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“What are you doing?” I ask as he dons a tool belt and slips in various wrenches, pliers, and clamps.
He turns to me. “Aren’t you always telling me to be kind to the neighbors?” Juan asks. “A clogged toilet this close to the holidays is a recipe for disaster. If it happened to us, we’d be distressed, too.”
“But this is Mr. Rosso’s issue, not yours. Don’t you think he should handle it?” I ask.
“We all know where that will lead,” Juan replies.
“Down the clogged drain,” I reply.
“Exactly. This will only take a second. If I can’t sort out the issue, I’ll send her Mr. Rosso’s way.”
With that, Juan strolls down the hall toward the front door, whistling a little tune as I follow behind him. Once he arrives at our threshold, he stops, then turns to face me.
“Please tell me you didn’t slam the door in her face,” he says, eyes wide.
“Goodness, no,” I reply. “I merely closed it in her face. These days, you can’t be too careful. Stranger means danger, Juan.”
“She’s far from dangerous,” Juan says. “And it’s the season of goodwill and charity, remember? I’ll be right back.”
Juan opens the front door, and the blonde is still standing there. The minute she spots him, a look of relief blossoms on her face. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you!” she exclaims.
“Juan is very helpful,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll…” But before I canfinish my sentence, Juan and the blonde are walking together down the hall toward her apartment.
I close the door behind me, leaning on it. There’s something strange about what just happened, and as I think about it, I realize what it is: Juan seemed to know her. In fact, she seemed familiar with him, too. But how can that be if she recently moved into the building?
Be careful what you assume. Nothing is as it seems.
Of course. Gran’s wise counsel reminds me not to jump to any silly conclusions. Who am I to begrudge Juan’s kindness to a stranger, even if she happens to be an absurdly attractive one? It’s not her fault she was born a natural beauty, nor is it my fault that I was born a…a what? A woman with mediocre looks that at best might be described as “natural,” though unlike the blonde who was just at the door, I’m unlikely to win any beauty pageants.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Juan says the same thing whenever I put myself down, judging my looks and wishing to be prettier and more alluring than I am. Truly, while I don’t know what he sees in me, I do know that one of the wondrous aspects of being human is that we appreciate different qualities in different people. I, for instance, love the fact that Juan’s forearms and chest are smooth and bare, not a hair on them; that his left eye is slightly larger than his right; and that so often when he smiles, that mischievous little dimple alights on his cheek, a spritely divot containing a depth of delight.
A couple of weeks ago, that dimple appeared when Juan wassetting up Gran’s Advent calendar in our living room. I patted his cheek the second I spotted it.
“What are you smiling about so fiendishly?” I asked.
“It’s a secret,” he replied as he fiddled with a drawer.
“But you’re terrible at keeping secrets,” I said.
“That’s true,” he replied. “But not this time. For once, my lips are sealed.”
“But you know I don’t like secrets. Please tell me,” I begged.
“Not a chance,” he answered.
“Then be careful,” I cautioned. “My gran used to say that secrets have a way of punishing those who keep them.”
“Not this one,” Juan said as he closed another Advent calendar drawer. “This one will reward me. I’m sure of it.”
Now, I wish I remembered which drawer he closed in that moment, because I would open it to see if it contained a clue to whatever mysteries he might be keeping from me. Maybe it wasn’t the Advent calendar making him smile in the first place. Maybe it was something else entirely, a hidden thought locked in a private drawer in his own mind. If only I had the key…
I take one more deep breath and then stand up straight. I open our front door again to survey the hallway, and as I do, I spot Juan across the hall, conversing with Mr. Rosso outside his apartment. I close our door until it’s barely ajar, leaving just a tiny crack that I can watch through.
Mr. Rosso’s arms are crossed over his protuberant belly. Juan is explaining something to him but so quietly I can’t make out all his words.
“You have to understand,” Juan says. “Molly can’t know.”
