The Maid: A Novel (Molly the Maid Book 1)
The Maid: Part 6 – Chapter 27

Part 7 – Several Months Later

Today is a beautiful day for so many reasons. Just last night when I went to bed and began to count my blessings, there were so many that I made it over a hundred in no time. I must have fallen asleep eventually, but I could have kept counting the whole night through and never run out.

And today, there are even more good things, too many to count.

The sun is shining. It’s warm outside, with no clouds in the sky. I have just arrived at the Regency Grand, and I’m bounding up the scarlet steps toward Mr. Preston, who has just relieved some incoming guests of their luggage.

“Molly!” he says, his whole face a smile. “It’s nice to see you at work instead of across a crowded courtroom.”

“Isn’t it a beautiful day, Mr. Preston?”

“That it is,” he replies. “We’re at work, and Rodney is behind bars. All’s right with the world.”

I wonder if there will ever come a day when hearing Rodney’s name won’t produce an acidic churn in my stomach and a tightening in my jaw.

“Where’s Juan Manuel?” Mr. Preston asks.

“He’ll be along shortly. His shift starts in an hour.”

“Are we still on for Sunday? I’m looking forward to his enchiladas. You know, I’m not the most adventurous when it comes to food, and with my wife long gone, I don’t get up to much in the kitchen. But that man of yours, he’s opened my palate. Maybe a little too much,” he says, chuckling and patting his belly.

“He’ll be very pleased to hear it, Mr. Preston. And yes, we’ll see you and Charlotte on Sunday at the usual time. I best be going. Much to do today! There’s a wedding and a conference. Mr. Snow says all rooms have been booked for a solid week. Say hello to Charlotte.”

“I will, dear girl. Take care.”

Mr. Preston turns to help some guests. I push through the revolving doors and take in the lobby. It’s as grand as the first day I laid eyes on it—the austere marble staircase, the golden serpent railings, the plush emerald love seats, the buzz and hum of guests and valets and porters bustling to and fro. I breathe deeply, then head toward the basement. But just as I’m about to take the stairs down, I notice the neat penguins behind the reception desk. They’ve stopped working. They’re all looking my way. Several are whispering to one another in a way I don’t care for, not in the least.

Mr. Snow emerges from a door behind Reception. He sees me.

“Molly!” he says. He comes rushing over. “You were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

I’m having trouble focusing on his words. I’m watching the penguins, trying to understand why they’re so fixated on me this time.

“I merely told my truth,” I tell Mr. Snow.

“Yes, but it’s your truth, your testimony that clinched it. You were so calm and steady on the stand. And you do have a gift for words, you know, and for remembering details. The judge saw that and knew you were a reliable witness.”

“Why are they staring?” I ask.

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Snow says. He follows my eyes to the reception desk. “Oh, I see,” he says. “If I had to guess, I’d say they’re in awe. I’d say the look they’re giving you is respect.”

Respect. I’m so unaccustomed to being the object of such an expression that I can’t even recognize it.

“Thank you, Mr. Snow,” I say. “I best be going. I have many rooms that must be returned to a state of perfection, and as you know, rooms don’t clean themselves.”

“They most certainly do not. Good day, Molly.”

I head downstairs to the housekeeping quarters. It’s stuffy and close as usual, but I’ve never minded it, not in the least. I’m standing in front of my locker, where my uniform, freshly dry cleaned and crisply pressed, hangs in gossamer-thin plastic wrap. My uniform is yet another blessing. It is a thing of great beauty.

I take it into a change room and put it on. Then I return to my locker and open it. Detective Stark returned Giselle’s timer to me long ago, and I keep it on the top shelf to remind me. Of her. Of us. Of our strange friendship that was and wasn’t.

It’s time.

I have a new bit of accoutrement that I also keep in my locker, an addition to my uniform. It’s an oblong gilt pin that I wear just above my heart. It reads molly gray, head maid.

In a bold and unexpected move, Mr. Snow promoted me about a month ago. Far be it from me to tell tales, but it would seem that Cheryl’s work ethic was not meeting Mr. Snow’s high professional standards, for she was stripped of her supervisory role and it was bestowed unto me.

I have since instantiated some new best practices to improve the overall functioning and morale in the hive. First, before every shift, I see to it that each maid’s trolley is fully and properly supplied. I love this part of my job—arranging the soaps and tiny shampoos in their trays, replenishing the polishing cloths and detergents, stacking the fresh, white towels in perfect piles. On special days—such as Mother’s Day—I leave little gifts for the maids in their trolleys, such as a box of chocolates with a little tag: From Molly the Maid. Know this: your work is sweet.

Another new best practice is how we begin a shift. All of us maids gather with our trolleys and agree to a fair and equitable room distribution, both in terms of the quantity of rooms each and the potential to earn tips. I have made it abundantly clear to Cheryl that she is not to “preview” rooms assigned to other maids and that if she so much as takes a dime off another maid’s pillow, I will eject her unceremoniously from the hive and run her over with her own trolley.

We have a new maid on our team. His name is Ricky, and he is Sunshine’s son. Cheryl was quick to point out that he has a lisp and wears eyeliner, two facts which, to be perfectly honest, are so irrelevant that I failed to notice either over the entire course of his month-long training. What I did notice, however, is what a quick study he is, how he delights in making a bed with no creases, how he polishes glass to a high shine, and how he greets guests with the manners of a fine courtier. He is, as managers say, a keeper.

I received a raise when I was promoted, and between that and the fact that I’m now sharing the cost of rent, I’ve been able to start my very own Fabergé. It’s not much yet, just a few hundred dollars, but I have a plan. I’ll keep growing the egg until I have enough to enroll once more in the hotel management and hospitality program at the nearby college. With Mr. Snow’s permission, I will work around my class schedule, and in a year or two, I will graduate, magna cum laude, and return to full-time work at the Regency Grand with even better skills and a more complete knowledge of hotel management.

Perhaps the biggest change in my life is that it’s now official: I have a beau. I’m told it’s in vogue to refer to him as my partner, and I’m trying to get used to that term, though every time I say it I think of partner in crime, which in some ways we were, though I didn’t know it at the time.

When Juan Manuel eventually received a work permit and returned to the kitchen, Mr. Snow offered him his own room in the hotel for as long as he needed to get back on his feet. But on evenings and weekends, when we weren’t working, Juan Manuel and I spent a lot of time together. It took some time for me to fully trust that he really is what he appears to be—which is a good egg. And I believe it took him some time, too, to trust that so am I.

I’ve learned to judge friends through their actions, and Juan Manuel’s actions speak volumes. There are the big things, like standing up for me in court and saying that I didn’t know a thing about the illegal activities going on at the hotel. But there are also the small actions, like the brown paper bag lunches he prepares for me, which I pick up from the kitchen at precisely noon each workday. Inside the bag is a delightful sandwich and a sweet treat that he knows I will like—shortbread biscuits, a chocolate, and from time to time, a raisin-bran muffin.

There are still days when I feel very sad about Gran, and when I text Juan Manuel to say I’m blue, he responds immediately—BRT! DGA! He’ll bring a jigsaw puzzle that we’ll tackle together, or he’ll help me with my daily cleaning chore. If there’s anything that raises the spirits more than a good tidy, it’s a good tidy with company. And for my part, when I know Juan Manuel is blue and misses his family, I refrain from offering tissues. I offer hugs and kisses instead.

Two months ago, I asked Juan Manuel if he wanted to move out of the hotel and in with me. “For cost-saving purposes,” I clarified. “Among others.”

“I’ll only agree if I’m allowed to do all the dishes.”

Reluctantly, I agreed.

We’ve been living quite happily together ever since—splitting the rent, making meals together, calling his family together, shopping together, going to the Olive Garden together…and more. Juan Manuel shares my love of the Tour of Italy platter. We often play a game where we have to choose just one part of the Tour of Italy to eat if we one day become stranded on a desert island.

“You can choose only one—the chicken parmigiana, the lasagna, or the fettucine Alfredo.”

“No, I can’t choose. It’s impossible, Molly.”

“But you must. You have to choose.”

“I can’t choose. I’d rather die.”

“I’d rather you stay alive and well, thank you very much!”

The last time we played this game, we were at the Olive Garden. He leaned forward and kissed me across the table, right under the pendant light, all without ever putting his elbows on the table, because that’s just the kind of man he is.

Tonight, we will go out, just the two of us, to the Olive Garden. After all, we have reason to celebrate. Yesterday was a big day for both of us. We each took the stand in the trial against Rodney. Charlotte spent weeks preparing us for cross-examination, for every difficult question the defense could throw at us. In the end, Juan Manuel took the stand before I did and told the court his very sad and terrible truth. He told them how his papers were taken from him, how Rodney threatened his life and those of his family members, how he was forced to work for Rodney, and how he was burned repeatedly. In the end, it wasn’t Juan Manuel who was attacked on the stand. It was me.

Do you truly expect this court to believe you didn’t know anything when you were literally wiping cocaine off tables every morning?

Is it accurate to say that you were Mr. Black’s accomplice?

Is Giselle your friend? Is that why you’re protecting her?

I wanted to tell them that Giselle doesn’t need my protection, not anymore, not since her abuser, Mr. Black, is dead. But I learned from Charlotte that in court, when a question assumes, you don’t have to answer it. And since I didn’t want to make an A-S-S out of myself, I allowed Charlotte to object. And I said nothing.

Detective Stark tried many times to get Giselle to appear in court, but to no avail. Once, she managed to get her on the phone. She located Giselle at a hotel in Saint-Tropez. Detective Stark begged her to come back to the country and take the stand. She asked who the charges were against, and when she learned they were against Rodney, not me, she said, “Hell no. I’m not going back.”

“Did she say why?” I asked.

“She said she’s wasted enough of her life on guilty men. She said that everything’s different for her now, that she’s free for the first time ever. She said that unless I can track her down and serve her a subpoena, she’ll come back when hell freezes over. She also said I’m the detective, not her, that it’s my job to put the villain behind bars.”

That sounded like Giselle. I could almost hear her saying it.

In the end, I took the stand with only Juan Manuel to corroborate my side of the story.

Apparently, I did well. Apparently, I had a calm demeanor on the stand and the judge took notice. Charlotte says that most witnesses feel attacked up there, and they either lash out or break down.

I’m used to name-calling and insinuations about my character. I’m used to verbal jousts and jabs. They’re fired my way every day, often without me even being aware of them. I’m used to my words being my only defense.

For the most part, being on the stand was not difficult. All I had to do was listen to the questions and respond with the truth, my truth.

The hardest part was when Charlotte asked me to walk the court through my memory of the day I found Mr. Black dead in his bed. I told them about Mr. Black almost bowling me over outside the suite. I told them how I entered later that day and Giselle was gone, how I turned the corner to the bedroom and saw Mr. Black lying there. I told them every detail I could remember—the drinks on the sitting-room table, the open safe, the spilled bottle of pills, Mr. Black’s shoes akimbo on the floor, three pillows on the bed, not four.

“Three pillows,” Charlotte said. “How many are usually on a bed at the Regency Grand?”

“Four is our house standard. Two firm, two soft. And I can assure you, I always kept four clean pillows on that bed. I’m a very detail-oriented person.”

A muffled eruption of laughter traveled through the courtroom, laughter at my expense. The judge called for order, and Charlotte asked me to continue.

“Tell the court, Molly. Did you see anyone in the suite or in the hallways, anyone who might have had the missing pillow?”

Here came the tricky part, the part I’d never discussed with anyone, not even Charlotte. But I’d prepared myself for this moment. I’d practiced night after night, in between counting blessings and sheep.

I steadied my gaze and my voice. I concentrated my mind on the pleasant sound of my own blood. I could hear it in my ears, the rushing flow, in and out, rolling waves on a faraway beach. What’s right is right. What’s done is done.

“I wasn’t alone. In the room,” I said. “I thought I was at first, but I wasn’t.”

Charlotte swiveled on her heel and turned my way.

“Molly?” she said. “What are you talking about?”

I swallowed, then spoke. “After I called down to Reception for help the first time, I put the receiver down. Then I turned toward the bedroom door. And that’s when I saw it.”

“Molly, I want you to think very carefully before you speak,” Charlotte calmly advised, though her eyes were wide with alarm. “I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re to tell the absolute truth. What did you see?” Her head tilted to one side as if nothing made sense.

“There was a mirror on the far wall in front of me.”

I paused and waited for Charlotte to catch up. It didn’t take her long.

“A mirror,” she said. “And what was reflected in it?”

“First, myself, my terrified face staring back at me. Then behind me, to my left, in the shadowy corner by Giselle’s armoire was…a person.”

My eyes locked with Charlotte’s. It was as though her mind were an intricate machine, reading me, deliberating on how to proceed.

“And…was this person holding anything?” she asked.

“A pillow.”

Murmurs traveled through the crowded courtroom. The judge called for order.

“Molly, is the person you saw standing in that dark corner present in this courtroom today?”

“I’m afraid I would not be comfortable saying,” I said.

“Because you don’t know?”

“Because at that precise moment, when I turned from the mirror to get a direct look at the figure in the dark corner, I fainted. And when I woke up, the person wasn’t there anymore.”

Charlotte nodded slowly. She took her time. “Of course,” she said. “You have a history of fainting spells, don’t you, Molly? Detective Stark testified that you fainted once at your front door upon arrest and once at the station, is that correct?”

“Yes. I faint when under extreme duress. And I most certainly was under extreme duress upon wrongful arrest. I was also under extreme duress when I looked into that mirror and realized I wasn’t alone in that hotel room.”

Charlotte began to pace in front of the stand. She stopped directly in front of me. “What happened when you came to?” she asked.

“When I regained consciousness, I called Reception for the second time. But there was no one in the room at that point. Just me. Well, me and the corpse of Mr. Black,” I said.

“Is it possible, Molly—I’m not saying it was—but is it possible that the person in that dark corner was Rodney Stiles?”

Rodney’s lawyer jumped to his feet. “Objection. Leading the witness,” he said.

“Sustained,” the judge replied. “Counsel, do you wish to rephrase your question?”

Charlotte paused for a moment, though I doubt it was because she was thinking. I took that time to study Rodney. His lawyer was leaning forward, whispering something in his ear. I wondered what I was being called this time, not that it mattered. Rodney was wearing what appeared to be a very expensive suit. I used to think he was so handsome, but as I looked at him in that moment, I couldn’t imagine what I’d ever seen in him.

After a long interval, Charlotte finally said, “No further questions, Your Honor.” She turned to me. “Thank you, Molly,” she said.

For a moment I thought it was over, but then I remembered we were only halfway through. Rodney’s lawyer sauntered toward me, stopping right in front of me and staring me down. It did little to unnerve me. I’m used to such looks. The world had prepared me well.

I can’t recall every word that was said, but I do remember treading the same old ground, telling the same story the same way every time I was asked. I didn’t trip up even once because it’s easy to tell the truth when you know what it is and what it isn’t, and when you’ve drawn your own line in the sand. There was just one moment during cross-examination when Rodney’s lawyer drilled into me with particular vigor.

“Molly, there’s something I still don’t understand about your story. You were brought to the police station several times. You were given ample opportunity to tell Detective Stark about the figure in the corner of the hotel suite that day. Doing so might have even exonerated you. And yet, time after time, you never mentioned seeing someone in that room. You never said a word about that. And if your lawyer’s behavior means anything, it sure seems like she didn’t know until today either. Now, why is that, Molly? Is that because no one was actually there? Is it because you’re protecting someone else, or is it because when you looked in that mirror, all you saw was your own guilty face reflected back at you?”

“Objection. Badgering. Of the very worst kind,” Charlotte said.

“Sustained, minus the last bit,” said the judge.

The whispers fluttered through the courtroom.

“I’ll rephrase my question,” Rodney’s lawyer said. “Did you lie to Detective Stark when you first told her about what you saw in that hotel room?”

“I did not lie,” I say. “On the contrary. You’ve all read the transcripts. Perhaps you’ve even watched the video of my testimony on the very first day I was interrogated at that filthy police station. One of the first things I said to Detective Stark, in no uncertain terms, was that when I announced my arrival in the suite, I thought someone was there with me. I asked her specifically to write that detail down.”

“But the detective obviously assumed you meant Mr. Black.”

“And that’s why assumptions are dangerous,” I said.

“Ah,” he replied as he paced back and forth in front of the stand. “So you omitted the whole truth. You refused to clarify. That, too, is a lie, Molly.” He eyed the judge, who tilted her chin down ever so slightly. I thought that maybe Charlotte would intervene, but she didn’t. She was still and quiet at her bench.

“And can you please enlighten us, Molly, as to why you failed—countless times—to clarify to investigators your claim that ‘someone else was in the room’ and that this person was holding a pillow?”

“Because I was…”

“Was what, Molly? You strike me as someone rarely at a loss for words, so have out with it. This is your chance.”

“I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what it was I’d seen. I’ve learned to doubt myself and my perceptions of the world around me. I do realize I’m different, you know, different from most. What I perceive isn’t what you perceive. Plus, people don’t always listen to me. I’m often afraid I won’t be believed, that my thoughts will be discounted. I’m just a maid, a nobody. And what I saw in that moment, it felt like a dream, but I know now that it was real. Someone with a deep motive killed Mr. Black. And that wasn’t me,” I said. I looked at Rodney then, and he looked at me. There was a look on his face that was entirely new. It was as though, for the very first time, he was seeing me for who I really am.

The courtroom erupted and the judge called for order once more. I was asked several other questions, which I answered, clearly and politely. But I knew nothing else I said would matter. I knew this because I could see Charlotte on the bench. And she was smiling, a smile that was new for me, one that I would add to the catalog in my mind, filed under A for “awe.” I’d surprised her, shocked her completely, but I had not made a total mess of things. Everything was going our way. That’s what her smile said.

And she was right. Things did go our way.

As I think back on it now, on everything that happened in that courtroom yesterday, I can’t help but smile myself.

I snap out of my recollections when I see Sunitha and Sunshine heading toward me. They’ve just arrived for the start of our shift. They’re perfectly dressed in their uniforms, their hair neatly pinned back. They stand in front of me silently, which is quite usual for Sunitha and most unusual for Sunshine.

“Good morning, ladies,” I say. “I hope you’re looking forward to another day of returning rooms to a state of perfection.”

They still say nothing. Finally, Sunshine speaks. “Just go on. Tell her!”

Sunitha takes a step forward. “I wanted to say: you caught the snake. The grass is clean now, thank you.”

I don’t exactly know what she’s trying to say, but I can tell she’s paying me a compliment.

“We all want a clean hotel, do we not?”

“Oh yes,” she says. “Clean means green!”

This pleases me immensely because she’s quoting something I said in a recent maid training session. If we work to make things clean, we’ll make a lot of green. By green, I meant money—tips, bills. I thought that was quite clever, and I’m pleased she remembered.

“Big tips today and big tips in the future!” she says.

“Which is good for us all,” I say. “Shall we?”

And without further delay, we get behind our trolleys and push onward.

But just as we make it to the elevators, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

The elevator doors open. “You two go ahead. I’ll take the next one up,” I say.

Off they go together, which gives me a moment to check my phone. It’s probably Juan Manuel. He often sends text messages throughout the day, little things to make me smile—a picture of us eating ice cream at the park, or an update about his family back home.

But it’s not Juan Manuel. It’s an email from my bank. Instantly, I feel my stomach sink. I can’t bear the thought of bad financial news. I open it and read the message:

SANDY CAYMAN has sent you $10,000 (U.S.) and the money has been automatically deposited into your account.

And under “Special message,” three words: Debt of Gratitude.

At first, I think it must be a mistake. But then it dawns on me. Sandy Cayman. Sandy beaches. The Cayman Islands.

Giselle.

Giselle sent me a gift. And that’s where she is—on her favorite island in the villa that she wanted so badly, a villa she asked Mr. Black to put in her name hours before his death. Mr. Black relented. He gave in. That was revealed in court by Rodney’s defense team. When he left the suite on the last day of his life, after throwing his wedding ring at Giselle, he had a change of heart. He grabbed the deed for the villa in the Caymans out of the safe. I happened to see it in his breast pocket when he nearly bowled me over in the hallway. Despite the argument with Giselle, he went directly to his lawyers and had them put the villa in Giselle’s name. That was the last bit of business he conducted before returning to the hotel. It explained a lot….

I imagined Giselle on a lounge chair in the sun, finally getting what she always wanted, just not the way she expected. Somehow, she had money now, too, even if it wasn’t Mr. Black’s—money to make amends.

She’d sent me a gift. An enormous, Fabergé-enhancing gift.

A gift I wouldn’t know how to give back even if I wanted to.

A gift that I intended to put to very good use.