Mr. Preston insists we take a cab over to the hotel to save time. We’ve now pulled over just around the corner so the taxi can drop me off. I’m embarrassed when he pays, but I’ve really no choice but to accept his generosity.
“Molly, are you sure you’re okay to walk from here? You know the plan?”
“Yes, Mr. Preston. I’m fine. I’m ready.” I’m saying the words with the hope that the feelings will follow, but the truth is that I’m trembling and the world around me is spinning too fast.
I’m about to step out of the taxi when Mr. Preston puts a hand on my arm. “Molly, your gran would be proud of you.”
The mention of her makes my emotions bubble up, but I will them back down. “Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I manage before slipping out the door.
I watch as Mr. Preston drives away without me.
I walk the last block on my own and wait for ten minutes hidden in an alleyway across from the hotel. It’s eerily beautiful in the late afternoon. The golden light strikes the brass and glass of the entranceway, bathing it in a mysterious glow. The Chens are on their way to an early dinner. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit and she’s all in black, except for a bright-pink corsage pinned to her bodice. A young family jumps out of a taxi after a long day of sightseeing, the parents lethargic and slow. Their two children dash up the scarlet steps, holding up souvenirs for the valets to see. It’s always like this at dusk—as if the day is throwing the last of its energy up the steps while the hotel itself patiently waits for the calm of night to come.
The podium is the only spot that’s forlorn and empty. Mr. Preston has not yet arrived. No doubt he’s still downstairs, donning his great coat and hat and signing in early for his shift.
Time is going by unbearably slowly. Nervous tension makes my entire body tremble. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m unsuited to this level of performance. The only thing that gives me strength is the fact that Mr. Preston, Charlotte, and Juan Manuel are in on it.
When you believe in yourself, nothing can stop you.
I’m trying my best, Gran. I am.
It’s time.
I remain where I am, tucked in the alleyway, hiding in the shadows of the coffee shop, up against the wall. At long last he appears, Mr. Preston, smartly uniformed. He walks calmly through the revolving doors and stands at his podium on the hotel landing. He pulls out his phone and sends a text, then tucks it back into his pocket. I lean against the wall even though I know it’s dirty. If all goes well, there will be time for washing later. If it doesn’t go well, I’ll never be clean again.
A couple more minutes go by. Just when I’m starting to fully panic, I spot him down the street—Rodney, walking quickly toward the hotel. I’ll admit that my feelings upon seeing him are mixed. On the one hand, his appearance means things are going according to plan; on the other, the very sight of his lying, cheating face fills me with murderous rage.
He runs up the front steps and stops at the podium. He talks to Mr. Preston. The conversation lasts no more than a minute. Then Rodney heads into the hotel.
Mr. Preston pulls out his phone and dials. I practically jump out of my skin when my pocket starts to vibrate.
I grab my phone. “Hello?” I whisper. “Yes, I saw it all. What did he want?”
“He heard about the press conference,” Mr. Preston explains. “He was asking if I knew who was arrested.”
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“That I saw Giselle talking with the police. And that she looked upset.”
“Oh dear. That wasn’t part of the plan,” I say.
“I had to think fast on my big ol’ feet. You’ll do the same if you have to. You can do this. I know it.”
I take a deep breath. “Anything else?”
“The news conference begins in under forty minutes. We have to be fast. It’s time. Text him now. Proceed as planned.”
“Roger, Mr. Preston. Over and out.”
I end the call and watch Mr. Preston slip his phone away.
I open a text to Rodney:
Help. I’m at the front door of the hotel and they won’t let me in! If I can’t get that keycard for you, whatever will we do?
Rodney’s response is immediate: BRT DGA
What? What on earth is that supposed to mean? I haven’t the faintest clue. Think, Molly, think.
You’re never alone as long as you have a friend.
The answer is literally right at my fingertips. I find Juan Manuel in my contacts and dial his number. He picks up before the end of the first ring.
“Molly? What’s happening? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. The plan is in progress. But…Juan Manuel, I’m in a bit of pickle and I need hasty assistance.” I read Rodney’s text to him.
“You think I know what that means?” he asks. “I feel like I’m on that TV show where you call a friend and they give you the answer and you win big money. But Molly, you called the wrong friend!” He pauses. “Wait. Hold on.” I hear some rustling on the end of the line.
“Okay, Molly? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“I checked Google. Rodney means Be Right There. Don’t Go Anywhere. Okay? Does that make sense?”
It does. It absolutely does. I’m back on track. “Juan Manuel, I could…”
I could kiss him. That’s what I want to say—that I’m so grateful I could kiss him. But it’s such a bold and ridiculous thought, so unlike me, that it catches in my throat and doesn’t make it out.
“Thank you,” I say instead.
“Go get the fox, Molly,” he replies. “I will BRT when you get back home.”
I know he’s not here with me, but it feels like he is. It’s like he’s holding my hand through the line.
“Yes. Thank you, Juan Manuel.”
I hang up and tuck my phone away.
It’s time.
I take a deep breath, then walk out of the shadows onto the sidewalk.
Always look both ways….
I cross the street, trying to do so normally, without rushing, reminding myself to act as though it’s just another ordinary day. I steady myself at the landing, holding tightly to the brass rail. Then I put one foot in front of the other, and I climb the plush red stairs.
Mr. Preston sees me. He picks up the hotel phone on his podium and makes a call. I can hear him sounding perfectly believable when he says, “Yes. Urgently. She’s here at the front door and she won’t leave.”
As planned, Mr. Preston is wearing white gloves, not part of his regular uniform. He usually wears these only on special occasions, but they’ll come in handy today.
“Molly,” he says loudly and brusquely. “What are you doing here? You can’t be at the hotel today. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He looks around to make sure people are watching. Several guests are streaming in and out of the hotel. A couple of valets on the sidewalk stop what they’re doing and watch as well. It’s as though I’m an engaging spectator sport.
Though it feels so strange to do so, it’s time to play my part, to draw even more attention my way. “I have every right to be here,” I call out in a confident, booming voice. “I’m an esteemed employee of this hotel, and—”
I stop short when Mr. Snow emerges from the revolving doors.
Mr. Preston swiftly moves toward him. “I’ll get Security,” he tells Mr. Snow, then heads through the revolving doors.
Mr. Snow rushes over to me. “Molly,” he says. “I’m sorry to inform you that you are no longer employed at the Regency Grand Hotel. You must leave the grounds immediately.”
The words are a shock to me, and I must say I feel utterly bereft when I hear them. Still, I breathe deeply and stick to my performance, delivering my next lines even louder than my previous ones. “But I’m a model employee! You can’t just fire me without cause!”
“As you well know, there is cause, Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “We need you off these steps. Now.”
“This is inconceivable,” I say. “I won’t leave.”
Mr. Snow straightens his glasses. “You’re disturbing the guests,” he hisses.
I look around and see that more guests have gathered. It seems the valets have tipped off Reception. Several employees from the concierge desk are standing by them, whispering to one another. They’re all looking my way.
For the next few minutes, I keep Mr. Snow engaged on the stairs, demanding explanations, begging him to reconsider, talking at length about the added value of my devotion to hygiene and the high level of quality I bring to the hotel with each guest room that I clean. I channel Gran, how she used to be in the morning, how she would chirp and chirp and chirp without so much as a pause for breath. The whole time, I’m aware that we have only a few minutes left before the whole plan falls apart. I’m also aware that I’m not in uniform, which adds to my distress and general discomfort. Come back, Mr. Preston. Quickly! I think to myself.
At long last, he walks briskly through the revolving doors and stands beside Mr. Snow.
“I can’t find Security, sir,” he announces.
“I can’t get her to leave,” Mr. Snow replies.
“Let me handle this,” Mr. Preston says. Mr. Snow nods and steps aside. “Molly, a word…”
Mr. Preston gently pulls me aside, out of earshot. We both turn our backs to the curious crowd.
“Did it work?” I whisper.
“It did. I found Cheryl.”
“And then what?” I ask.
“I got what I wanted.”
“How?” I ask.
“I told her I knew she was stealing tips from other maids. She got so flustered she didn’t even notice me pocketing her master keycard from her trolley. Not so much as a fingerprint left behind either,” he adds, wiggling his white-gloved fingers. “Here,” he says, holding out one hand. “Shake.”
I take the cue and shake. When I do, I feel the master keycard transfer seamlessly into my palm.
“You take good care, Molly,” he says in a voice loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. “You run home now. You have no place being here today.” He nods to Mr. Snow and Mr. Snow nods back.
Of course, Mr. Preston knows as well as I do that I cannot leave. Not yet. I’m about to start a whole new monologue about worker bees when at long last Rodney emerges through the revolving doors and bounds down the steps toward me.
“I don’t understand any of this!” I shout. “I’m a good maid! Rodney, you’re just the person I wanted to see. Can you believe this?”
Mr. Snow approaches. “Rodney,” he says, “we’re trying to explain to Miss Molly that she is no longer welcome in this hotel. But we’re having a hard time delivering the message.”
“I understand,” Rodney says. “Let me talk to her.”
I’m pulled away again. Once we’re out of earshot, Rodney says, “Molly, don’t worry. I’ll talk to Snow later and find out what’s up with your job. Okay? Probably just a misunderstanding. Did you get the key? To the Black suite? There’s no time to lose.”
“You’re right, there isn’t,” I say. “Here’s the key.” I discreetly pass him the card.
“Thanks, Molly. You’re the best. Hey, I heard the police announced a news conference that’s just about to happen. Do you know what that’s all about?”
“I’m afraid not,” I say.
I watch him carefully, hoping this answer appeases. “Right. Okay. I’d better get this done before Owl Eyes lets the cops in.”
“Yes. As quickly as you can. Good luck.”
He turns and starts up the stairs. “Oh, Rodney,” I say. He turns back, looks down at me. “It really is remarkable the lengths to which you’ll go for a friend.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he says. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”
Before I can say anything else, he’s at the top of the stairs. “Don’t worry,” he tells Mr. Snow. “She’s leaving.” He says it just like that, as though I wasn’t even there.
After that, I hurry down the scarlet steps, turning back only once to see Rodney rushing through the revolving doors and Mr. Preston behind him, one hand out, the other guiding Mr. Snow into the hotel.
I check my phone: 5:45.
It’s time.
