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“All I want for Christmas is you,” I say.
“Are you sure about that?” Juan asks. “You must tell me now—right now—if you’re not sure.”
“Of course I’m sure. I’m one hundred percent, absolutely and definitively certain,” I say.
Juan lets out a massive sigh, then brings my hands to his face, smothering them with kisses. “The perfect answer from the perfect woman,” he says. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m notunderstanding, like maybe I’m interpreting the cues wrong. Do you know what I mean? Has that ever happened to you?”
“You can’t seriously be asking me that,” I reply.
“Oh, I am,” says Juan. “In fact, I’m more serious about this than I’ve been about anything in my entire life.”
Chapter 2
Juan is in the kitchen making breakfast. As he does so, I locate the festive dusting cloth he gave me a few days earlier. I dust off Gran’s curio cabinet, then polish the photos that sit on top in glowing gold frames. I position the Regency Grand snow globe between the photos, giving it a place of prominence between the people I have loved most in this world.
I can hear eggs sizzling in the pan in the kitchen as Juan sings along to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” We still have a few preparations to complete before the twenty-fifth, and we must get everything done on this final Sunday before the last short and busy workweek of the year. Then, on Christmas Day, Mr. Preston, my grandfather and the beloved doorman at the Regency Grand, will arrive at our apartment door with bells on—and to be clear, I mean that literally, not figuratively. Charlotte, his daughter, will be by his side, dressed in a Christmas-themedsweater and laden with so many gifts it’s a wonder she will be able to carry them all.
It’s not that I’m clairvoyant—this has been our tradition for a few years now, a happy Christmas of found family brought together by fate. And if the fates allow, we will enjoy another seasonen famillein just a few days. My only regret is that Gran won’t be there with us, though sometimes I wonder if she is. Like the star atop a Christmas tree, perhaps she shines her light down on us from above. It’s a thought that gives me comfort at this time of year.
And speaking of trees, that’s on the to-do list today for Juan and me. We must buy a tree and decorate it—a real one, Juan insists, rather than the old artificial one we usually put up. Then we’ll deck our halls with all the Christmas spirit we can muster. We’re a little late this year, mostly because we’ve been working overtime and weekends at the Regency Grand. The hotel has been booked solid for weeks. We’re lucky, in fact, to have this one day off together.
“Breakfast is ready!” Juan chimes from the kitchen. “Chilaquiles para dos,with tea and crumpets.”
I head to the kitchen, where Juan—beautifully bare-chested but wearing Gran’s old paisley apron—has laid two full plates at our kitchen table.
“Buen provecho,” he says.
“Bon appétit,” I reply, sitting down at my place across from him. Breakfast is as scrumptious as the tousle-haired man who serves it to me. Between hearty bites, Juan chatters about how many more Christmas cookies he and the staff at the RegencyGrand still have to bake and how this year he’s overseeing not only the specialty holiday cookies but also the construction of the Ginger Grand, a replica hotel made entirely of gingerbread, jujubes, old fashioneds, humbugs, gumdrops, and enough sugar icing to induce a diabetic coma in every guest, though fortunately, the gingerbread hotel is for display rather than digestive purposes.
Once breakfast is finished, I bring our plates to the sink and begin the washing up.
“Oh!” says Juan. “I’ve just remembered. I need to quickly pop down to the laundry. You get ready for our Christmas tree adventure, and I’ll be back before you can say ‘Juan Manuel is the best boyfriend ever.’ ”
“Very well,” I reply.
He kisses my cheek, removes Gran’s apron, then hurries to our bedroom to grab a shirt. He’s out our front door and heading to the building’s basement laundry room before I can even remind him to take the hamper.
While he’s gone, I do the dishes—washing, drying, and putting them all away. I expect him to returntout de suite,but he’s still not back by the time I’ve returned the kitchen to a state of perfection. Perhaps he’s decided to fold the laundry downstairs, though it’s hard to imagine why. Mr. Rosso, the landlord and owner of our decrepit building, is more miserly than Scrooge himself. Recently, he removed nearly all the overhead lights in the laundry room in an effort to “discourage loitering,” not that anyone in their right mind would spend a second longer than strictly necessary in that dark, spider-infested inferno. I’vepetitioned Mr. Rosso to reconsider his plan for greater lighting efficiency, raising the safety and well-being of tenants, and while I did not receive a formal response in return, Mr. Rosso’s grunt, followed by a slamming of his front door in my face, left few doubts as to his true feelings on the matter.
Stand up for what’s right or you’ll sit on the sidelines all your life.
Gran understood. She had the door literally and figuratively slammed in her face—so many times over the years, and yet she always made the choice to shine light in the dark.
I dry my hands on my tea towel, then head to our front door, opening it to check for Juan. I look right and left down the long corridor, but there is no sign of him. No matter. I decide to take a shower, then get dressed in my favorite Christmas sweater, the one festooned with every Christmas ornament imaginable, including candy canes that light up (battery operated). I pair this with red-and-white-striped leggings. Once clean and fully clothed, I check myself in the mirror—perfection.
I head to the living room and settle myself on the threadbare sofa, waiting for Juan to return, which he does about fifteen interminable minutes later.
“Are you all right?” I ask the second he walks through the front door.
He looks piqued and overheated, like a glazed donut melting in the sun. Both his arms are smudged with grime, and though I didn’t think it possible, his hair has achieved an even greater state of disarray.
“I’m fine!” he responds in his singsong voice. “Some issues in the laundry room, but all is well.”
“Where are our clothes?” I ask. His hands are empty, no laundry in sight.
“Oh. I forgot. I brought everything up last night and put it all away. My mistake.”
He removes his shoes, wipes the bottoms, then neatly stores them in the front closet. Next, he heads down the hall to the bathroom, closes the door behind him, and switches on the loud ceiling fan before I can ask what he was doing in the laundry room for so long if not the laundry.
