The Maid's Secret

The Maid's Secret

Chapter 1

A few years ago, when my gran was alive, she gave me a key. It’s a simple skeleton key, tarnished and worn. No amount of polishing has ever made it shine. To this day, I don’t know why she gave it to me or what it unlocks.

Gran was ailing when she produced it from under her pillow and pressed it into my hands. I didn’t know it at the time, but she had only a few days to live.

“Dear girl, this is for you,” she said as she folded the key into my palm with surprising force.

“What does it open?” I asked.

“My heart,” she replied matter-­of-­factly.

I sometimes have trouble deciphering the literal from the figurative, but even all those years ago, I knew enough about human anatomy to understand that no key in the world can unlock the human heart.

“If that’s a metaphor, I don’t grasp it,” I said. “Precisely what does this key open? A locked box? A drawer? A safe, perhaps?”

“It’s the key to everything,” Gran insisted. “It is all of me. And it is for you.”

Gran was so ill by this point that I assumed her mind was addled from pain. Moreover, I knew it was. There were times during those final days when she’d mutter unintelligibly under her breath—­Birds of a feather . . . or A stitch in time . . . At other moments, she’d suddenly call out to someone she saw in her bedroom when there was no one there but me.

“Gran,” I urged whenever she regained consciousness. “This key fits a lock. Where’s the lock?”

Her eyes fluttered—­open, closed, open. She homed in on me as though she’d never seen me before, and yet I’d lived every day of my life by her side.

“You don’t know who I am,” she said.

“Of course I do. You’re my gran. And I’m your Molly, remember?”

“I remember everything,” she replied.

Then one day Gran asked—­begged—­to leave this world. I pleaded with her, but to no avail. I wanted so much for her to be well, and yet I always knew she would leave me one day.

“It’s time,” she said again and again.

And just like that, she was gone. By gone I do not mean asleep or on holiday or traipsing to the corner store to fetch a jug of milk. What I mean is: she was dead. Yes, dead. There really is no point sugarcoating these things. It was not easy or simple. She died.

My gran taught me to be direct. She also taught me everything else of substance I’ve learned in this life. For that, and for her, I remain forever grateful.

Today, I can’t stop thinking about her. In a cavernous chamber in my mind, her voice echoes, her refrains repeating in a Möbius loop. Perhaps I’m daft, with a mind as soft as unripened cheese, but there are times when I feel her lingering close. It’s as if she’s trying to tell me something—­to warn me of some calamity or unseen danger ahead. I’m used to this, of course—­to being the last to know, to understanding too late. What I’m not used to are warnings delivered from beyond the grave by someone who is most certainly very dead.

“Molly, are you okay? Molly, look at me. Wake up.”

I’m staring into bright lights. Where am I? People crowd around me, shouting and calling my name. Is this an operating room? No, that’s not it. The place is familiar, but everything is blurred.

“Molly, listen to me!”

“Open your eyes!”

I know one thing only: something is terribly wrong. Was I in an accident? Am I dying, my soul rising to meet its maker?

Then I hear it, loud and clear—­Gran’s voice.

All that glitters isn’t gold.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Yes. I remember. I know where I am. I’m in the well-­appointed tearoom of the Regency Grand, the five-­star hotel where I work as a maid. My beloved fiancé, Juan Manuel, and I arrived early this morning to set up for the day’s big occasion—­a fine arts and collectibles event with Brown and Beagle, celebrity appraisers and costars of the hit TV show Hidden Treasures. I’m not dying, thank goodness, but I’m also not all right. I’m lying on the floor, and all around me are microphones and iPhones and TV cameras and jostling humanity.

This was not supposed to happen. These cameras were never supposed to be focused on me. But moments ago, a revelation was made that was so astonishing, so absurd it feels like a dream. To my utter horror, I’m no longer the invisible maid toiling in the background but the epicenter of attention. An entire room of lookie-­loos surrounds me, and they’re shouting at me in a desperate frenzy.

“Molly, you’re a maid, right? At this hotel?”

“Molly, how does it feel to go from rags to riches in an instant?”

“Molly, can you get up off the floor? You’re rich!”

“Molly, mi amor? Are you okay?”

The last voice cuts through, bringing me back to myself—­Juan Manuel, my love, my life.

Lights and cameras push closer, and I lose sight of him. I try to lift myself, but I lack strength. Stars twinkle in my periphery—­all that glitters isn’t gold. Two men’s faces—­I know them; I’ve seen them before, many times—­the stars of a popular show.

“Tell our viewers how it feels, Molly. What’s it like to be an instant multimillionaire?”

The world tilts sideways and suddenly fades to black.

And then I remember everything: but how? How did it come to this?

“Rise and shine, mi amor!” These were the first words I heard as I woke this morning. Through sleepy eyes, I watched as Juan, still in his pajamas, popped out of our bed and pulled the curtains back to let the soft morning light into our room.

I’m not a morning person, but Juan Manuel, just like my gran before him, delights at the dawn of each new day, invigorated with a zest for life, whereas I wrestle my way out from under cobwebs of exhaustion, begging for a few more minutes of slumber. And so it was this morning as it is on most mornings.

“I beg you, press snooze! Please!” I nestled deeper under the covers.

My beloved shuffled into his slippers and like a contented sparrow sang a happy tune as he flitted about our bedroom. A moment later, the mattress shifted as he perched on the edge. I felt his warm hand cajole me from my blanket nest.

“Early to bed, early to rise, makes Molly healthy, wealthy, and wise,” he chimed in his singsong voice.

“Health and wisdom, I already possess,” I muttered. “As for wealth, that’s really asking too much, especially two months before our wedding day.”

He laughed, a sparkling sound, crystalline and pure, like a silver spoon tinkling the edges of a porcelain cup. It’s now been over six months since Juan proposed to me in a surprising holiday revelation on the staircase at the Regency Grand. I was happy and relieved to say yes.

“Get up, Molly. Today’s a busy day! We have to get to the hotel early. The TV crew will be there at nine a.m. sharp. I’m so excited. We’re going to meet the stars of the show!”

We were poised for a huge day at the Regency Grand, where Juan and I both work—­he as a chef and I as a maid. Brown and Beagle, the famous appraising couple known for identifying antiquities and long-­lost works of art, were bringing their road show to the hotel’s Grand Tearoom. It’s a shame Gran never got to see their popular reality TV series, Hidden Treasures, which debuted two years ago. She would have loved the hosts, owners of the eponymous high-end art auction house, two middle-­aged, married men who share a passion for art and antiquities, designer clothes, and each other. The Bees, as they’re affectionately known by their legions of adoring fans, delight audiences nationwide with their witty repartee and their historical know-­how, all while appraising items brought to the show by everyday collectors spanning the globe.

Most of the items they assess on air turn out to be worthless trinkets or not-­so-­clever fakes, but devoted viewers—­myself and Juan included—­watch every week for the gasp-­worthy moments when a long-­forgotten painting discovered in a dusty attic turns out to be a van Gogh or a wardrobe with a secret drawer bought from a charity shop reveals a hoard of priceless coins.

I felt Juan’s hand again, pulling the covers from my face. A moment later, his lips grazed my cheek as he planted kisses in a perfect garden row.