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After parking the trolleys in the housekeeping quarters and refreshing ourselves in the change rooms, I lead the maids upstairs. Fortunately, the tension brewing among them earlier seems to have abated, at least for now. And as for whatever Juan was doing in that woman’s room yesterday, I’m just not going to think about it right now. Maybe Sunitha’s right—the facts are not what they seem.
When we arrive at the lobby, staff members are streaming in from various hotel departments. There’s Mr. Preston, sans greatcoat but still wearing his Santa hat. He’s chatting with the valets and bellhops, sipping on mulled cider, and chuckling as he listens to some story or other about long-departed guests. Beside the glittering Christmas tree are the receptionists, dressed in black and white, like neat little penguins. They’ve helped themselves to red-and-green iced cookies and cupcakes from silver trays on a long serving table—Juan’s creations, no doubt—and now they take seats on the plush emerald settees. The kitchen staff are arriving, too. They duck under the cordon, heading straight for the beverage and sweets table, backslapping and complimenting each other on a job well done. Angela and her waitstaff join me and the maids by the magical evergreen archway at the bottom of the grand staircase. As I look about, I see almosteveryone, including Mr. Snow. But one person is notably absent.
“Where’s Juan Manuel?” I ask Angela as she takes her place by my side.
“How would I know?” she replies as she tucks an errant tress behind her ear.
Just then, Mr. Preston and Mr. Snow step forward.
“Attention, everyone!” Mr. Snow says as he taps a Regency Grand silver spoon against his Regency Grand porcelain teacup, which makes a pleasing tinkling sound. “Welcome to our staff holiday party. We’ve made it through another year of buzzing activity!” he says. “And all because of you, the worker bees.”
“Omigawd, here he goes…” says Angela as she shades her eyes with one hand.
“We are a team, a family, a colony,” Mr. Snow continues. “As devoted bees, you have cultivated and cared for our hotel hive all year long, and now, during this festive season, we reap the honey,” he says as he points to the array of delectable sweets laid out on the serving table.
“So who’s our Queen?” one of the bellhops calls out.
Titters and whispers, laughs and jeers, but I don’t join in. Whatever remarks Mr. Snow has prepared, he’s clearly forgotten them. He sniffs and adjusts his cravat.
“What our dear colleague and esteemed hotel manager is trying to say,” says Mr. Preston, “is thank you to one and all for everything you do to make this workplace great. I, for one, am grateful.”
“Here, here!” says Mr. Snow. “And since you’re already by the tree and wearing the right hat, I nominate you, Mr. Preston, to be Santa’s little helper. Will you pass out the Secret Santa gifts?”
“Ho, ho, ho!” says Mr. Preston. “Let’s find out who’s been naughty and nice.”
As he passes out presents, I search the room for the one face I’m looking for, but Juan Manuel is still nowhere to be seen. Where could he be? How could he miss the party he worked so hard to throw?
There’s no time to ask anyone these questions, for the staff have begun to open their gifts one by one. A sous-chef from Juan’s team receives a “top chef” apron and joyously puts it on. A receptionist opens a white box full of Christmas cookies and gobbles one immediately. Mr. Preston is gifted a handmade scarf, which he wraps around his neck with glee. Angela opens her gift and is pleased to receive a bestselling true-crime book, used but in perfectly good condition. And when Cheryl opens her gift—a stack of old gossip mags—she’s as thrilled as Cheryl ever gets.
“The crossword puzzles are filled in, but I guess that’s okay,” she says. “Thanks, whoever my Secret Santa is.”
“You’re welcome,” Angela replies, then under her breath to me, “That’s my good deed done for the year.”
I poke her as a stern warning to hush.
“There are just two more gifts left under the tree,” Mr. Preston announces as he hands Mr. Snow a small box I wrapped in brown paper earlier in the day.
“Go ahead, Mr. Snow. Open it,” I say as the staff look on.
Mr. Snow removes the lid. His eyes grow wide and so unmistakably forlorn that while I know I’m not supposed to reveal my identity as the gift giver, I can’t help myself.
“Don’t you see?” I say. “It’s a chain for your pocket watch so you never drop it again. I had it repurposed from a silver necklace my gran gave me years ago.”
New creases appear on Mr. Snow’s forehead, stacked over his eyebrows like pancakes on a platter.
“Aren’t you going to try it on?” I prompt.
“I can’t, Molly,” Mr. Snow replies.
“Why not?” I ask.
“You’ll have to open your gift to find out.”
On cue, Mr. Preston reaches under the tree for the very last gift—the one meant for me. He places the shiny wrapped offering in my hands.
The box is small and dainty, no bigger than a tin of shoe polish. I remove the pretty paper and draw back the lid. Nestled inside, inlaid in a round silver medallion, is the most beautiful pendant made from one of my Head Maid name tags—Molly, Head Maid, it reads. I gasp out loud. “I love it! What a treasure!”
