Page 44 of The Maid's Secret

Juan and I step out of his car, and the second we do the crowd on the stairs races our way, proffering pens and snapping photos.

“Let them by!” Speedy orders as he cuts a path up the red-carpeted stairs. “You’ll both be ballin’ soon. Can’t say I’m not mad jelly,” Speedy says to Juan as we slip past him and through the gold revolving doors.

“What’s he blathering on about?” I ask Juan once we’re delivered into the lobby.

“Nothing important,” says Juan.

I’m relieved we’re now inside, where at least I can catch my breath. Mr.Snow has corralled guests behind a maroon cordon to await entry into the tearoom. The guests are wearing bright lanyards that sayBee & Bee VIP. Some sportHidden Treasuresbuttons or have photos of the Bees in hand, ready for signing. But others don’t look like typical fans. They’re serious men and women in expensive dress suits, carrying sleek portfolios. One gentleman, who’s wearing loafers with no socks and glasses I can only describe as Picassoesque, paces back and forth as he speaks on his phone. “It’s looking high. Big bidders all over the place. I’ll give you fair warning before close of bid, but if you want it, act fast.”

“Her shoes,” Juan says as he eyes a willowy woman wearing a sack-like orange muumuu and impossibly high heels. “Why are the bottoms red?” Juan asks.

“I have no idea,” I say.

Soon enough, all eyes turn our way, and there’s an audible gasp as we’re recognized. Mr.Snow, who’s been attempting to maintain order, says, “If anybody steps one foot past this cordon, say goodbye to your coveted spot in the auction room. Is that clear?”

Much to my relief, the crowd takes a step backward, and Juan and I are safe, at least for the moment. Mr.Snow dabs at his forehead with his pocket square as he walks our way.

“Mayhem,” he says by way of greeting. “Molly, I’m very happy you’re about to become a millionaire, but this event has proven extremely challenging, especially without your help.”

When plans for the auction were put in place, a week ago, Mr.Snow delegated Angela to be in charge, a decision that, I’ll admit, was a bitter pill to swallow.

“But I’m head of special events,” I said when he broke the news.

“You can’t be the star of the showandits organizer. Please, Molly. Just this once.”

I followed Mr.Snow’s logic, and as I stand in front of the “mayhem,” I realize I may have dodged a figurative bullet.

“They’re waiting for you in the tearoom,” Mr.Snow says. “The egg will be transported there shortly. It’ll be onstage during the auction.”

“We can grab it from your office,” I say. “You’re obviously busy.”

“Molly, it will be escorted by armed guards,” Mr.Snow explains.

“Oh,” I reply—yet another reality I had not considered.

Juan and I make our way to the tearoom in silence. At the entrance, I survey the room in all its glory. The layout is a bit different today, the tables clothed in white linens as usual but no tea service in sight. Instead, each place setting comprises a paddle, every one numbered uniquely. At the back of the room is a raised platform, on which three rows of desks are neatly set, each with a black rotary phone on top. The crew is setting up lights and cameras. At the front of the room, Brown’s and Beagle’s thrones are on stage right, along with an extra throne featuring a monogram I’ve not seen before—a curlicueM.

Angela appears in front of us, her fiery hair in a tizzy. For once, she’s not wearing her bartender’s apron. “Molly!” she says. “I’m gonna bust a gasket. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a bartender, not an events planner.”

“The room looks lovely,” I say.

“What’s with the desks and phones?” Juan asks, pointing to the rows at the back.

“Call-in bidders,” Angela explains. “That’s how dealerscommunicate with their buyers. I’m told we’ve got some heavy hitters tuning in. Do you know how long it took me to source twenty-five black rotary phones? I had Sunshine and Lily working overtime on eBay.”

The second she mentions the maids, I feel a pang of guilt. “Are they okay?” I ask. “I’ve left them short-staffed.”

“Molly,” Angela says as she puts a hand on my shoulder. “Stop worrying about everyone else for a second. Enjoy the moment.”

“She’s right,mi amor,” says Juan. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Let’s savor it.”

Just then, Steve and the Bees emerge from the hidden paneled door to the greenroom. As usual, Steve’s irony is advertised on his baseball cap. Baxley Brown and Thomas Beagle are dressed in their debonair velvet jackets—scarlet and blue, respectively. More than a head taller than Beagle, Baxley bends to whisper something in his husband’s ear. Then both stars and the show producer make their way over to us.

“Welcome, Molly. Hello, Juan,” Beagle says.

“Nervous?” Brown asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I don’t know what to expect.”

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