Page 8

—

It’s curious, how a person can be there and not there at the very same time—that’s what I’m experiencing in this moment. In the greenroom, Brown and Beagle are conversing amicably with Juan, my gran-dad, and Angela.

Everyone is so excited about the Fabergé, they’re practically buzzing, but I’m feeling quite numb. It’s only when Beagle addresses me directly that I snap to attention.

“Really, Molly. You won’t regret your decision to sell the egg,” he says, still cradling the precious Fabergé in the nest of his hands.

“Auctioning it is definitely the right thing to do,” says Brown, “and we’ll guide you through all of the steps.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Gran-dad says with a shake of his head.

“Molly, is it sinking in? We’re going to be rich!” exclaims Juan.

I try to smile, but the sentiment won’t reach my face because all I can hear in my head is Gran— All that glitters isn’t gold.

There’s a knock on the greenroom door, and Mr.Snow pokes his head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but might I have a moment with Molly?” he asks.

I hurry to him. Mr.Snow’s forehead is furrowed with concern. Beads of sweat are threatening to unleash a torrent down his face.

“Molly,” Mr.Snow says, sotto voce, “I realize the news you’ve just received may change how you think about your employment at this hotel. You and Juan Manuel might think working here is now beneath you. Still, I’m wondering if I can count on you to at least finish today’s shift.”

Instantly, I feel unsteady again. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “What on earth would make you think I’d quit my job?” I ask in a voice so pinched it sounds foreign to my ears. “I’m not going anywhere except upstairs to clean rooms. Did you really think this egg would change that?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Mr.Snow answers as he wipes his forehead with his pocket square. “Money changes people, and I thought it might change you.”

“I can assure you it won’t, Mr.Snow. I am the same Molly I was a few hours ago. You can count on me.”

“What about them?” he asks, pointing to Juan Manuel, Angela, and my gran-dad, who are laughing heartily at whatever joke the Bees just told them.

I march over to their tight circle. “Excuse me,” I say, “it’s time to get back to work. Mr.Preston, since you’re here, would you mind helping Angela wrangle the Bee-lievers?”

“No trouble at all,” he replies.

“And, Juan, can you direct your staff back to the kitchens to prepare for lunch service?”

“With pleasure,” he says, tipping his chef’s hat.

“That’s that. We’re off,” I say, as I open the greenroom door.

“Wait!” Beagle exclaims. “You’re just going to leave the egg behind?” He holds out the precious heirloom, a look on his face that, unless I’m mistaken, suggests I’ve completely lost my mind.

“I’ll put the egg in my locker, and then Juan and I will take it back home at the end of our shift.”

Beagle stares up at his husband, aghast at what I’ve just said. Then he turns to me and says, “Molly the Maid, you are in possession of a valuable object that makes you a target. You could be robbed. Or worse.”

Juan’s mouth falls open.

“I hadn’t considered that,” I say.

“Remember—not everyone is a good egg,” Gran-dad adds.

“There’s a safe in my office,” Mr.Snow replies. “Shall I place the egg in there for safekeeping?”

“Who else knows about this safe?” Brown asks.

“No one but me,” Mr.Snow responds as he straightens his cravat.

“Until now,” Angela replies under her breath.

“We’re off,” I say to Brown and Beagle. “Thank you for the appraisal,” I add, curtsying before I leave.

Mr.Snow opens the greenroom door, and I follow him out, with Juan by my side and Mr.Preston and Angela behind us. The second we’re in the corridor, we’re accosted.

“Look, it’s her!”

“Molly the Maid! Can I get a photo?”

“Where is it, Molly? Where’s the egg?”

In an instant, I’m surrounded by a crowd of hotel guests, Bee-lievers, and miscellaneous looky-loos.

“Step back!” Mr.Preston demands.

“Give her space,” Mr.Snow orders as he blazes a trail through the masses.

“Molly, you’re becoming a celebrity—fast,” Angela says.

“Everyone wants a piece of you,” Juan adds as he puts a protective arm around me.

“There’s no need for fuss,” I call to the crowd as I pass. “I’m just a maid!”

Everyone bursts into a confusing round of applause.

Angela and Mr.Preston head back to the tearoom while Mr.Snow and Juan guide me to the front lobby. The crowds here are thinner, and we have a bit more space to breathe as we stand by the stairs to the basement.

“This is so strange,” Juan says. “Molly, I don’t want to leave you.”

“We’ll talk everything through tonight. For now, we’ve got jobs to do,” I say.

“If you insist,” Juan replies.

“Don’t worry,” Mr.Snow counters. “I’ll make sure she gets upstairs safely. I’m sure all the fuss will die down momentarily.”

Juan grabs both of my hands. “ Mi amor, you’re sure you’re okay?”

“Of course,” I say with a confidence I don’t quite feel.

“That’s my Molly,” he replies with a smile, then he starts down the stairs and disappears from sight.

“I’ll escort you to the elevator,” says Mr.Snow. We make our way to the lift relatively unencumbered, but as he presses the button, guests stare at me, exchanging whispers behind cupped hands. For the first time in a long time, I feel exposed rather than invisible. Every eye in the hotel is trained on me.

Ding —the elevator arrives. The guests part and allow me to step on alone, something that never happens. When I arrive on the third floor, I find Lily, one of our best maids, and Cheryl, one of our worst, cleaning rooms together. I often pair responsible Lily with problematic Cheryl, since Cheryl can’t be trusted to get any work done by herself.

I grab a dustcloth from the trolley outside of Room 403, then join Lily and Cheryl inside. They’re putting fresh sheets on a king-size bed, but Cheryl isn’t paying attention. Instead, she’s watching the TV, which is blasting Chatter Box, an entertainment news show.

Both maids turn when I enter the room.

“Molly!” says Lily. “We heard!”

“When are you quitting?” asks Cheryl. “Soon, I hope.”

“Don’t count your chickens,” I reply. “And turn that TV off right this second.”

Both Lily and Cheryl eye me curiously.

“Molly,” says Lily. “You were just on Chatter Box. They ran a clip of you and the Bees.”

Slack-jawed, I stare at Lily exactly the way she’s staring at me. “You’re going viral,” she says.

“Just like a plague,” Cheryl says. “Hey, can I get a picture of you for my ’gram?” Cheryl removes her phone from her pocket and before I can even protest, she snaps a photo of me holding out my dustcloth.

“What on earth do you want my picture for, Cheryl?” I ask. “Put your phone away and tuck that sheet in properly.”

Cheryl reluctantly obeys, but Lily remains frozen in place, staring at me with her saucerlike eyes.

“Lily,” I say, “if you have something to say, say it.”

“Just don’t forget the little people,” she replies, “when you’re rich and famous.”

Lily’s words hit like an arrow. Without warning, tears spring to my eyes.

“Lily,” I say, waving my dustcloth in front of her face. “It’s me, Molly. I’m the same person I was yesterday, so why is everyone suddenly treating me differently?”

As Lily and I face each other, Cheryl, having abandoned the bedsheets yet again, punches at her phone with both thumbs. “Done,” she says as she looks up, a Cheshire cat grin claiming her face.

“What did you just do?” I ask her.

“I messaged some friends,” she replies.

“Can I leave you to it?” I ask Lily. “I need to check in on Sunitha and Sunshine.”

“Yes,” Lily replies. “And, Molly, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“My gran used to say to err is human, but to apologize is divine. Thank you, Lily,” I say.

We offer each other a curtsy while Cheryl rolls her eyes.

I leave them both and take the stairs to the third floor, where Sunitha and Sunshine are standing in the hall beside a short, bearded man in a trench coat.

Sunshine waves me over. “Molly! This man has been asking for you. He says you know him.”

The man in front of me adjusts his trench coat, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Do I know you?” I ask, trying to place him.

“I’ve stayed here before,” he replies. “So you’re Molly—spitting image. You’re the maid with the golden egg?”

“I am,” I say. “Which room are you staying in?”

The man stares at me and says nothing.

“Now before I alert security to an intruder in the corridor, what did you want to ask me?”

The man scurries down the hall without so much as a word.

“Wait!” I yell.

He disappears through the stairwell exit. I turn to Sunshine.

“He was asking us for your address,” she says. “And your phone number, too.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” says Sunshine.

“I have a sneaking suspicion he was up to no good,” I say.

“I’ll tell Mr.Snow about him,” she says. “Molly, we heard about the appraisal. We’re so excited for you. This is going to change your life!”

Sunitha and Sunshine grab my hands, their faces beaming vicarious joy.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

—

The rest of the workday passes in a confusing blur. For the first time ever, I find myself the very epicenter of attention at the hotel. I try not to think about what happened this morning and what the news of the Fabergé egg will mean to my life in the future, but no matter how hard I wipe the slate of my mind clean, my environs find a way to remind me.

Normally, at least half of the rooms on any floor of the hotel have the Shh—Please Do Not Disturb door hanger placed on the knobs, but today, when I arrived on the third floor, the hangers on every room read, Dear Maid, Please Clean!

Worse, every time I knocked on a guest’s door and called out, “Housekeeping! Is this a good time to return your room to a state of perfection?” the door swung open and smiling guests invited me in. One woman took the vacuum right out of my hands and sat me down in her guest chair to make me a cup of tea. Another guest offered me caviar. In summary, the guests in this hotel are non compos mentis —ergo, they’ve gone completely and utterly batty.

But the worst happened just moments ago, when I was cleaning my final room before the end of my shift. I looked up from my bottle of air freshener to find a group of Bee-lievers peeking their heads around my trolley, which was propping open the door.

“It’s her!” they exclaimed as they rushed into the room.

“Can we have your autograph?” they asked while proffering Regency Grand pens and stationery.

“You want my signature? What for?”

“Do you realize that over three million people have watched that Hidden Treasures clip since this morning? You should see the memes. You’re all over TikTok.”

I stared at the faces in front of me, sparkling like the very egg that got me into this situation.

“Is this your room?” I asked the Bee-lievers, who looked at each other with shifty eyes. “Are you the occupants?” I asked more firmly.

“We’re on the second floor. Hey, if you want to swing by after your shift, we’ll open a bottle to celebrate. What do you say?”

“I say no,” I replied. “Please leave this suite tout de suite. Guest privacy is paramount at the Regency Grand.”

A few minutes ago, shift complete, I changed into my civilian clothes, then rushed out the lobby’s revolving doors carrying my shoebox, this time sans egg. Now, I’m catching my breath on the red-carpeted stairs.

“Yo, there she is! It’s Molly the Maid!” Speedy yells to some guests the instant he spots me. “Juan should be out soon, too.”

“Speedy, what are you doing?” I hiss as he lumbers my way.

“They’ve been waiting for you all day,” he says.

The little gang bounds up the stairs and surrounds me, pushing flyers and business cards at me, making me offers for real estate and media appearances and trips to far-flung places I’ve seen only on postcards. Just as I’m getting weak at the knees, Mr.Snow emerges through the revolving doors with Juan behind him.

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Juan says as he grabs my arm.

“I’ve ordered you black car service,” Mr.Snow replies. “Hop in that limo. It will take you straight home.”

Juan rushes me down the red-carpeted stairs and into the waiting vehicle. Only when we’re two blocks from home do I dare draw a breath.

“Are you okay?” Juan asks. He’s gripping my hand so tight I can barely feel my fingers.

“I’m okay,” I reply. “You?”

“A reporter came into the kitchen asking weird questions.”

“A bearded man wearing a trench coat?” I ask.

“That’s the one. He wanted to know where Mr.Snow’s office was.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No. I chased him up the stairs and out the revolving doors. But when I came back, all the Bee-lievers and guests in the lobby started clapping—at me! Mr.Snow had to fend them off so I could get back to work. Molly, what’s happening? The golden huevo has turned everything upside down.”

“I know,” I say. “It’s been the same for me. But surely everything will go back to normal tomorrow?”

“Of course it will,” says Juan. “And besides, we’ll be rich beyond our wildest dreams!”

“We’re here,” says the driver as he circles to the front door of our decrepit old building.

“What do we owe you?” I ask.

“Taken care of by the hotel manager,” says the driver.

Juan and I thank him, then head inside to our fourth-floor apartment. When the door is locked behind us and our shoes are stowed, I head to our threadbare sofa and collapse. “Home sweet home,” I say.

“I’ve never been more relieved to be here,” Juan adds as he perches beside me. His beautiful chocolate eyes meet mine. “Molly, are you sure you still want to marry me?”

“Why are you asking such a question?”

“It’s just that if you’re rich, you can do what you please, have whoever you want.”

I sit bolt upright and grab Juan’s clammy hand. “I don’t want anyone else. For richer or poorer, right?”

“Yes,” Juan replies. “I’m glad you won’t toss me to the curb. Molly, we’re going to have money for the first time in our lives. I was thinking maybe we can have a bigger wedding instead of just Angela and Mr.Preston at city hall. And maybe we can have a real party afterward, with a catered meal, too? What about a brand-new wedding dress for you? And a diamond ring? It’ll be better than your engagement ring, that’s for sure.”

He points to Gran’s old Claddagh ring on my hand. Try as I might to imagine something better, I can’t. I love this ring with all my heart.

“I don’t want a fancy ring,” I say. “And my only dream, Juan, is not living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe now we can send a bit more money home to your family.”

“You would do that?” Juan asks.

“Of course,” I reply.

Just then, my phone rings. I remove it from my pocket and check the screen—unknown caller.

“Will you take this?” I ask Juan. “I can’t bear to speak to anyone right now.”

“Sure,” he replies as I pass him the phone. “Hello? She’s not available…. Wait, how did you get her number?…She’s not interested. Goodbye.”

Juan puts my phone on the side table. “Weird,” he says. “That was a financial adviser. He got your number from a link on Instagram.

“I’m not on Instagram,” I say.

“Don’t worry. He’s gone now. I hung up on him.”

“I’m exhausted,” I say.

“Molly, rest. I’ll make dinner. It’s Taco Tuesday, mi favorito !”

“Can I help?”

“No. I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

I’m greatly relieved to head off to our bedroom and lie in the dark by myself, listening to Juan jangling pots and pans in the kitchen, the evening news on TV in the background.

I close my eyes and let my mind drift. I’m remembering a time, long ago, when Gran told me a story about a maid who walked a mile in the shoes of three different people. It’s as though she’s right here with me, sharing the moral of the story: be grateful for what you have, especially if you’re loved.

“Molly? Molly, wake up. You have to see this.” Juan is standing by my bedside, gently shaking me awake.

I pull the covers back and groggily follow him to the living room. We sit side by side on the old, threadbare sofa.

“Look,” he says, pointing to the evening airing of Chatter Box on TV.

“…and she’s taking social media by storm,” the anchor says. “Here’s the adorable clip from the hit TV show Hidden Treasures, featuring Molly Gray, a maid at the Regency Grand Hotel, finding out she’s the owner of a Fabergé egg worth millions.”

The clip runs. Brown, tall and gallant, and Beagle, small and regal, share the news. I tell them I’m just a maid, then soon after, I faint and fall off my chair as the tearoom audience goes wild.

The anchor laughs as the clip ends. “Normally, we’d call this a ‘rags-to-riches’ story, but as you can see…it’s rag -to-riches in Molly’s case.”

The camera cuts to a photo of me in my maid’s uniform holding up my dustcloth. It’s the photo Cheryl took earlier today!

“There you have it, folks—Molly, the Millionaire Maid. We’ll get her on our show as soon as we can, but first, we managed to track down two people who not only know her but also know about her multimillion-dollar egg. Mr.Jenkins, Serena Sharpe, welcome to Chatter Box. ”

“It’s them!” I say, pointing to the familiar faces I see on the screen.

“Happy to be here,” says Jenkins, the Grimthorpes’ old gardener.

“A pleasure,” says Serena Sharpe, J.D.’s former secretary.

“Let’s start with you, Mr.Jenkins,” says the anchor. “I understand you were the long-serving gardener at J.D. Grimthorpe’s mansion and that you knew Molly.”

“Indeed I did. I knew her when she was just a little mite. Mind as sharp as a tack, and she loved to clean, oh yes. When she spotted that egg in the parlor, she fell in love with it, even tried to polish it once and got in a spot of trouble.” Jenkins chuckles at the memory, and so do I.

“And was it really you who gave her the priceless egg?” the anchor asks.

“Guilty as charged,” he replies. “Molly came to the mansion after the Grimthorpes both passed, and I’d been given instructions to clear out all their old things. I had that old egg in a box, ready to pitch to the curb, but I offered it to her, and she took it.”

“And you, Serena Sharpe,” the anchor says. “You’re the daughter of Abigail Sharpe, who was revealed to be the true author of J.D. Grimthorpe’s novels. You inherited much of his wealth as a result.”

“That’s correct,” she says.

“And it was you who asked Mr.Jenkins to clear the mansion of all trinkets. Tell me, did you have any idea that egg was valuable?”

“None whatsoever,” says Serena. “So many things in the Grimthorpe mansion were fakes, starting with the occupants.”

“Now that you know the Fabergé is real, don’t you want it back?” the anchor asks.

“No,” she replies. “I know firsthand what it feels like to have something that’s yours taken from you. My mother lived with that her entire life. The Fabergé is Molly’s, fair and square.”

“We’re still trying to get to Miss Molly, but in the meantime, do you have a message for her?”

“I do.” Ms.Sharpe turns to the camera, and it’s as though she’s looking straight into my soul. “When you have something of value, there’s always someone ready to take it from you. So, Molly—be careful.”