Page 6

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“Molly, mi amor, please, wake up!”

I feel two gentle hands on the sides of my face. I recognize his voice—my beloved Juan Manuel rousing me from slumber. I open my eyes, expecting to find myself snuggled beside him in bed, but instead, I’m greeted by a swarm of strange faces. Amongst them is a giant camera so close my breath fogs the lens.

An arm pushes the camera away, and I focus on him—Juan, gazing down at me, his eyes two dark pools of concern.

It all comes back to me, where I am—the tearoom at the Regency Grand—and why I’m laid out on the stage floor. The golden huevo was supposed to be a trinket, but Brown and Beagle just confirmed otherwise, which means I’m in possession of a treasure worth millions.

“Step back!”

“Give her space!”

Mr.Snow and my gran-dad are suddenly on the stage, helping Juan pick me up and bring me to the guest throne where I was seated moments ago.

The camera tracks us, then lands on me. Brown and Beagle, looking jubilant and expectant, return to their thrones, adjusting earpieces and smoothing their TV-perfect hair as Juan and my gran-dad are reluctantly ushered offstage.

“Looks like the maid could use a stiff drink,” Brown says, as he crosses his long legs and snaps his fingers.

“Tea,” I manage to croak, and Angela magically appears at the lip of the stage with a warm cup—orange pekoe, just the way I like it.

“Molly, you ready to roll?” Ironic Steve asks as he grabs the cup from Angela and hands it to me. “You’re okay now, right?” His assistant holds a black-and-white clapboard, ready to drop the arm.

“I’m better,” I reply, “but I—”

“Roll cameras. Action!”

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Molly Gray,” says Brown with a blue-eyed wink for the camera.

“Folks, we’ve had our share of mishaps on this show…” Beagle chimes in.

“…we sure have,” Brown adds. “On season three, a guest peed herself from excitement.”

“Let’s not forget the time a man threw a plaster bust at us after a low appraisal. Remember that, Bax?”

“I have the scar tissue to prove it,” says Brown as he tweaks his nose.

“But never before have we had a guest faint on set,” Beagle explains. “Congratulations, Molly! You’re our first. And you’ve just come to and learned you possess a treasure worth millions. How are you feeling?”

“I’m…shocked,” I say. “And I want to apologize for scaring everyone. When consciousness becomes overwhelming, I tend to shut down.”

“Well, you’re back with us now,” Beagle continues, “and viewers are desperate to learn how you came to possess this one-of-a-kind Fabergé prototype.”

“It was given to me by a gardener,” I say. I explain the full story, how as a child, I worked for several weeks alongside my gran as a maid in the mansion of a famous writer, and how one object—a magnificent, bejeweled egg on the mantel in the writer’s parlor—completely enchanted me.

“Fascinating,” says Brown. “Now this writer, can we confirm this story with him?”

“That will prove difficult,” I reply.

“Why?” Beagle asks.

“Because the writer, J.D. Grimthorpe, is very dead.”

“Wait now,” says Brown as he scratches his perfect head of blond hair. “Wasn’t that the author who was poisoned in this tearoom a couple of years ago?”

“The very one,” I reply.

“The plot thickens,” says Beagle as he rubs his hands together. “So how did Grimthorpe’s egg make its way to you?”

“I had reason to visit the mansion after Grimthorpe’s death,” I explain. “And Jenkins, the gardener, whom I knew when I was a child, was cleaning out the parlor, throwing out some old things, including the egg, but knowing how much I’d loved it when I was young, he offered it to me.”

“Did you have any idea of its worth?” Brown asks as he points to the Fabergé glowing brightly on the table between us.

“No. The only person who suggested it might be valuable was J.D.’s wife, Mrs.Grimthorpe, but I never really believed her.”

“And why not?” Beagle asks.

“She had a habit of overestimating her own worth while underestimating everyone else’s,” I reply.

“We see that a lot in this biz. Don’t we, Bax?”

“That we do,” says Brown as the camera catches his strong jawline.

“When Jenkins the gardener confirmed the egg was a bit of junk, I believed him. But my gran always said beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That’s why I wanted to keep it.”

“Molly, I’m not quite sure you grasp the life change that has just occurred. Do you understand you’re now worth millions?”

I hear the words, and I comprehend them, but I cannot fathom how what Beagle said could be true. “But…I’m just a maid,” I say.

The cameras zoom in on my face and the crowd starts to laugh and coo.

“Molly, do you watch our show regularly?” Brown inquires.

“Oh, I do! I’m an avid fan. So is my husband-to-be, Juan Manuel.” I shade my eyes from the blinding lights and search for him in the crowd. “There he is, front row.”

“That handsome fellow in chef whites?” Beagle asks, sitting up on his throne.

The cameras pan to Juan, who jumps to his feet and waves his arms in the air madly. “I love you, Molly Gray!” he yells. “In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer! But I’m pretty sure we just got a whole lot richer!” Juan throws his chef’s hat in the air, and the crowd goes positively manic.

“My, my,” says Brown when the audience finally calms down. “You’ve got good taste in men, Miss Molly. I do love a man in uniform.”

“Since you’re such a fan of the show, you must have learned a thing or two about the provenance of an antiquity and how it impacts an item’s worth,” says Beagle.

“Indeed I have,” I reply. “Your show is quite educational.”

“Here’s what we know about your golden egg,” Beagle explains. “It left its homeland during the revolution in 1918, likely via Fabergé himself, but after that, the paper trail went cold…until now.”

“Do you have any idea who owned this egg before Grimthorpe?” Brown asks.

“No,” I reply.

“And I’m guessing you have no idea who owned it after Fabergé?” Beagle asks.

“No,” I reply.

“Do you hear that?” Brown asks as he cups a hand to his ear. “That’s the sound of a few million dollars circling down the drain.”

The crowd responds with a resounding boo.

“Hold on one minute. Are you Bee-lievers or not?” Beagle asks the crowd. The answer comes in the form of hoots and applause.

“Molly, you are now connected to a pair of appraisers from the most renowned auction house the entire world over. When it comes to the mystery of long-lost art, Beagle and I are master sleuths. But the question is: Do you Bee-lieve in us?” Brown asks as his blue eyes meet mine.

I have no idea what to believe, and all I really want is to get off this stage and out of the limelight as quickly as possible, but out of good grace, I repeat the familiar TV tagline I’m supposed to say: “I Bee-lieve in you.”

“Then we’ll start our provenance inquiry with Jenkins the gardener,” says Beagle.

“I do hope he isn’t ‘very dead’ like Grimthorpe and your gran,” Brown says, a quip met with guffaws from the crowd.

“He’s very much alive,” I reply.

“Then we’ll get cracking.”

“Literally or figuratively?” I ask as the crowd cheers me on.

“Bless your little black bob,” says Brown. “Bee-lievers, you’ve just met Molly Gray—maid, marvel, and millionaire. I promise you haven’t seen the last of her. Let’s give Molly a hearty round of applause!”

The crowd rises to their feet, clapping and whistling so loudly I block my ears to quell the din. Steve bounds onto the platform, grabs my arm, and whisks me off, guiding me through the paneled door leading to the greenroom.

It isn’t long before the two hosts are backstage with me, Beagle cradling the egg in his two tiny hands. “Molly, you were amazing!” he says.

Brown approaches, hovering over me. “The crowd gobbled you up.”

“You’re a star,” says Steve with a tip of his ironic ball cap. “We just aired a quick clip on our socials, and it’s going viral already. My AD is fielding calls from all over the country. People want more Molly—and fast.”

“What?” I say. “What does that mean?”

“You’re made for TV,” says Steve. “We’ll edit the show overnight and air it tomorrow.”

“But don’t we have more to appraise?” asks Beagle.

“No one brought anything nearly as good as Molly did, so we’ll shoot the b-roll letdowns, then start researching the Fabergé’s provenance ASAP.”

Beagle and Brown nod as Steve exits through the paneled door, letting Juan Manuel, Mr.Preston, and Angela in as he goes. I can’t recall a time I’ve been more relieved to see the faces of my loved ones.

Juan rushes over, pulling me into a warm hug.

“Molly!” says Gran-dad when Juan releases me. “Are you all right?”

“You’ve got it made, maid! Get it?” Angela squeals as she grabs my arms.

“I get it,” I say. “A pun. But what I don’t get is what happens now. Am I truly…you know…”

“Wealthy beyond your wildest dreams?” Angela suggests.

“Yes,” I say. “That.”

Beagle draws nearer, still holding the treasure in his palms. “Molly, much will depend on the provenance of this piece and what you want to do with it. But I assure you this egg is incredibly valuable.”

“Most people sell their works,” says Brown, “and if you opt for that, I assure you that Brown & Beagle Auction House will get the highest price possible.”

“But don’t I have to prove the egg is mine?” I ask.

“If you can,” says Beagle.

“I don’t have any paperwork. It was a gift,” I say.

“You have witnesses,” Brown replies. “And, Molly, that egg of yours has been lost for over a century. Never once in all that time has anyone surfaced a document that references it.”

“Which suggests the finders keepers law applies,” Beagle adds.

“Meaning?” asks my gran-dad.

“When the original and true owner of a found item is unknown, it rightfully belongs to the finder. Molly, you’re the finder,” Brown says, beaming down at us. “In other words, the egg is yours.”

My knees go weak as I gaze at the priceless objet in Beagle’s little hands. Is the egg twinkling or am I seeing stars?

“Oh, no. You’re not going down again,” says Juan as he wraps a protective arm around my waist.

“Deep breaths,” Angela instructs, and I breathe until my vision returns.

“I’m okay,” I reassure everyone.

“Molly,” says Brown. “Your life is about to change.”

“ Mi amor, we won’t have to struggle anymore,” says Juan. “And we can have a big, fancy wedding—the marriage of our dreams!”

“If, and only if, you sell the egg,” says Brown.

“Of course she’ll sell the egg,” Juan says. “Right, Molly?”

I look at the expectant faces gathered around me—friends, family, and two shiny reality TV stars.

“Why wouldn’t I sell the egg?” I say. “After all, what could go wrong?”