Page 20 of The Mistletoe Mystery

“So the price you quoted me remains the same?”

“Yes,” she replies. “Just ten dollars.”

“Oh, that’s excellent,” I say. “Thank you.” I take a bill out of my coat pocket and place it on the counter.

The shopkeeper looks at me, squinting, her head cocked to one side. “Weren’t you outside our store just yesterday? I saw you with someone, but you didn’t come in.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I say. “I was with my boyfriend. He wanted to come inside, but after reading the fine print on your advertisement out front, I dissuaded him. My gran always told me it’s dangerous to have expensive taste without a wallet to complement it.”

“At least your boyfriend wants to buy you nice things,” the shopkeeper replies. “You should count yourself lucky.”

Usually, I do count myself lucky. But today, I’m filled with doubt. And for the first time in a long time, I’m no longer sure I’m so lucky after all.

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 wecan 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.

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