Page 3 of The Maid's Secret

“Health and wisdom, I already possess,” I muttered. “As for wealth, that’s really asking too much, especially two months before our wedding day.”

He laughed, a sparkling sound, crystalline and pure, like a silver spoon tinkling the edges of a porcelain cup. It’s now been over six months since Juan proposed to me in a surprising holiday revelation on the staircase at the Regency Grand. I was happy and relieved to say yes.

“Get up, Molly. Today’s a busy day! We have to get to the hotel early. The TV crew will be there at ninea.m. sharp. I’m so excited. We’re going to meet the stars of the show!”

We were poised for a huge day at the Regency Grand, where Juan and I both work—he as a chef and I as a maid. Brown and Beagle, the famous appraising couple known for identifying antiquities and long-lost works of art, were bringing their road show to the hotel’s Grand Tearoom. It’s a shame Gran never got to see their popular reality TV series,Hidden Treasures,which debuted two years ago. She would have loved the hosts, owners of the eponymous high-end art auction house, two middle-aged, married men who share a passion for art and antiquities, designer clothes, and each other. The Bees, as they’re affectionately known by their legions of adoring fans, delight audiences nationwide with their witty repartee and their historical know-how, all while appraising items brought to the show by everyday collectors spanning the globe.

Most of the items they assess on air turn out to be worthless trinkets or not-so-clever fakes, but devoted viewers—myself and Juan included—watch every week for the gasp-worthy moments when a long-forgotten painting discovered in a dusty attic turns out to be a van Gogh or a wardrobe with a secret drawer bought from a charity shop reveals a hoard of priceless coins.

I felt Juan’s hand again, pulling the covers from my face. A moment later, his lips grazed my cheek as he planted kisses in a perfect garden row.

“If you’re not going to rise and shine,solita,I may have to resort to extreme measures,” he said playfully as he ducked under the covers and continued his plantation down my bare shoulder.

I wrapped my arms around his warm neck and stared into those beautiful brown eyes, like the turn-down dark chocolates we place on pillows at the hotel, but sweeter and richer because all the love that shines in them is mine.

“Te amo,”Juan said. “And I know just how to wake you up, Molly. I will use Juan Manuel’s surefire method—better than all the caffeine in the world.”

And so it was that I was instantly, enticingly awake, kissing my fiancé and tingling with a longing that moments before had not existed in me at all. This is what it’s like with us. Each day we spend together is a trove of secret riches. Never in my life did I think such a love could be mine.

We nestled in each other’s arms after, and we talked about our wedding, which is only two months away. We’re both so excited for our big day. Though it will be a small affair at city hall (Juan and I alongside Angela and my gran-dad), we can’t wait to share the moment. Still, it’s been stressful managing the costs of getting married on a maid’s and a pastry chef’s salaries. Mr.Snow kindly offered the tearoom at the Regency Grand for a ceremony and reception, but I declined on account of the rental and catering costs, which we could never afford. As for outfits, we most certainly won’t be buying new. We looked at rentals, but the price tags added instant wrinkles to Juan’s forehead and mine. We still don’t have a tuxedo for Juan, and my search for a used wedding dress continues to no avail.

“If I don’t find a dress soon,” I said as we lay in bed this morning, “I’m going to have to make one out of used bedsheets.”

“You could wear a paper bag and you’d still be the most beautifulbride in the world,” Juan replied. “¡Dios mío!It’s almost sevena.m.We’re going to be late. Bust to move, Molly!”

And with that, we both burst out of bed as though the mattress was on fire, and we bustled about our apartment, showering and dressing, and preparing for our star-studded day with two TV celebrities at the Regency Grand.

We were about to head out the door when I remembered. “Wait! I need a shoebox.”

“Madre mía,Molly,” said Juan. “What for?”

“Hidden Treasures,”I replied. “Mr.Snow invited the staff to bring in collectibles for Brown and Beagle to appraise before the shoot. I have a few items that fit the bill.”

“But we don’t own any fine art,” Juan said. “The only treasure in this apartment is you.”

I smiled, then opened the front closet, locating a shoebox, which I brought to the kitchen while Juan reluctantly trailed behind me. I placed Gran’s favorite teacup inside the box, the one with an English country cottage scene on it.

“I’ll have you know the Bees once appraised a Ming Dynasty teacup at ten thousand dollars. Gran’s cup is Royal Standard fine bone china,” I said. “Maybe it’s worth something.”

“Molly, can we go now?” Juan pleaded.

“Soon,” I replied. I rushed to the living room and opened Gran’s curio cabinet, which contained all manner of trinkets—her menagerie of Swarovski crystal animals, silver souvenir spoons collected from far-flung locales she never got to see, and one mysterious old key.

“I’m taking some spoons,” I announced, placing the nicest ones in my shoebox. “And the Swarovski swan, because it was Gran’s favorite. And I’ve always wondered about this old key,” I said as I held it up for Juan to examine. “Gran claimed it was ‘the key to her heart,’ but I’ve never been able to determine what it opens. Maybe Brown and Beagle can tell me.”

Juan looked at me with a strange expression I could not for the life of me decipher. “So you’re bringing a chipped teacup, a chunk of bird-shaped glass, and an old key…but you’re not bringingthat?”

“What?” I asked.

“The goldenhuevo,” he replied. Naturally, I know what ahuevois because Juan makes delectablehuevos rancherosevery Wednesday. He was pointing to the top shelf in Gran’s curio cabinet, where I keep a bejeweled ornamental egg on its perfectly polished gold pedestal.

“At least bring the egg laid by the magic chicken,” Juan insisted.

“It was not laid by a magic chicken. If only you knew,” I replied.

But he didn’t know how I’d come to possess that strangeobjetbecause I’d told him very little about the time when I was ten years old working alongside my gran in a luxurious mansion owned by a sad and loveless couple. I never went into much detail about what happened to my gran in that mansion or how I came to acquire that golden egg nearly two decades later. Shame is a dangerous emotion. Sometimes it’s best left in the past, where it won’t contaminate others, spreading like a virulent contagion. I know this firsthand, and my gran knew this, too.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

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