says.

“Maggie,” I say.

“So your gran told you her name.”

“No,” I say. “She didn’t.”

“After a lot of pressure, Flora eventually let me back into her life. I’d told Mary everything, of course. My beloved wife knew the whole story, that I’d fathered a child with Flora out of wedlock. My Mary was a good woman. She and your gran formed a lovely friendship over the years. When your gran struggled, all on her own like that, it was Mary who convinced her to accept our help. We did what we could when we could.”

“The rent money,” I say. “You gave it to us.”

“Yes. And later when your mother got mixed up with that…that…”

“Fly-by-night?” I offer.

“I was going to say ‘thieving drug dealer,’ but you’ve always been more polite than I am.” He looks at me, his eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you any of this before. I tried, but I couldn’t find the words. I worried the shock would undo you.”

“It hasn’t,” I say. “It won’t.”

“No. You’ve always been stronger than anyone gives you credit for.”

I turn my eyes to Gran’s teacup in my lap. “I never had a mother. And I never had a father either. I lost my gran,” I say. I look up at the man before me. “Mr. Preston, I can’t believe it. I’ve never been happier than I am in this moment. It’s like magic. I’ve gotten a piece of my family back.”

I feel a warm hand on my arm, and it’s hard to see Mr. Preston through my own tears. “I don’t know what to call you anymore. Mr. Preston doesn’t seem quite right,” I say.

“What about Gran-dad?” he offers.

I reach for my cup and take a sip of warm tea. “Yes,” I say, resting the cup on the saucer. “Gran-dad. I like that very much.”

Just then, there’s a sound at the door, a key turning in the lock. The door opens and Juan Manuel appears, rolling in a large suitcase behind him. I jump up from my seat and rush to the door.

“Mi amor!” he says as he takes me into his arms. “How I’ve missed you…”

It feels so good to have him back. I hold on tight and don’t want to let go. I do so only when I realize I’ve left Mr. Preston on the sofa all alone.

“Mr. Preston,” Juan says as he walks over and gives him a pat on the back. “Are you well?”

“I am,” my gran-dad replies. “I’m better than ever.”

“Good,” says Juan, flashing his beautiful, bright smile. “First, let me tell you that my family says hello. If I forget to mention that, I’ll be in big trouble. My mother sends her love. My nephew sends his report card. He wants to brag about how well he’s doing in school. He also wants a dog, but my sister is against it. He’ll convince her, though, I’m sure of it. Here, look, this is a photo of everyone sending me off at the airport.”

Juan calls up a photo on his phone—his giant family, all gathered at Departures, grinning and holding up a banner that says Hasta Pronto—see you soon. There are so many of them, they barely fit in the frame.

As Juan chatters on, taking a seat beside Mr. Preston, I go to the kitchen and bring out an extra cup and a plate of treats, setting them down on the coffee table.

“Molly, look at this one,” Juan says as he shows us another photo. “See? My mother, she wrote you a card in English.” She’s holding it, pointing proudly. He zooms in on the open card: To my daughter-in-law, it says. I miss you and love you. Visit us soon.

“But I’m not her daughter-in-law,” I say.

“Not yet,” Juan replies, but before I can ask what he means, he starts to chirp again like a little bird, going on about how much he missed me and how nice it was to see his family but how great it is to be home.

Suddenly, he goes quiet. “I am rude,” he says. “I haven’t even asked you both how you are. I’m so sorry. You know how I talk and talk and talk when I’m excited.”

“Oh yes, we know,” my gran-dad replies with a chuckle.

“So? How are you?” Juan asks. “Everything good?”

I pour him a cup of tea, hoping that I won’t have to answer that.

“All’s well that ends well,” says my grandfather. “But it’s been…” He pauses, searching for the right word.

“A tumultuous time,” I say.

“Tumultuous?” Juan asks.

“Meaning: stormy, volatile, intense,” I explain. “Let’s just say that we had to contend with some very unusual vermin.”

“What?” he asks. “In our apartment?”

“No,” says my gran-dad, “in the hotel.”

“Did you get rid of them? Did you lay traps?” Juan asks.

“We most certainly did,” I say with a smile.

“In fact,” says my grandfather, “Molly is the one who caught the rat.”

Juan turns to me, beaming from ear to ear. “That’s my Molly. Fear never stops her. In fact, nothing stops her.”

“You’re so right,” my gran-dad replies. “Do you know, she’s been like that ever since she was a child.”

“Really?” Juan replies. “Tell me more.”

As the two of them converse, my gran-dad sets the stage for the seismic revelations, about both the murder that happened in the hotel while Juan was away and the fact that he is not just Mr. Preston, the doorman, but in fact is my relation. My flesh and blood.

I sit across from them, listening, waiting, and sipping tea from Gran’s favorite cup.

She’s not here with us, my gran. She’s not sitting on the sofa between my beloved and her own, nor is she humming her little tune in the kitchen. But I know she’s here nonetheless because she always has been. She is the key to everything. The outline of my entire life gives her presence every single day.

I know she’s watching. I can hear her in my head even now:

Wonders never cease, Molly.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Good things come to those who wait.