Page 30 of The Maid's Secret

Once he’s gone, I stand in the entry, fuming. “The nerve!” I say. “He knows we’re coming into money, so he’s charging us a small fortune just to line his pockets. And he’s suddenly decided to do renovations now?”

“It’s called renoviction, Molly. It happens all the time,” says Juan.

“What can we do about it?”

Juan shrugs.

I look around the apartment, and despite the worn floors and the divots in every wall, all I see around me is home. I can’t imagine not living here. Humble as it is, I love this apartment.

“We could buy it, you know,” Juan says.

“For half a million dollars? It’s certainly not worth that much in its current condition.”

“You can dare to dream a little now, you know. What is it you really want, Molly?”

“A little place we can call our own,” I answer. “Other than that, I have what I want most—you.”

Juan puts an arm around me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Te adoro,Molly Gray,” he says. “But surely you can dream a little bigger?”

I think about it for a moment. “I suppose, if we’re really dreaming, it might be nice to own a small bed-and-breakfast,” I say, “just a few rooms, tastefully decorated, nothing too extravagant.”

“Yes! I can see it now—Molly the Maid’s Inn and Tearoom!”

“You could make marzipanimals and pastries, and run the café,” I suggest.

“And you could be in charge of bookings and housekeeping,” he says.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure than polishing to perfection a tearoom of our very own. But, Juan, let’s be careful. Gran always warned of the dangers of counting chickens before they hatch.”

“If I’d known the goldenhuevowas worth millions,” says Juan, “I would have cracked it ages ago!”

The mention of the egg makes my stomach twist and turn, so much so that Juan actually hears it growling.

“Mi amor,you’re hungry. I’ll get the tacos started.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him my stomach is responding to anxiety rather than hunger.

Juan starts cooking in the kitchen while I breathe my way back to stasis. Still, when he eventually calls me to the dinner table, there’s little crunch in my munch. I’m discombobulated by Mr.Rosso’s threats, and even though I should be happy that our financial picture will change for the better, I still can’t get my head around it. Also, my phone has been ringing nonstop—requests for interviews, offers to purchase the Fabergé, and various attempts to sell me duct-cleaning services. I asked one caller how she got my number and was told to look up @GossypGyrl on Instagram. Lo and behold, there was my dustcloth photo on Cheryl’s latest post, with a write-up that said, “I’m besties with the maid who made it big! Now you can be, too! Reply MOLLY for details.”

As it turns out, Cheryl is selling my phone number on KultureVulture.com, an online website hawking celebrity memorabilia and anything else that will make her a buck. It’s not the first time she’s profiteered from her employment at the Regency Grand. A few years ago, she was caught selling a rock star’s underwear and other items pilfered right from the hotel. I should have fired her when I had the chance.Now, I regret my clemency. I phone Mr.Snow to tell him what Cheryl is up to, and he promises to make her delete the posts immediately. Still, the damage is done. My phone is now ringing off the hook, so I turn it off.

All of this has resulted in a profound lack of appetite, for both me and Juan. We move our tacos around on our plates.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “The news about the Fabergé is supposed to be a good thing. Our lives are supposed to get easier.”

“They will,” says Juan as he reaches across the table to take my hand. “Everything will be okay in the end.”

“If it’s not okay, it’s not the end,” I say.

After dinner, we read for a while in the living room. I clean the front closet—deep cleaning to give life meaning—then I put all the objects from my shoebox, including the old skeleton key, back in Gran’s curio cabinet. Though it’s been deemed worthless, it still intrigues me.

“Done and dusted,” I say once my cleaning is complete. “Juan, I’m turning in. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“Me, too,” he says from under Gran’s lone-star quilt.

Together, we head to bed, and I fall asleep in the crook of his arm. But at 4:00a.m. I wake with a start, and try as I might, rest eludes me. Long ago, Gran taught me to count my blessings rather than sheep when I can’t sleep, and that’s what I do in the quiet dark. The list of blessings is long—my husband-to-be, my gran-dad, my job at the Regency Grand, my home, my health…my wealth? But no sooner do I have the thought than I begin to fear the loss of all of the aforementioned. Just this morning, Mr.Snow was about to take my job out from under me when he learned about the egg, and this evening, Mr.Rosso all but kicked us out of the only home I’ve ever known. Is it my imagination, or have the cracks in our bedroom ceiling opened wider? Is everything about to fall on our heads?

When Juan’s alarm goes off at 7:00a.m., I wake with a start, panicked and breathless.

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