The Maid: A Novel (Molly the Maid Book 1)

With a turn of the key, I open the door to my apartment. I walk across the threshold and close the door behind me, sliding the dead bolt across. Home sweet home.

I look down at the pillow on Gran’s antique chair by the door. She sewed the Serenity Prayer on it in needlepoint: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I take my phone from my pants pocket and place it on the chair. I unlace my shoes and wipe the bottoms with a cloth before putting them away in the closet.

“Gran, I’m home!” I call out. She’s been gone for nine months, but it still feels wrong not to call out to her. Especially today.

My evening routine is no longer the same without her. When she was alive, we spent all our free time together. In the evening, the first thing we’d do was complete that day’s cleaning task. Then we’d make dinner together—spaghetti on Wednesdays, fish every Friday, provided we could find a good deal on filets at the grocery store. Then we’d eat our meals side by side on the sofa as we watched reruns of Columbo.

Gran loved Columbo, and so do I. She often commented on how Peter Falk could use a woman like her to sort him out. “Look at that overcoat. It’s in extreme need of a wash and an iron.” She’d shake her head and address him on the screen as if he were real and right there in front of her. “I do wish you wouldn’t smoke cigars, dear. It’s a filthy habit.”

But despite the bad habit, we both admired the way Columbo could see through the conniving plots of the ne’er-do-wells and make sure they got their just deserts.

I don’t watch Columbo anymore. Just another thing that doesn’t seem right now that Gran is dead. But I do try to keep up with our nightly cleaning routines.

Monday, floors and chores.

Tuesday, deep cleaning to give meaning.

Wednesday, bath and kitchen.

Thursday, dust we must.

Friday, wash-and-dry day.

Saturday, wild card.

Sunday, shop and chop.

Gran always drilled into me the importance of a clean and orderly home.

“A clean home, a clean body, and clean company. Do you know where that leads?”

I could not have been more than five years old when she taught me this. I looked way up at her as she spoke. “Where does it lead, Gran?”

“To a clean conscience. To a good, clean life.”

It would take years for me to truly understand this, but it strikes me now how right she was.

I take out the broom and dustpan, the mop and bucket from the cleaning cupboard in the kitchen. I begin with a good sweep, starting at the far corner of my bedroom. There isn’t much floor space, since my queen bed takes up most of the room, but dirt has a way of hiding under things, of lodging in the cracks. I lift the bed skirts and do a sweep under the bed, pushing any clinging dust forward and out of the room. Gran’s landscape paintings of the English countryside hang on every wall, and every one of them reminds me of her.

What a day it has been, what a day indeed. It is one I’d rather forget than remember, and yet it doesn’t work that way. We bury the bad memories deep, but they don’t go away. They’re with us all the time.

I carry on sweeping through the hallway. I make my way to the bathroom, with its old, cracked black-and-white tiles that nevertheless shine brightly when polished, something I do twice weekly. I sweep up a few of my own stray hairs from the floor, then back out of the bathroom.

Now, I’m right in front of Gran’s bedroom door. It’s closed. I pause. I won’t go in there. I haven’t crossed that threshold in months. And it won’t be today.

I sweep the parquet from the farthest end of the living room, around Gran’s curio cabinet, under the sofa, right through the galley kitchen and back to the front door. I’ve left minute piles of detritus behind me—one outside my bedroom door, another outside the bathroom, one here by the front entrance, and one in the kitchen. I sweep each pile into the dustpan and then have a look at the contents. Quite a clean week, overall—a few crumpet crumbs, some dust and clothing fibers, some strands of my own dark hair. Nothing left of Gran that I can see. Nothing at all.

I whisk the dirt into the trash bin in the kitchen. Then I fill the bucket with warm water and add some of that nice Mr. Clean, Moonlight Breeze scent (Gran’s favorite), into the bucket. I carry the bucket and mop into my bedroom and start at the far corner. I’m careful not to splash any water onto my bed skirts and definitely not on the lone-star quilt that Gran made for me years ago, faded now from use and wear, but nonetheless a treasure.

I complete my circuit, ending again at the entrance, where I encounter a very stubborn black scuff mark at the door. I must have done that with my black-soled work shoes. I scrub, scrub, scrub. “Out, damn spot,” I say aloud, and eventually it fades before my eyes, revealing the gleam of parquet beneath.

It’s funny the way memories bubble up whenever I clean. I do wonder if that’s the same for everyone—for everyone who cleans, that is. And though I’ve had a rather eventful day, it’s not today that I’m thinking about, not Mr. Black and all of that wretched business, but a day long ago when I was about eleven years old. I was asking Gran about my mother, as I did from time to time—What kind of person was she? Where had she gone and why? I knew she’d run off with my father, a man Gran described as a “bad egg” and “a fly-by-night.”

“What was he during the day?” I asked.

She laughed.

“Are you laughing with me or at me?”

“With, my dear girl! Always with.”

She went on to say it was no surprise that my mother got caught up with a fly-by-night, because Gran had made mistakes, too, when she was young. That’s how she got my mother in the first place.

It was all so confusing at the time. I had no idea what to think about any of it. It makes more sense now. The older I get, the more I understand. And the more I understand, the more questions I have for her—questions she can no longer answer.

“Will she ever come back to us? My mother?” I asked back then.

A long sigh. “It won’t be easy. She has to escape him. And she has to want to get away.”

She didn’t, though. My mother never returned. But that’s okay with me. There’s no point mourning someone you never knew. It’s hard enough mourning someone you did know, someone you’ll never see again, someone you miss dreadfully.

My gran worked hard and cared for me well. She taught me things. She hugged me and fussed over me and made life worth living. My gran was also a maid, but a domestic one. She worked for a well-to-do family, the Coldwells. She could walk to their mansion from our apartment in half an hour. They complimented her work, but whatever she did for them, it was never enough.

“Can you clean up after our soirée on Saturday night?”

“Can you get this stain out of our carpet?”

“Do you garden as well?”

Gran, ever willing and good-natured, said yes to every request, no matter what toll it took on her. In so doing, she saved up a very nice nest egg over the years. She called it “the Fabergé.”

“Dear girl, would you pop down to the bank and deposit this in the Fabergé?”

“Sure, Gran,” I’d say, grabbing her bank card and walking down five flights of stairs, out of the building, and down two blocks to the ATM.

As I got older, there were times I worried for Gran, worried she was working too hard. But she dismissed my concerns.

“The devil makes work for idle hands. And besides, one day it will just be you, and the Fabergé will see you through when that day comes.”

I didn’t want to think about that day. It was hard to imagine life beyond Gran, especially since school was a special form of torture. Both elementary and high school were lonely and trying. I was proud of my good grades, but my peers were never my peers. They never understood me then and rarely do now. When I was younger, this vexed me more than it does today.

“No one likes me,” I’d tell Gran when I got picked on at school.

“That’s because you’re different,” she explained.

“They call me a freak.”

“You’re not a freak. You’re just an old soul. And that’s something to be proud of.”

When I was nearing the end of high school, Gran and I talked a lot about professions, about what I wanted to do in my adult life. There was only one option of any interest to me. “I want to be a maid,” I told her.

“Dear girl, with the Fabergé, you can aim a little higher than that.”

But I persisted, and I think deep down Gran knew better than anyone what I am. She knew my capabilities and my strengths; she was also keenly aware of my weaknesses, though she said I was getting better—The longer you live, the more you learn.

“If being a maid is what you’re set on, so be it,” Gran said. “You’ll need some work experience, though, before you enter a community college.”

Gran asked around and through an old contact who was a doorman at the Regency Grand, she learned of an opening for a maid at the hotel. I was nervous at my interview, felt sweat pooling indiscreetly at my armpits as we stood outside the hotel’s imposing, red-carpeted front steps with the stately black-and-gold awning looming over it.

“I can’t go in there, Gran. It’s far too posh for me.”

“Balderdash. You deserve to enter those doors as much as anyone. And you will. Go on, then.”

She pushed me forward. I was greeted by Mr. Preston, her doorman friend.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, bowing slightly and tipping his hat. He looked at Gran in a funny way that I couldn’t quite comprehend. “It’s been a while, Flora,” he said. “It is good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Gran replied.

“Better get you inside then, Molly,” Mr. Preston said.

He guided me through the shiny revolving doors and I took in the glorious lobby of the Regency Grand for the very first time. It was so beautiful, so opulent, I almost felt faint at the sight of it—the marble floors and staircases, the gleaming golden railings, the smart, uniformed Reception staff, like neat little penguins, tending to well-dressed guests who milled about the stately lobby.

I followed breathlessly as Mr. Preston led me through the ornate ground-floor corridors, decorated with dark wainscoting, clamshell wall sconces, and the kind of dense carpet that absorbs all sound, leaving radiant silence to delight the ears.

We turned right then left, then right, passing office after office until at last we came to an austere black door with a brass nameplate that read: mr. snow, hotel manager, the regency grand. Mr. Preston knocked twice, then opened the door wide. To my utter astonishment, I found myself in a dark, leathery den, with mustard brocade wallpaper and looming bookshelves, an office I could easily have believed was 221B Baker Street and belonged to none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

Behind a giant mahogany desk sat the diminutive Mr. Snow. He stood to greet me the moment we walked in. When Mr. Preston discreetly padded out of the room, leaving us to our interview, I can readily admit that while my palms were sweating and my heart palpitated wildly, so enamored was I with the Regency Grand that I was bound and determined to land myself the coveted position of maid.

Truth be told, I don’t remember much about our interview itself, except that Mr. Snow expounded on comportment and rules, decorum and decency, which was not just music to my ears but rather a heavenly and sacred hymn. After our chat, he led me through the hallowed corridors—left, right, left—until we were back in the lobby, clipping down a steep flight of marble stairs to the hotel basement, which, he informed me, housed the housekeeping and laundry quarters alongside the hotel kitchen. In a cramped, airless closet-cum-office that smelled of algae, must, and starch, I was introduced to the head maid, Ms. Cheryl Green. She looked me up and down, then said, “She’ll have to do.”

I began my training the very next day and was soon working full-time. Working was so much better than going to school. At work, if I was teased, it was at least subtle enough to ignore. Wipe, wipe, and the slight was gone. It was also terrifically exciting to receive a paycheck.

“Gran!” I’d say as I returned home after making my very own deposit to the Fabergé. I’d pass her the deposit receipt and she’d smile ear to ear.

“I never thought I’d see the day. You’re such a blessing to me. Do you know that?”

Gran brought me close and hugged me tight. There’s nothing in the world quite like a Gran hug. It may be the thing I miss the most about her. That, and her voice.

“Do you have something in your eyes, Gran?” I asked when she pulled away.

“No, no, I’m quite fine.”

The more I worked at the Regency Grand, the more I put into the Fabergé. Gran and I began talking about post-secondary options for education. I attended an information session about the hotel management and hospitality program at a nearby community college. It was tremendously exciting. Gran encouraged me to apply, and to my surprise, I was accepted. At college, I’d learn not only how to clean and maintain an entire hotel but also how to manage employees, just like Mr. Snow did.

However, just before classes were about to begin, I attended an orientation session, and that’s where I met Wilbur. Wilbur Brown. He was standing in front of one of the display tables, reading the literature. There were pads and pens being offered for free. He grabbed several and shoved them into his backpack. He wouldn’t move out of the way, and I very much wanted to browse the brochures.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Might I access the table?”

He turned to me. He was stocky, wore very thick glasses, and had coarse, black hair.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize I was in your way.” He looked at me, unblinking. “I’m Wilbur. Wilbur Brown. I’m going into accounting in the fall. Are you going into accounting in the fall?” He offered me his hand. He shook it and shook it until I had to yank my arm away to make the shaking stop.

“I’m going into hotel management,” I said.

“I like girls who are smart. What kind of guys do you like? Math guys?”

I’d never considered what kinds of “guys” I liked. I knew I liked Rodney at work. He had a quality I’d heard referred to on television as “swagger.” Like Mick Jagger. Wilbur did not have swagger, and yet, he had something else: he was approachable, direct, familiar. I wasn’t afraid of him the way I was of most other boys and men. I probably should have been.

Wilbur and I began dating, much to Gran’s delight.

“I’m so happy you’ve found someone. It’s simply delightful,” she said.

I’d come home and tell her all about him, how we went grocery shopping together and used coupons, or how we walked in a park and counted out 1,203 steps from the statue to the fountain. Gran never inquired about the more personal aspects of our romance, for which I’m grateful, because I’m not sure I would have known how to explain how I felt about the physical parts, except that while it was all new and different, it was also quite pleasant.

One day, Gran asked me to invite Wilbur round to the apartment, and so I did. If Gran was disappointed by him, she certainly hid it well.

“He’s welcome round here anytime, your beau is,” she said.

Wilbur started visiting regularly, eating with us and staying after dinner to watch Columbo. Neither Gran nor I enjoyed his incessant TV commentary and questions, but we bore it stoically.

“What kind of a mystery reveals the killer from the beginning?” he’d ask. Or, “Can’t you see the butler did it?” He’d ruin an episode by talking through it, often pointing out the wrong culprit, though to be fair, Gran and I had seen every episode several times, so it didn’t really matter.

One day, Wilbur and I went to an office-supply store together so he could buy a new calculator. He seemed very off that day, but I didn’t question it, even when he told me to “Hurry up, already” as I tried to keep up with his compulsive stride. Once inside the shop, he picked up various calculators and tried them out, explaining the function of each button to me. Then, once he had chosen the calculator he liked best, he slipped it into his backpack.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Will you shut your damn mouth?” he replied.

I don’t know what shocked me more—his language or the fact that he walked out of the store without paying for the calculator. He’d stolen it, just like that.

And that’s not all. One day, I came back home from work with my paycheck. He visited that evening. Gran wasn’t doing so well by this point. She’d been losing weight and was much more quiet than normal. “Gran, I’m going to pop down and deposit this in the Fabergé.”

“I’ll go with you,” Wilbur offered.

“What a gentleman you have there, Molly,” Gran replied. “Off you two go, then.”

At the ATM, Wilbur began asking me all kinds of questions about the hotel and what it was like to clean a room. I was more than happy to explain the peculiar joy of making hospital corners with freshly pressed sheets and how a polished brass doorknob in the sunshine turns the whole world to gold. I was so engrossed in sharing that I didn’t notice him watching me type in Gran’s PIN.

That night, he left abruptly, right before Columbo. For days, I texted him, but he didn’t reply. I’d call and leave him messages, but he wouldn’t answer. It’s funny, but it never occurred to me that I didn’t know where he lived, had never been to his home, didn’t even know his address. He always made excuses for why it was best to go to my place, including that it was always nice to see Gran.

About a week later, I went to take out the rent money. I couldn’t find my bank card, which was odd, so I asked Gran for hers. I went to the ATM. And that’s when I discovered that our Fabergé was empty. Completely drained. And it was then I knew that Wilbur was not just a thief but a cheat as well. He was the very definition of a bad egg, which is the worst kind of man.

I was ashamed that I’d been duped, that I’d fallen for a liar. I was ashamed to my core. I considered calling the police and seeing if they could track him down, but in the end, I knew that would mean telling Gran what he’d done, and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t break her heart like that. One broken heart was plenty, thank you very much.

“Where has he been, your beau?” Gran asked after a few days of not seeing him.

“Well, Gran,” I said, “it seems he’s decided to go his own way.” I do not like to lie outright, and this was not an outright lie but rather a truth that remains the truth provided no further details are requested. And Gran didn’t inquire further.

“That’s a shame,” she said. “But not to worry, dear. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

“It’s better this way,” I said, and I think she was surprised that I wasn’t more upset. But the truth is I was upset. I was furious, but I was learning how to hide my feelings. I was able to keep my rage under the surface where Gran couldn’t see it. She had enough to contend with, and I wanted her to concentrate all of her energy on getting well.

Secretly, I imagined tracking Wilbur down myself. I had vivid fantasies about running into him at the college campus and garroting him with the straps of his backpack. I imagined pouring bleach into his mouth to make him confess what he’d done, to Gran, to me.

The day after Wilbur robbed us, Gran had a doctor’s appointment. She’d been to several in the weeks prior, but every time she came home, the news was the same.

“Any results, Gran? Do they know why you’re unwell?”

“Not yet. Maybe it’s all in your ol’ Gran’s head.”

I was pleased to hear this, because a fake illness is far less frightening than a real one. But still, part of me had misgivings. Her skin was like crepe paper, and she barely had an appetite anymore.

“Molly, I know it’s Tuesday, deep cleaning, but do you think we could tackle that task another day perhaps?” It was the first time ever that she asked for a reprieve from our cleaning routine.

“Not to worry, Gran. You rest. I’ll do our evening chore.”

“Dear girl, what would I do without you?”

I didn’t say it out loud, but I was starting to wonder what I myself would do if ever I were without Gran.

A few days later, Gran had another appointment. When she came home, something was different. I could see it in her face. She looked puffy and strained.

“It seems I am a little bit sick after all,” she said.

“What kind of sickness?” I asked.

“Pancreatic,” she said quietly, her eyes never straying from mine.

“Did they give you medicine?”

“Yes,” she said. “They did. It’s a sickness that unfortunately causes pain, so they’re treating that.”

She hadn’t mentioned pain before that, but I suppose I knew. I could see it in the way she walked, how she struggled to sit down on the sofa each night, how she winced when she got up.

“But what is the illness exactly?” I asked.

She never answered me. Instead, she said, “I need a lie-down, if that’s all right. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll make you a tea, Gran,” I said.

“Lovely. Thank you.”

Weeks went by and Gran was quieter than normal. When she made breakfast, she didn’t hum. She came home from work early. She was losing weight rapidly and taking more and more medication each day.

I didn’t understand. If she was taking medicine, why wasn’t she getting better?

I launched an investigation. “Gran,” I said, “what illness do you have? You never told me.”

We were in the kitchen at the time, cleaning up after dinner. “My dear girl,” she said. “Let’s have a seat.” We took our spots at our country-style dining set for two, which we’d salvaged years earlier from a bin outside of our building.

I waited for her to speak.

“I’ve been giving you time. Time to get used to the idea,” she eventually said.

“Used to what idea?” I asked.

“Molly, dear. I have a serious illness.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I have pancreatic cancer.”

And just like that, the pieces clicked, the full picture emerged from the murky shadows. This explained the loss of weight and the lack of energy. Gran was only half herself, which is why she needed full and proper medical care so she could make a complete recovery.

“When will the medicine take effect?” I asked. “Maybe you need to see a different doctor?” But as she doled out the details, the truth began to sink in. Palliative. Such an operatic word, so lovely to say. And so hard to contemplate.

“It can’t be, Gran,” I insisted. “You will get better. We simply have to clean up this mess.”

“Oh, Molly. Some messes can’t be cleaned. I’ve had such a good life, I really have. I have no complaints, except that I won’t have more time with you.”

“No,” I said. “This is unacceptable.”

She looked at me then in such an unreadable way. She took my hand in hers. Her skin was so soft, so paper-thin, but her touch was warm, right to the end.

“Let’s just be clear-eyed about this,” she said. “I’m going to die.”

I felt the room close in around me, felt it tilt on one end. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe at all, could not so much as move. I was sure I was going to pass out right at the kitchen table.

“I’ve told the Coldwells I can’t work anymore, but don’t you worry, there’s still the Fabergé. I hope that when my time comes, the good Lord takes me quickly, without too much pain. But if there is pain, I’ve got my prescription to help with that. And I have you….”

“Gran,” I said. “There has to be a—”

“There’s one thing you must promise me,” she said. “I will not go to the hospital under any circumstances. I won’t spend my end days in an institution surrounded by strangers. There’s no substitute for family, for the ones you love. Or for the comforts of home. If there’s anyone I want by my bedside, it’s you. Do you understand?”

Sadly, I did. I’d tried as hard as I could to ignore the truth, but it was now impossible. Gran needed me. What else was I to do?

That evening, Gran tired out long before Columbo, so I tucked her into bed, kissed her on the cheek, and said good night. Then I cleaned the kitchen cupboards and every dish we owned, one by one. I could not stop my tears from falling as I polished every bit of silver, not that we had much, but we had a little. When I was done, the entire kitchen smelled of lemons, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that dirt lurked in the cracks and crevices, and unless I cleaned it, the contagion would spread into every facet of our lives.

I still hadn’t said a thing to Gran about the Fabergé and Wilbur, how he’d left us penniless. How I could no longer pay tuition for college, how I was struggling to even keep up with the rent. Instead, I simply worked more shifts at the Regency Grand, took on more hours so that I could have enough to pay for everything—including Gran’s pain-management medications and our groceries. We were late on the rent, which was another thing I didn’t mention. Whenever I met our landlord, Mr. Rosso, in the hall, I pleaded for more time to pay, explaining that Gran was sick and we were down to just my income.

Meanwhile, as Gran’s health worsened, I read college brochures aloud to her at her bedside, explaining all the courses and workshops I was excited about, even though I knew I’d never make it to the first class. Gran closed her eyes, but I could tell she was listening because of the peaceful smile on her face.

“When I’m gone, you just use the Fabergé whenever you need to. If you keep working part-time, there will still be enough for rent for at least two years, and that’s not including your tuition. It’s all yours, so use it to make your life easier.”

“Yes, Gran. Thank you.”

I’ve been daydreaming and I didn’t realize it. I’m standing by the front door of our apartment. My mop leans against the wall and I’m clutching Gran’s serenity pillow to my chest. I don’t remember when I put down my mop or when I picked up this pillow. The parquet floor is clean, but it’s battered and scarred from decades of foot traffic, from the daily wear and tear of our domestic life. The overhead light bears down on me, too bright, too warm.

I’m all alone. How long have I been standing here? The floors are dry. My phone is ringing. I lean over and grab it from Gran’s chair.

“Hello, this is Molly Gray speaking.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Molly. This is Alexander Snow from the hotel. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Thank you. Yes. I’ve been home for some time. The detective drove me here herself after she questioned me. Rather good of her, I thought.”

“Yes. And thank you for agreeing to talk to her. I’m sure your insights will help the investigation.”

He pauses again. I can hear his shallow breathing on the other end of the line. It is not the first time he has called me at home, but a call from Mr. Snow is a rare occurrence.

“Molly,” he says again. “I realize this has been a very trying day for you. It’s been hard on many of us, especially Mrs. Black. News has been spreading about Mr. Black’s…demise. As you can imagine the entire staff is very upset and disturbed.”

“Yes. I can imagine,” I say.

“I realize that tomorrow is your one day off in weeks and that you went through a lot today, but it seems that Cheryl has taken the news of Mr. Black’s death quite badly. She says the experience has caused her ‘extreme trauma,’ so she won’t be coming in tomorrow.”

“But she wasn’t the one to find him dead,” I say.

“Everyone reacts to stress in different ways, I suppose,” he replies.

“Yes, of course,” I reply.

“Molly, do you think you could come in her place and work the day shift tomorrow? Again, I’m sorry that—”

“Of course,” I say. “An extra day of work isn’t going to kill me.”

Another long pause.

“Is that all, Mr. Snow?”

“Yes, that’s all. And thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“You will indeed,” I say. “Good night, Mr. Snow. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Good night, Molly.”