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—

When I was young, I was exuberantly curious. I wanted to know everything there was to know. I used to pepper Gran with pressing questions as we sat at our kitchen table eating breakfast. One morning I asked what she would spend her money on if she suddenly became rich.

“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 off Chatter 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.

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 golden huevo was 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 4:00 a.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 7:00 a.m ., I wake with a start, panicked and breathless.

“Rise and shine, mi amor !” he chimes as he pulls the covers back and plants kisses on my forehead. “Today’s an exciting, brand-new day!”

I attach myself to his positive energy, letting it propel me to my feet, but the moment I turn on my phone, it vibrates like a rattlesnake.

“Juan,” I say, as I take the phone to the kitchen. He’s bare-chested, wearing Gran’s old paisley apron and scrambling eggs for two as he does most mornings. “Look,” I say.

He sets his spatula down and takes my phone. My voicemail has filled to capacity, and there are hundreds of text messages from total strangers, not to mention more emails than I’ve ever received in my life.

“Madre mía,” says Juan. “Molly, you’re the It Girl.”

“What do we do?” I ask him.

“Keep calm and carry on,” he says.

“Right,” I say. But my response sounds hollow even to my own ears.

Juan and I get ready for work and are out the door before 8:00 a.m . As we leave our building, we spot my gran-dad standing in the parking lot by his car. He waves us over.

“Mr.Preston?” Juan says. “What are you doing here?”

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Everything’s fine,” he replies. “Molly, I tried to call you.”

“Let me guess, my voicemail was full.”

“Precisely. I saw you on the TV last night. And Mr.Snow called to tell me what Cheryl did. That woman really is lower to the ground than a squirrel’s behind. Mr.Snow and I thought it best if I drove you both to work today rather than you walking.”

“Nonsense,” I say. “Juan and I walk to work every day. Why should today be any different?”

But the moment I say it, a local news van pulls into the parking lot. Juan sees it, too, and his eyes go wide.

“Car’s open,” says Mr.Preston. “Hop in.”

I jump in the front while Juan gets in the back. Gran-dad peels out of the parking lot before our belts are even buckled.

“I don’t understand,” I say once we’re halfway down the street. “Why does everyone want to talk to me so badly?”

“You’re a bit like the Fabergé,” my gran-dad says. “Suddenly, people see your value.”

“Wait till the Hidden Treasures episode airs,” Juan says.

“They moved it forward to ten a.m. today. The network’s been running ads nonstop,” Gran-dad says. “It’s bound to draw more attention to both of you, so be vigilant.”

“I have a funny feeling about all of this,” I say. It’s like an alarm in my belly, an unsettling agitation that won’t be ignored.

“Me, too,” says Juan.

“Listen, Molly,” Gran-dad says as we near the hotel, “I was watching you onstage yesterday when you opened your shoebox. And I meant to tell you I recognized some of your gran’s old things. I can shed light on them if you’d like.”

Leave it to Mr.Preston to detect my anxiety and attempt to distract me from it. “That’s very kind,” I say. “Maybe another time?”

“Of course,” my gran-dad replies. “Only when you’re ready.”

As we pull up to the hotel, Speedy lopes down the stairs and opens my door.

“Look who’s here! It’s Eminem-inem.”

I don’t have the bandwidth today for Speedy’s newfangled gibberish. “Do me a favor and speak English?” I plead.

“Molly the Millionaire Maid! Three m’s. Get it?” Speedy holds up a palm for a high five, which I limply deliver.

“Today’s the day you slay, Molly,” Speedy says. “The show’s going to air!”

“Today’s the day for extra care, Speedy,” Mr.Preston says from the driver’s seat. “No letting guests through the hotel doors unless they have a good reason to enter. And no directing guests to Molly. Understood?”

“ Oui and sí, Mr.P,” says Speedy.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr.Preston,” Juan says as we hop out of the car.

“Call if you need anything. And stay safe.”

Juan and I sail through the revolving doors and enter the hotel lobby. It’s bustling with activity—Bee-lievers checking out, porters carting luggage, grips and assistants ferrying yesterday’s camera equipment out the revolving doors. As I watch the commotion, Juan eyes me curiously.

“Why are you staring at me?” I ask.

“Molly, no one but me is paying you any attention. How does it feel?”

“Delightful,” I reply.

Juan and I take the stairs to the basement, then part ways. He heads to the kitchens and I go to the housekeeping quarters. In the change room, a few maids, including Lily and Sunshine, are surrounding someone, engaged in a heated discussion.

“It’s wrong!” Lily says.

“They’re not yours to sell,” Sunshine barks as the other maids chime in with a chorus of agreement.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice cutting sharply through the mayhem.

When the maids turn my way, I see who they’re circling—Cheryl. She’s holding photos in her hands.

“Finally,” Cheryl says. “I’ve been texting you since last night, Molly. You never got back to me.”

“Because I’m flooded with messages,” I say as I push my way into the middle of the huddle.

“Molly,” says Sunshine. “Cheryl’s at it again.”

“She’s been selling pictures of you online, and to Bee-lievers and hotel guests in the lobby,” Sunitha adds.

“She claims they’re autographed,” says another maid.

“They are autographed,” says Cheryl.

“Not by me!” I reply.

“A technicality,” Cheryl says with a shrug.

“Give me those.” I grab the photos from her hands, the same horrible shot she took yesterday of me holding my dustcloth like I’m waving goodbye to the navy. I rip the pictures in half and dump them in the trash bin. “Please tell me you removed my phone number from that terrible website,” I say.

“Mr.Snow made me, even after I offered him a cut of the proceeds.”

“You didn’t actually,” I say.

“I would have offered you a cut, too,” Cheryl says, “if only you’d texted me back. Fair and square, the maids all share, right?”

She’s quoting from A Maid’s Guide & Handbook, a manual I wrote a few years ago to codify proper moral conduct amongst maids at the hotel. I see now that no matter how many regulations one puts to paper, there will always be those who find their way around them.

“You know what, Molly?” Cheryl says. “You wouldn’t recognize a business opportunity if it slapped you in the face.”

“Can I take that as my cue?” Sunshine asks as she raises a flat palm toward Cheryl’s cheek.

“That’s enough!” I shout, which gets everyone’s attention. “We’ve got a dirty hotel to clean, and no time for bickering. Get uniformed and get to work, posthaste. Cheryl, if I hear so much as a whisper from any of these maids about you slacking off today, I will file a report to Mr.Snow that’s so damning, you may regret the day you gained employment here. Do you understand?”

Her mouth puckers like she’s just sucked a lemon.

“Let’s all head upstairs and polish to perfection,” I say.

—

On the third floor, Lily and I tackle guest rooms together. I saddled Sunshine and Sunitha with Cheryl, since they’ll throttle her if she dares step out of line. Today, Lily’s more silent than usual.

At one minute to ten, she asks, “Should I turn on the TV? Hidden Treasures is about to air.”

“I lived it yesterday,” I say. “I’m not keen to relive it again today.”

Lily nods and we continue cleaning in silence. But after we finish six rooms in record time, Lily remains strangely distant. “Are you all right?” I ask as she rips soiled sheets off another bed.

She pauses. “I’m just tired of the Cheryls in the world. Every time a good thing happens—like you learning you’re about to become rich—there’s a Cheryl who sours everything.”

I grab some fresh sheets from Lily’s trolley and smooth them onto the bed. “My gran used to say, ‘Keep good eggs close and bad ones even closer.’?”

“You think keeping Cheryl close means we’ll rub off on her one day?” Lily asks.

“I live in hope,” I reply.

Just as we’ve finished the room and are about to leave, some guests buzz in. It’s an elderly couple sporting Bee-liever pins on their lapels.

“We were just leaving,” I say. “Your room is polished to perfection.”

“You’re Molly,” the man replies. “Molly the Maid.”

“We just saw you on TV,” says the woman.

“There’s no need for fanfare,” I reply. “I’m just a maid, a regular person like both of you.”

“We could tell that by watching,” says the man. “Usually good things happen to the wrong people, but not this time,” he says. A smile breaks across his face that is so genuine, it makes me smile, too.

“My husband’s a detectorist,” the woman explains. “We came all the way from the countryside yesterday to share his finds with the Bees.”

“I thought I had a Viking burial hoard,” says the man, “but I didn’t.”

“Costume jewelry,” his wife explains. “Circa 1960, buried in our backyard.”

“You win some, you lose some,” says the man with a shrug.

“You must be disappointed,” I say.

“Not in the least!” the woman replies. “And we have you to thank for that.”

“Me?” I say. “How so?”

“You proved the little people actually win sometimes,” the man says. “To see a hardworking maid hitting the jackpot—it was incredible. You’re a beacon of hope, Miss Molly, that’s what you are.”

“Also, we made the b-roll,” says the man’s wife. “We were on TV just now! Our grandkids are thrilled, and our neighbors are throwing us a party at the pub tonight. We’re checking out right away and heading home.”

I stare at the elderly couple, trying to grasp what it is they’re telling me. From my maid’s trolley, I grab a handful of turn-down chocolates. “Take these for the road,” I say.

“Really?” the man asks as he holds out his hands. “Thank you.”

“Do you want some soap?” Lily asks the woman. “As a souvenir of your stay?”

“I’ve never felt so pampered in all my life,” says the woman. “First stay at a five-star hotel and likely our last.”

“But the splurge was worth it,” the man adds.

“It was lovely to meet you,” Lily says as she guides her trolley out the door.

“Keep shining for us little folks, Molly,” says the man.

I curtsy deeply to the couple, then close their hotel room door behind me.

—

I leave Lily and take my trolley down to housekeeping laden with bags of soiled towels and sheets, but the moment the elevator opens to the lobby, heads turn my way.

“It’s her!” someone calls out.

“Molly the Maid!”

“Can I have your autograph?”

“Come say hi to my mom!”

“We loved you on the show!”

I stab at the basement button, hoping the elevator doors will close, but the guests hold them open and pull me and my trolley out. I spot Mr.Snow by the reception desk. He rushes over.

“Stand back!” he says. “Give her space.”

I grip my trolley as the swarm of Bee-lievers proffers hands, pens, and cards.

“Molly will answer one or two questions,” Mr.Snow says. “Then she must get back to work.”

“Are you quitting your job?” someone calls out.

“Of course not,” I say. “I’ve got rooms to clean.”

“When you sell the egg, will you splurge on something big?” another guest asks.

“Maybe a small wedding reception? It would be nice to throw a party,” I say.

“Can I come? Please?”

“I’ll be your maid of honor!”

“I want an invitation, too!”

“We love you, Molly Gray! You’re more than ‘just a maid’!”

Just then, a man standing near me snatches my name tag, ripping it right off my uniform, then runs down the hall.

“Hey!” Mr.Snow calls out. “What are you doing?”

“Leave it. It doesn’t matter,” I say, even though it does matter, a lot in fact.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Mr.Snow says as he commandeers my trolley. I’m relieved when he buzzes us into a staff-only corridor. I lean on my trolley to catch my breath.

“Molly, I’m so sorry,” Mr.Snow says. “A fever spread through this hotel the second that show aired. Everyone wants a piece of you.”

“My gran used to say that money and fame make people behave badly.”

“The hotel phones are ringing off the hook. We’ve got months of requested bookings, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That you are assigned as their room maid. If things keep going like this, we’ll just rebrand the hotel as a Molly theme park.”

“That would be awful,” I say.

“I was joking. Molly, listen. Some VIPs are in my office. They need to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to meet anyone else. It’s too much.”

“These aren’t strangers. It’s Brown and Beagle, and their showrunner, Steve. They’ve got news to share.”

Mr.Snow leads the way as I follow behind him. In his office, the Bees are seated on leather armchairs, drinking cocktails out of highball glasses and looking as dapper today as they did for the cameras yesterday. Steve, sans ironic baseball cap, finishes a phone call, then comes my way.

“Here she is!” he says, holding open his arms.

“Our shining star!” Brown exclaims as he holds up his cocktail glass.

“What happened to you?” Beagle asks, eyeing the rip in my uniform where my name tag was pinned.

“Everyone wants a piece of me,” I say.

Steve laughs. “That’s so great! Hey, our ratings are already through the roof. And since yesterday, we’ve had our best research crew working nonstop on the egg’s provenance. They’ve talked to that Serena woman and Jenkins the gardener. You saw them on Chatter Box ?”

“I did,” I say.

“Our researchers are making inquiries far and wide. Molly, not a single person has come forward with a credible claim on the Fabergé.”

“And we don’t believe anyone will come forward,” Brown adds.

“So?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

“Finders keepers, Molly. The egg is yours.”

“But what if someone comes out of the woodwork later?” I ask. “I’ve seen that happen on your show.”

“Death and taxes,” says Steve. “Those are the only certainties in this life.”

“We want to set an auction date fast—for next week,” says Beagle as he smooths his dark, shiny curls. “And Mr.Snow says we can hold it right here in the hotel.”

I turn to Mr.Snow. “Is this what you want?” I ask.

“What is it that you want, Molly?” he counters.

When I don’t answer immediately, Steve jumps in. “We need to sell while interest in the Fabergé is at its peak,” he says. “The price is soaring. We’re fielding offers from collectors all over the world. If you don’t get more than fifteen million, I’ll be shocked.”

The news sends me reeling. It’s a number so large it doesn’t even compute. With money like that, Juan and I could buy an inn, our apartment, and a lot more besides.

“You’re the luckiest maid in the world,” says Brown, with a blue-eyed wink.

“Am I?” I ask.

“What do you want to do, Molly?” Mr.Snow inquires.

I consider for a moment. “I want this over with. I want my regular life back.”

“Perfect!” says Steve.

“Consider it done,” says Beagle.

“One week from today, we auction the egg,” Brown says, “and, Molly the Maid, in a week’s time, you begin a whole new life.”