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“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 meanespeciallyin 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 theway 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 breathtakingChristmas 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 SecretSanta 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.
