Page 5 of The Maid's Secret

“A tad nervous,” I replied. “I always get this way when we host a big event at the hotel. But all is well,” I said, to convince myself and reassure him.

We both stood for a moment, taking in the splendor of the Regency Grand.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Juan said.

“She is,” I replied. The hotel is a timeless treasure. Surrounded by crass billboards and brutalist office towers, it remains an elegant dame, a five-star, Art Deco jewel with red-carpeted steps leading to a gleaming brass portico and shiny revolving doors.

My entire professional life has taken place inside that hotel. I’ve grown within her walls, learned to be a room maid, and more than that, too. A year ago, our hotel manager, Mr.Snow, officially promoted me to a newly expanded role, making an important addendum to my extensive duties. I became Head Maid & Special Events Manager, in charge of private bookings—including today’s in the hotel’s Grand Tearoom.

I say this at the risk of being stricken down for overweening pride, but even now, after a whole year has passed with me in charge of the tearoom, I puff up a bit every time I think about how far I’ve come. Me—from Molly the Maid to Molly the Head Maid & Special Events Manager. There are times when my job is demanding and when I get overwhelmed by the workload, but I am happy. And at long last, I belong.

Juan has also climbed the competitive hotel hierarchy. Beginning as a dishwasher, he’s earned himself the esteemed role of Head of Pastry in the kitchen downstairs. Beyond overseeing breads, desserts, and baking, he’s in charge of high tea, which means not only will we be joined in matrimony in a few weeks’ time, but we are conjoined by our job functions, too. I love that man with my whole heart, and I cannot wait to be his wife.

Juan knows just how to put the “Special” in all “Special Events.” When the tearoom is full of expectant VIPs, I’ll ring the bell, andvoilà—a tuxedo-clad army of penguin-like waiters marches in single file, carrying in their hands triple-tier tea trays replete with all manner of delicacies made by Juan and his kitchen staff—cucumberfinger sandwiches with the crusts removed, heart-shaped macarons in rainbow colors, and Juan’s signature marzipan menagerie, one-bite wonders he calls “marzipanimals.”

“Earth to Molly. Are you sure you’re ready for this event?”

I got lost in my memory again, but Juan has always brought me back to the present—the only place where life truly exists.

“Look! It’s Mr.Preston,” he said.

Standing on the red-carpeted stairs of the hotel, chatting with the new young doorman, was the elderly man who for decades served as the revered doorman of our hotel. But Mr.Preston holds another title nearer and dearer to my heart, one that my gran kept a secret from me to the day she died. I was shocked when Mr.Preston revealed the truth a few years ago—that he wasn’t just a colleague but my flesh-and-blood grandfather.

When Gran and Mr.Preston were young, they fell in love, but Gran’s family did not approve of the union, even less so when they discovered Gran was pregnant out of wedlock. She had the baby—my mother, now estranged from me—but Gran lost touch with her old beau, Mr.Preston. Then they reconnected years later, but by that time, he was happily married to his lovely wife, Mary. According to Mr.Preston, Gran and he remained friends to the day she died.

It’s strange that I know so little about my gran’s past. Sometimes she seems like the biggest mystery of all. Who was her family? How did she grow up? Did she have a loving mother or grandmother, someone who taught her right from wrong? It’s a cruel fact of life that wisdom comes with age, which is why I now regret not pressing harder for answers while Gran was still alive. Whenever I asked her about her childhood, she changed the topic.It’s all water under the bridge,she used to say.Now let’s talk about you.

This morning, as I watched my gran-dad on the steps of the Regency Grand, it occurred to me that he’s the only living link to my past.

Gran-dad spotted Juan and me in front of the hotel and waved. His hair, a bit tousled as always, has turned snowy-owl white.

Juan and I rushed over to greet him, and he threw his arms wide.

“Gran-dad!” I said as he enveloped both Juan and me in a massive hug.

“I’m still not used to seeing you on these stairs without your doorman’s greatcoat and cap,” Juan said.

“Retirement has its perks,” he replied, “but I do miss this place. And I miss seeing you two every day.”

Gran-dad comes to our apartment every Sunday without fail. Juan cooks a delicious meal that we enjoyen famille,but I sometimes think Gran-dad might be lonely. He’s been a widower for so long—Mary died years before Gran—and his daughter, Charlotte, practices law far away. Lately, after Sunday dinner, the three of us sit on our threadbare sofa and tune in to the latest episode ofHidden Treasures.Gran-dad loves the show as much as Juan and I do, and he regularly amazes us with his encyclopedic knowledge of arts and antiquities.

“I’ll bet my right arm that’s a Tiffany vase,” he said just last week. Lo and behold, Brown proved him right.

“How do you know so much about old things?” Juan inquired.

“Takes one to know one,” he quipped. “Plus, I wasn’t always a boor, you know. As a young man, let’s just say I had access to a wealth of experiences.”

My ears pricked up immediately. “What do you mean?” I asked, but Gran-dad was suddenly riveted by the TV show and did not reply.

As I studied him on the steps of the hotel this morning, I noticed he held a leather-bound book under his arm.

“Is that for Brown and Beagle to appraise?” I asked.

“Indeed. Mr.Snow said I could pop by for the day’s big event, and I brought an old J. D. Grimthorpe novel, signed. It’s not a first edition, but it might be worth something. I see you’ve brought some goodies, too.”

“I have,” I said as I tapped the lid of my shoebox.

Just then, Speedy, the young doorman Mr.Preston had trained to take over his job, bounded down the stairs to greet us. Spindly as asapling, he somehow manages to heft three or four suitcases at a time though there’s barely a muscle on him. When I first met him, I insisted on calling him by his given name, Peter, but he corrected me insistently.

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