Juan Manuel hangs up and places my phone on the table.
“I can’t believe it. I still have my job.”
“Me too,” I say. I feel a warmth spread through me, a je ne sais quoi verve I haven’t felt in some time.
He claps his hands together. “So,” he says. “It looks like two people in this kitchen have the day off. I wonder what they will do…”
“Tell me something, Juan Manuel,” I say. “Do you by any chance like ice cream?”
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.