Page 4 of The Mistletoe Mystery

“They’re not discarded. They’re upcycled,” I explained. “Waste not want not.”

“Now, now,” said Mr. Snow before I could say anything further. “Christmas is about kindness, a quality some here are rather short on.” He eyed Cheryl, then bent to pick up another gift from under the tree. “Here, Molly,” he said. “This one has your name on it.”

The package he offered me was wrapped in gold-striped foil with a silver ribbon on top.

“Who do you think it’s from?” I asked the staff members gathered.

“Dunno,” said Rodney, the handsome bartender I was besotted with at the time. “They call it Secret Santa for a reason,right?” Rodney winked at me then, and not knowing at that point what a bad egg he was, I instantly grew weak in the knees.

“Open it, Molly,” Juan Manuel said as the others watched.

I ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal an action figure encased in a cardboard and plastic bubble—Rosie the Robot from the old TV showThe Jetsons.I was utterly perplexed. “But this is a child’s toy,” I said. “Surely this gift was meant for someone else?”

“Oh no,” Rodney said with a chuckle. “It was definitely meant for you.”

Like a virulent contagion, muffled laughter traveled from person to person. Receptionists hid giggles behind cupped hands. Valets chortled and elbowed each other. Even some of the maids I worked with every day tried hard to suppress their smiles.

I stared down at the toy in my hands. Roomba the Robot, Oddball Moll, the Formality Freak—all names I’d been called before by the people I worked with every day. The joke was on me, but I was not laughing. I felt so small, so foolish. I studied the sheen of my perfectly polished shoes.

“That’s enough,” Mr. Preston said as he tried to quell the laughter.

Juan Manuel sidled up to me. He laid a comforting hand on my arm. “My Secret Santa got me Earl Grey tea, Molly. Would you trade gifts with me? I’ll send that toy to my nephew in Mexico. He’ll love it. Upcycle, right? Waste not want not?”

I searched his face for signs that he, too, was mocking me, but his dark brown eyes were serious and glassy, his mouth downturned in an expression I could not have named at the time, though as I recall it now, I do believe it was compassion. “Thank you, Juan Manuel,” I said. “That’s kind of you.”

“At least someone around here understands the Christmas spirit,” Mr. Preston muttered under his breath.

“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Snow.

—

I’m still in bed, wide awake, circling the past, searching for what, I do not know. It’s been years since that Christmas, and yet my memory catapults me back. Try as I might to resist the pull, I sometimes get carried under.

The light is starting to break through our bedroom window. The clock on the bedside table says it’s nine, and yet Juan remains sound asleep beside me. I can’t remember the last time he slept this late on a Sunday; he’s usually up at the crack of dawn, chirping away like a little songbird, singing a happy tune.

In the distance, bells jingle-jangle, with Christmas just around the corner. I listen to the rise and fall of Juan’s breath ashe slumbers. I love his long, curled eyelashes, which all the ladies coo over. In this cold weather, snowflakes catch on those beautiful lashes, framing his chocolate eyes in a rim of sugary white.

“You’re my special snowflake,” I told him just last week. We were holding mittened hands, making our way home from our shifts at the Regency Grand as the first snowfall gently alighted. I do realize that the expression “special snowflake” is meant as an insult. I should know. After all, it’s one that’s been directed at me more times than I can count, but I’ve chosen to transform it into a compliment, for what could be more precious than a snowflake, no two alike, each so perfectly, wondrously itself?

Juan’s eyelids flutter. He adjusts his head on the pillow beside mine. Then his eyes spring open. A smile blossoms on his sleepy face. “Mi amor,” he says with a big stretch. “What time is it?”

“Precisely two minutes past nine,” I reply.

“Dios mío,it’s late!” he exclaims. “We must cease the day.”

“Better yet, why don’t we seize it,” I reply. I lean forward and kiss each of his eyes. He pulls me into an embrace and plants a garland of kisses down my left cheek.

“What would I do without you, Mrs. Molly?” he says.

“Mrs.?” I reply. “That makes me sound much older than my thirty-something years.”

“You are anything but old,mi amor.You are youthful and picture perfect in every way. You’re the apples of my eyes.”

“A veritable orchard then,” I say, and at this we both collapse in laughter.

Juan folds me into him so that I’m resting on his smooth, bare chest. He grins, then pulls the covers up over our heads.

“You can’t still be tired,” I say.

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