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Lily nods knowingly. “Yes. That’s the trick.”
What I don’t say is that the last part of Gran’s pronouncement gives me pause. Of course I adore Juan Manuel. There’s no one else alive who makes me happier. Still, I’m not sure marriage is the key to assuring happiness will last. Gran never married, and she always warned me about making the wrong match, said it was hard to tell the difference between a good man and a bad one.Fly-by-nights and wolves in sheep’s clothing, Molly—some women become prey to them, learning the truth too late.
“Ow!” I say, flinching as I inadvertently stab myself with my Head Maid pin.
“Careful or you’ll stick that thing right through your heart,” Cheryl says, her words sounding more like a wish than a warning.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say. “Mr. Snow asked me to remind you to bring your Secret Santa gifts to the party tomorrow. And remember: recycle and reuse. That’s this year’s theme.”
“Let me guess—that was your idea,” Cheryl says as she sneers in my general direction.
“In fact, it was the brainchild of Mr. Snow—to discourage excess consumerism, reward thrift, and promote charity and thoughtfulness at this time of year.”
“Not that you’d know much about that,” Lily says so quietly I’m not entirely certain Cheryl hears.
“We’d best get going,” I urge. “I presume the other maids are already upstairs?”
“They are,” says Lily.
“I need to issue the same reminder to staff in the lobby, then I’ll meet you on the fourth floor in a jiffy,” I explain.
“I’ll head up when I’m finished reading this article,” Cheryl says.
“You’ll head uptout de suite,” I reply. “The dream of clean works best as a team. Remember?”
Cheryl rolls up her magazine and jams it into her front pocket. “As if you’d let me forget.”
—
Lily and Cheryl take the elevator to the fourth floor and begin cleaning guest rooms while I trot up the stairs to the lobby, heading straight for the Social bar and grill. Not only is my friend Angela the bartender but she was recently promoted to manager as well. Despite the big step up, Angela remains exactly the same—fiery as her flaming red hair.
“I’m up in everyone’s grill. So what?” That’s what she told Mr. Snow just the other day when he asked why she reprimanded the cook after he substituted smoked Gouda with processed cheese slices in the Social’s signature sandwich, the Club Fromage.
“Standards, Snow,” Angela argued. “You of all people should know how important it is to maintain them.”
All of this was reported to me by Angela herself, complete with garnishes, side dishes, and an assortment of other verbal embellishments, because when it comes to Angela’s stories, her appetite for explanation outequals my own. One thing I’ve beenlistening to quite patiently for the last few months is Angela’s “five-year plan,” to which she’s sworn me to secrecy.
Angela’s saving to go back to school to become a private detective. She’s always been a true-crime aficionado, obsessed with criminal behavior. When that shady business went down a year ago and a famous author who shall remain nameless dropped dead—verydead—on the Regency Grand’s tearoom floor, Angela’s sleuthing powers proved helpful in solving the crime. Detective Stark, the investigator on the case, was quite impressed with her. And I suppose she was also impressed with me. In fact, Stark suggestedIshould retrain as a PI, but in truth, I think Angela’s much more suited to that career. I prefer to clean rooms rather than crime scenes. Still, I’m excited about Angela’s top-secret plan, and I look forward to living vicariously.
There she is now, batting an errant strand of red hair from her eyes as she pours two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice on a tray for a waiter standing by.
“Table two, be quick about it,” Angela tells the waiter, who rushes off with the drinks. “Molly! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be upstairs?” As she says this, she looks behind her into the storeroom entrance.
“Mr. Snow sent me on an errand,” I say. I launch into my reminder about the Secret Santa tomorrow.
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t forget to bring my gift,” Angela says. “Would you believe I drew Cheryl?”
“So much forSecretSanta,” I say, though if Angela catches my admonishment, she doesn’t show it.
“I figured out the perfect gift for her,” Angela replies.
“What?” I ask.
“A lump of coal. Or something worse if I can fish it out of my toilet.”
“Now, now,” I say. “It’s Christmas, remember? The time of year to be generous and charitable.”
“Even to those who don’t deserve it?”
