The Mistletoe Mystery (Molly the Maid #2.5)

Chapter 9

I return to the hotel with scant minutes to spare before the official end of my lunch hour. I rush up to the third floor, where Sunitha and Sunshine, two long-standing maids whose work ethics are as spotless as the guest rooms they clean, are finishing off the last few rooms on their roster. Sunitha and Sunshine require almost no oversight from me, and during busy times at the hotel, I know I can count on them to pull much more than their own weight. The proof is in how many rooms they’ve cleaned in just a few hours—and in how many tips they receive from grateful guests who appreciate their good work.

Sunshine and Sunitha are pushing their trolleys down the hall. They wave the moment they spot me.

“Molly!” Sunshine says with a smile as we meet in the corridor. “It’s almost Christmas, and tomorrow’s the holiday party.”

“Yes,” I say. “So it is.” But I’m unable to rally excitement, so distracted am I by everything that’s happened today.

“Molly, are you okay?” Sunshine asks, her eyes meeting mine. “Is something wrong?”

Sunitha then moves in beside me, too, concern writ large on her face.

“Have you ever had a day when everything turned upside down and backwards out of nowhere?” I ask them. “When everything you knew—or thought you knew—suddenly seemed uncertain?”

“Oh, Molly,” says Sunshine. “Everyone has days like that.”

“The good thing about bad times is that they pass,” Sunitha adds.

I attach myself to this thought, and for the rest of the afternoon, Sunitha, Sunshine, and I work together, returning every room on the third floor to perfect order. Sunshine talks nonstop, and yet I register little of what she says. The work takes on a repetitive flow, and I’m lost in my thoughts, so much so that if you asked me which room I was in at any given moment, I wouldn’t be able to say—the sheets, the beds, the sinks blending into one interminable blur.

The hours go by, and before I know it, it’s five o’clock and our work is done. My dear maids have helped me through the day as they so often do. I curtsy and say goodbye, then head down to the change rooms, where I peel off my uniform and don my civvies once more.

I head up to the lobby and out the revolving doors, where I stand on the red-carpeted stairs and wait for Juan Manuel so we can walk home together. Gran-dad is on the sidewalk at the foot of the stairs, occupied with guests leaving the hotel. Just then, I feel a hand on my arm. I turn to find Juan Manuel, with his brown eyes and his enviable eyelashes, smiling at me.

“Brrr,” he says as he pops the collar of his coat up around his neck. “Is it me, or has it gotten colder?”

“Frigid,” I say as I pull my arm away from his.

His head tilts to one side as if he’s a curious puppy. “Shall we walk?” he asks. “We’ll be cozy once we make it home. We’ll light up our Christmas tree, and I’ll make us hot chocolate.”

We head down the blood-red stairs and begin our trek back home in silence. When we’re out of sight of the hotel, Juan tries to grab my mittened hand, but I cross my arms against the cold and continue walking.

“How are you, Molly?” Juan asks as we trudge along. “I bet you’re tired. It’s crazy busy in that hotel. I can barely keep up.”

“Too many guests to service?” I ask as I search his face for some twitch or tic that might betray an iota of guilt, but all I see there is confusion.

“It’s not just the guests, it’s our own staff, too,” he replies, “so many details to take care of for tomorrow’s party. Are you looking forward to it?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure what to feel anymore.”

“Are you worried about your Secret Santa gift? If you need something to give, I made a few extra batches of Christmas cookies today. I could box some up for you to give as your gift.”

“No, thanks,” I say. A niggling thought occurs to me. “Whose name did you pick for Secret Santa?” I ask.

“If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, would it?” he says as he playfully wraps an arm around my neck.

“It seems I’ve misjudged you,” I reply.

“In what way?” he asks, stiffening.

“I always thought you were terrible at keeping secrets. I see now how wrong I was. If you’re not going to tell me who you picked, I won’t reveal who I picked either. How does that feel, Juan, to have a secret kept from you?”

His arm alights from its perch on my neck and drops heavily to his side.

The rest of our walk passes in silence.

When we arrive home, Juan attempts to change the mood by striking up a merry rendition of “Jingle Bells.” After wiping his shoes and putting them in the closet, he heads straight for our Charlie Brown tree to turn on the lights.

Just a day ago, the sight of our little misfit tree, all lit up, filled me with warmth and comfort— home sweet home. But now, when the lights turn on, the tree looks pathetic and misshapen. Even the macaroni star topper fails to enchant.

Juan busies himself in the kitchen, and soon enough he joins me on our threadbare living room sofa, where I’ve wrapped myself in Gran’s homemade lone-star quilt. He passes me a cup of hot chocolate, but when I try it, I scald myself.

“Careful!” he says. “You don’t want to get burned.”

Too late for that, I think to myself, though I don’t say it out loud.

Juan takes my cup and rests it on the side table beside his own. “Molly, is something wrong? You can tell me, you know, if something’s bothering you.”

I wrap myself tighter in Gran’s quilt, but it fails to bring me warmth. This is my chance to ask, to find out if my beloved has been gaslighting me all this time. “I have a question for you,” I say, “and if I ask it, I want you to swear on your life that you will answer honestly.”

Juan sidles closer and puts a hand on my quilted knee. “ Mi amor, do you not know me by now? Of course I’ll tell you the truth,” he replies.

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

He crosses his heart, then awaits my question.

“Were you on the fourth floor of the hotel today visiting a woman in her room?”

Now it’s Juan’s turn to flinch as if he’s been scalded. He withdraws his hand from my knee. “Who told you that?” he asks.

“Cheryl saw you,” I say. What I don’t say is that I saw him, too, with my very own eyes.

“Since when do you trust anything Cheryl tells you?” Juan replies, but I’m not really listening to his words because he’s grabbed his mug of hot chocolate and is walking away from me into the kitchen. My gran always said that if you want to know where someone’s going, watch their feet, not their mouths. As Juan retreats and pours his beverage down the drain, I see the truth in Gran’s words.

He reappears a moment later under the mistletoe in the kitchen entrance. He has yet to answer me. Does he really think his fancy footwork will get him out of this? Little does he know, my interrogation is not over.

“I have another question,” I say.

“Go ahead,” he replies.

“How do you feel about Angela?”

His face lights up the second I utter her name. “Oh, she’s wonderful. I’ve been getting to know her better lately. She’s very helpful. And I really like her. But you know that,” he says.

“I do now,” I reply.

Suddenly, something in me feels about to break. My stomach hollows out as if I’ve been punched. I can barely draw a breath. There’s so much more to say, and yet I can’t probe any further because my heart can’t take it. I fear the answers I hear might mark the end of me. And more than anything, I worry the man in front of me is changing so quickly I hardly recognize him anymore.

“Molly?” Juan says from the doorway. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Just one,” I say. “Have you heard of the silent treatment?”

He nods, then comes back to the sofa and sits beside me. “Isn’t that when someone decides to punish you by not saying anything? It probably works well on people who talk a lot. Chatty people don’t enjoy the silent treatment at all, am I right?” He stares at me, awaiting my agreement. “Molly? Am I right?”

I don’t answer.

His face falls like a cake removed from the oven too soon. “Oh, I see,” he says. “I guess this means you’re not talking to me right now.”

I don’t say anything. Not a word escapes my mouth.

“But, Molly, we never argue. And whenever we disagree, we always talk about things to find a resolution. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

He’s read my Maid’s Guide & Handbook to Housekeeping, Cleaning & Maintaining a State of Pinnacle Perfection so many times his bedside copy is dog-eared and worn.

I suddenly feel so tired. Maybe if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up and see the world clearly again. Maybe everything will go back to the blissful way it once was.

“I need to rest,” I announce. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Of course,” says Juan. “You’ve had a long day.”

I stand and make my way down the hall, Juan following close behind, but when I veer away from our bedroom, about to turn the knob to enter the other room, Juan stops me.

“Wait,” he says. “You’re going to lie down…in there?”

By “in there,” he means in Gran’s old room. I rarely go “in there.” Her bedroom is a shrine, kept exactly as she left it when she died several years ago. I enter to clean and dust once a week, but otherwise, it’s a door I prefer to keep closed. Except now.

I turn the knob and enter. Juan stands in the hallway, watching me tentatively.

“I need to be alone,” I say. In all our years together, I’ve never said those words, never felt the urge.

Juan’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I understand. I’m here if you need anything,” he says.

I enter the room and click the door closed behind me. Gran’s bedroom is as it always was, the bed neatly made with her ruffled blue bedspread, her pillows plump and wrinkle-free. On her bedside table is the heart-shaped brass jewelry box I gave her for Christmas many years ago. I lie down on her bed, curling into a ball and nestling my head into her pillow. “Gran,” I say out loud. “I don’t know what to do. I’m lost, and I’m all alone.”

Getting lost is the first step to being found.

The tears come strong and fast, and only when Gran’s pillow is steeped in my sorrow do I finally surrender to sleep. I’m startled awake by a muted knock on Gran’s door. The knob turns and the door opens slowly. Juan stands in the shadows at the threshold.

“Molly, it’s late,” he whispers. “Are you sleeping in there tonight?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Okay,” he says. “Molly, whatever I did to hurt you, I am so, so sorry. I love you more than anything in the world. I know you don’t want to talk right now, but everything will look better in the morning. I promise.”

With the lights out, I can barely make out his face in the hallway. I turn away from him and focus instead on the only light emanating from Gran’s room—the heart-shaped brass jewelry box shining brightly in the dark.