Page 29 of The Maid's Secret

“A private school for you with good and kind teachers,” she said, “and a little place to call our own.”

Now, years later, as I sit with Juan in our living room and he turns offChatter Box,this memory of Gran returns. But before I can think on it further, there’s a knock on the door.

“Are you expecting anyone?” I ask Juan.

“No,” he replies.

We make our way to the entrance, where I check the peephole, a habit drilled into me long ago.

“It’s Mr.Rosso,” I say.

“But we paid the rent in full just last week,” Juan says.

I open the door to our landlord. His crossed arms rest on his protuberant belly.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” I ask.

Never one to mince words, Mr.Rosso launches into it. “I have some news. Your apartment is in poor condition. It’s time to tackle the repairs,” he says as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

Juan and I exchange a baffled look, not because the poor condition of our apartment is any surprise to us—the faucets leak, the windows are drafty, and the old tub is so rusted we’re afraid of falling through the ceiling onto the tenants below—but our copious complaints to Mr.Rosso have been ignored for years.

“I’ll be changing your appliances, putting in new windows, and renovating the kitchen and bath,” Mr.Rosso announces.

I can hardly believe my ears. The very words I’ve longed to hear from him now spill out in a symphony of good news.

“This is wonderful!” I say. “On behalf of all the tenants in the building, let me thank you for finally fulfilling your duties as our landlord. You won’t regret—”

“Wait,” says Juan. “What’s the catch?”

“You have to buy the place,” Mr.Rosso replies. “I’m converting the units to condos. You can stay, of course, but only if you pay up.”

“What?”I say. “We can’t afford to buy this apartment.”

“Maybe not right this second, but we might be able to soon enough. What’s the price?” Juan asks Mr.Rosso.

“Your unit is a two-bedroom, so market value is about half a million.”

Juan’s eyes threaten to pop right out of his head.

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, stating the obvious.

Mr.Rosso’s mouth forms an expression that puts the grim in grimace. “I thought you’d be happy about this. But if you don’t want to own, plenty of others will.”

“How long do we have to decide?” I ask.

“Eight weeks,” he declares, then grunts.

“That’s not enough,” I say. “We need more time.”

“Eight weeks, max, or consider your place on the market.”

“We’ll think on it and get back to you,” Juan replies.

Mr.Rosso turns to leave but then swivels back. “Oh, by the way, Molly, I just saw you on that show,” he says. “You can’t keep a priceless heirloom in this building. Last thing we need are thieves in these halls when I’m showing apartments. If you stay, the egg goes elsewhere.”

I’m about to give Mr.Rosso a piece of my mind, but as I start to speak, Juan’s hand squeezes mine.

“Goodbye,” Juan says as he closes the door on Mr.Rosso.