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.”