“What? They were what?”
“It was almost as though they were suspicious. Of her.”
“But did Black die of natural causes or not?”
“The police were fairly certain that was the case. But not completely.”
“Did they ask anything else? About Giselle? About me?”
I feel something slither in my stomach, as though a sleeping dragon were just roused from its torpor. “Rodney,” I say, with an edge in my voice that I have trouble hiding. “Why would they ask about you?”
“That was stupid,” he says. “No idea why I said that. Forget it.”
He pulls his hands away and I immediately wish he would put them back.
“I guess I’m just worried. For Giselle. For the hotel. For all of us, really.”
It occurs to me then that I’m missing something. Every year at Christmas, Gran and I would set up a card table in the living room and work on a puzzle together as we listened to Christmas carols on the radio. The harder the puzzle, the happier we were. And I’m feeling the same sensation I felt when Gran and I were challenged by a really hard puzzle. It’s as if I’m not quite putting the pieces together properly.
Then it occurs to me. “You said you don’t know Giselle well. Is that correct?”
He sighs. I know what this means. I’ve exasperated him, even though I didn’t mean to.
“Can’t a guy be concerned for someone who seems like a nice person?” he asks. There’s a sharp clip to his consonants that reminds me of Cheryl when she’s up to something unsanitary.
I must course-correct before I put Rodney off me entirely. “I’m sorry,” I say, smiling widely and leaning forward in my chair. “You have every right to be concerned. It’s just the way you are. You care about others.”
“Exactly.” He reaches into his back pocket and takes out his phone. “Molly, take my number,” he says.
A frisson of excitement flitters through me, removing any and all slithering doubt. “You want me to have your phone number?” I’ve done it. I’ve mended fences. Our date is back on track.
“If anything happens—like the police bother you again or ask too many questions—you just let me know. I’ll be there for you.”
I take out my phone and we exchange numbers. When I write my name in his phone, I feel inclined to add an identifier. “Molly, Maid and Friend,” I type. I even add a heart emoji at the end as a declaration of amorous intent.
My hands feel jittery as I pass back his phone. I’m hoping he’ll look at my entry and see the heart, but he doesn’t.
Mr. Snow enters the restaurant then. I see him by the bar, grabbing some paperwork before leaving. Rodney is slouching in the seat opposite me. He should not be shy about remaining in the workplace after the end of his shift—Mr. Snow says that’s a sign of an A++ employee.
“Listen, I’ve gotta go,” Rodney says. “You’ll call if anything comes up?”
“I will,” I say. “I most definitely will make phone contact.”
He gets up from the booth and I follow him out the lobby and through the front doors. Mr. Preston is just outside the entrance.
I wave and he tips his hat.
“Hey, any cabs around here?” Rodney asks.
“Of course,” Mr. Preston says. He walks to the street, blows his whistle, and waves down a taxi. When it pulls over, Mr. Preston opens the back door. “In you go, Molly,” he says.
“No, no,” Rodney replies. “The cab’s for me. You’re going…somewhere else, right, Molly?”
“I’m going east,” I say.
“Right. I’m west. Have a good night!”
Rodney gets in and Mr. Preston closes the door. As the taxi pulls away, Rodney waves at me through the window.
“I’ll call you!” I yell after him.
Mr. Preston stands beside me. “Molly,” he says. “Be careful with that one.”
“With Rodney? Why?” I ask.
“Because that, dear girl, is a frog. And not all frogs turn out to be princes.”
I walk home briskly, full of energy and butterflies from my time with Rodney. I think back to Mr. Preston’s uncharitable comment about frogs and princes. It occurs to me how easy it is to misjudge people. Even an upstanding man like Mr. Preston can sometimes get it wrong. Minus the smooth chest, Rodney entirely lacks amphibious qualities. My chiefest hope is that while he is not a frog, Rodney will turn out to be the prince of my very own fairy tale.