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“I do recall that dreadful occasion,” Mr. Snow replies with a little sniff. “But that will never happen again. Not on my watch.” To punctuate this, he removes his pocket watch from his green velvet vest. It is an antique timepiece, pure silver, with ornate, delicate hands.
“Careful!” I say as it slips from his grasp, as it so often does. I grab it just before it hits the hard marble floor.
“Good catch, Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “Oh, and since you’re here a bit early, could you have a word with senior managers and ask them to remind staff to bring their Secret Santa gifts to tomorrow’s party? As I’ve explained to everyone, there’s no need for extravagance. The theme is ‘recycle and reuse.’ If staff want to make gifts or regift items, not only will it be deemed perfectly acceptable, it will be lauded.”
“Waste not want not,” I say. “Put thrift in the gift.”
“Precisely,” says Mr. Snow.
“I do hope my Secret Santa likes my gift,” I say.
“Whoever it is, I’m sure they will,” Mr. Snow replies.
I try to stifle a smile so as not to reveal that the Secret Santa recipient I randomly drew is the very man standing before me—Mr. Snow himself. I’d hoped to select my friend Angela, the barmaid at the Social, or even one of the room maids I know so well. It would have been much easier to come up with a present they’d like, but alas, that did not come to pass. However, with a bit of thought and ingenuity, I’d figured out the perfect present for Mr. Snow.
“Is something humorous?” Mr. Snow asks, his eyebrows knitting together on his forehead.
“Not in the least,” I reply as I return my face to neutral.
“Very well,” he says with a little bow of his head. “You have my word that what happened to you the last time we did a Secret Santa will never happen again. Things will be different this year, Molly—I promise you.”
“I appreciate that,” I say as I hand Mr. Snow his pocket watch. “Be careful with this. Don’t let it slip from your grasp.”
“I’ll do my very best.”
—
I make my way to the basement change rooms in the housekeeping quarters. Inside, Lily, a marvelous young maid I hired last year, is already neatly dressed in her maid’s uniform. She stands in front of a mirror, adroitly affixing her jingle-bell corsage above her name tag.
“Good morning, Lily,” I say. “It’s good to see you.”
She smiles by way of reply but doesn’t say a word, not thatthis is out of character. Lily is the kind of person who speaks only when she has something important to say—unlike some. And by “some,” I mean Cheryl, my least favorite maid on staff and the bane of my professional existence. Cheryl is splayed on a bench in front of her locker, flipping through the pages of a gossip magazine with a highly unsanitary licked finger. She’s changed into her maid’s uniform, but it is rumpled and disheveled. It’s clear she’s wearing the same uniform she wore on her last shift. Her freshly dry-cleaned one, wrapped in gossamer-thin plastic, hangs untouched from her locker door. I’m about to raise this hygiene infraction, but Gran’s voice stops me.
Pick your enemies and battles wisely.
Cheryl is early for her shift (proving that wonders never cease), and given her fondness for tardiness and devious behaviors of all kinds, I must take this as a win. I breathe deeply, gathering strength. Then I pick up my own neatly pressed uniform hanging off my locker door and begin to change.
“Get a load of this,” Cheryl says. “Marriage on rocks. Trouble in paradise!” she reads from the gossip mag she’s been flipping through. She points to photos of a familiar celebrity duo on the center spread. The actor couple is well known to us at the Regency Grand. They stayed in our penthouse suite six months ago, causing quite a sensation. They seemed so happy at the time—newlyweds beaming in front of paparazzi lenses and joyfully signing autographs for guests and staff alike. But now, in these unauthorized photos, they’re caught fighting in flagrante at their beachfront property in southern climes.
“Marriage is a sham,” Cheryl says. “I wouldn’t get married if you paid me.”
“Are you sure about that?” Lily quips. She knows full well Cheryl’s penchant for doing just about anything for money—including stealing tips meant for other maids. Lily catches my eye, and it’s all I can do not to LOL, as Juan would say.
“Lily, if that clingy boyfriend of yours asked you to marry him, please tell me you wouldn’t be stupid enough to say yes,” Cheryl says.
Lily’s boyfriend, Isaac, is devoted, not clingy—an upstanding young gentleman.
“I might say yes,” Lily replies. She takes a brush from her locker and begins to smooth out her hair. “What about you, Molly?” Lily asks. “Would you say yes if he proposed?”
“Goodness, no!” I reply. “I have no interest whatsoever in Isaac.”
Cheryl hoots with laughter, then wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Lily, you’re talking with Little Miss Literal. You gotta make things crystal clear,” she says, pointing a germ-covered finger at me.
“What I mean,” Lily explains, “is that ifJuanproposed to you, would you say yes?”
I consider Lily’s question as I finish getting dressed. I’ve done up the last button on my uniform and attached my jingle-bell corsage. Now, I add my favorite accessory—my name tag, which readsMolly, Head Maid.
“My gran used to say that a successful marriage requiresfalling in love many times. But the trick is that it’s always with the same person.”
