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

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.

I wonder to myself what the etiquette is around wait times before I dial Rodney’s phone number. Should I call him immediately to thank him for our date or should I wait until tomorrow? Perhaps I should text him instead? My only experience with such matters was with Wilbur, who despised talking on the phone and used text messages for time- or task-related correspondence only: “Expected arrival time: 7:03,” “Bananas on sale: 0.49 cents. Buy while quantities last.” If Gran were still around, I’d ask for advice, but that is no longer an option.

As I approach my building, I notice a familiar figure standing outside the front doors. For a moment I’m sure I’m hallucinating, but as I get closer, I see it really is her. She’s wearing her large dark sunglasses and carrying her pretty yellow purse.

“Giselle?” I say as I approach.

“Oh, thank God. Molly, I’m so glad to see you.” Before I can say anything else, she opens her arms and hugs me tight. I’m at a loss for words, mostly because I can barely breathe. She releases me, tips her sunglasses back so I can see her red-rimmed eyes. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” I say. “I can’t believe you’re here. I’m…I’m so pleased to see you.”

“Not as pleased as I am to see you,” she says.

I rummage through my pockets and manage to find my keys. My hands shake a little as I open the door and invite her into my building.

She steps in gingerly and looks around the lobby. Crumpled flyers litter the ground, surrounded by muddy footprints and cigarette butts—such a filthy habit. Her face registers disdain at the mess, so much so that I can read it clearly.

“It’s unfortunate, isn’t it? I do wish every tenant would participate in keeping the entrance clean. I think you’ll find Gran’s…my apartment much more sanitary,” I say.

I guide her through the entrance and toward the stairwell.

She looks up the looming staircase. “What floor are you on?” she asks.

“Fifth,” I say.

“Can we take the elevator?”

“I do apologize. There isn’t one.”

“Wow,” she says, but she joins me in marching up the stairs even though she’s wearing impossibly high heels. We make it to the fifth landing and I rush ahead of her to open the broken fire door. It creaks as I pull it. She steps through and we emerge onto my floor. I’m suddenly aware of the dim lighting and burnt bulbs, the peeling wallpaper and the general tattiness of these corridors. Of course, Mr. Rosso, my landlord, hears us approach and chooses precisely that moment to emerge from his apartment.

“Molly,” he says. “On your good Gran’s grave, when are you going to pay me what’s owed?”

I feel a blast of heat rise to my face. “This week. Rest assured. You’ll get what’s coming to you.” I imagine a big red bucket full of soapy water and pushing his bulbous head into it.

Giselle and I keep walking by him. Once we’re past, she rolls her eyes comically, which to me is a great relief, since I was concerned she’d think poorly of me for not keeping up with my rent. Clearly, that’s not what she’s thinking at all.

I put my key in the lock and shakily open my front door. “After you,” I say.

Giselle walks in and looks around. I step in behind her, not knowing where to stand. I close the door and slide the rusty dead bolt across. She takes in Gran’s paintings in the entry, ladies lounging by lazy riversides, eating picnic delicacies from a wicker basket. She spots the old wooden chair by the door with Gran’s needlepoint pillow on it. She picks it up in both hands. Her lips move as she reads the Serenity Prayer.

“Huh,” she says. “Interesting.” Suddenly, right there in the doorway, her face contorts into a grimace and tears fill her eyes. She hugs the pillow to her chest and begins to sob quietly.

My shaking gets worse. I’m at a total loss. Why is Giselle at my house? Why is she crying? And what am I supposed to do?

I put my keys down on the empty chair.

There’s nothing you can ever do but your best, I hear Gran say in my head.

“Giselle, are you upset because Mr. Black is dead?” I ask. But then I remember that most people don’t appreciate this kind of direct talk. “Sorry,” I say, correcting myself. “What I mean is I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’re sorry? Why?” she asks between sobs. “I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry at all.” She puts the pillow back in its place, pats it once, then takes a deep breath.

I remove my shoes, wipe the bottoms with the cloth from the closet, and put them away.

She watches me. “Oh,” she says. “I guess I should take these off.” She removes her glossy black heels with the red bottoms, heels so tall I have no idea how she made it up those five flights of stairs.

She gestures for me to hand her the cloth.

“No, no,” I say. You’re my guest.” I take her shoes, which are fine and sleek, a delight to hold, and I tuck them away in the closet. She takes in our cramped quarters, her eyes traveling up to the flaking living-room ceiling, where circular stains bleed through from the apartment above.

“Don’t mind appearances,” I say. “There’s not much I can do when it comes to how those above conduct themselves.”

She nods, then wipes the tears from her cheeks.

I rush to the kitchen, grab a tissue, and bring it to her. “A tissue for your issue,” I say.

“Oh my God, Molly,” she replies. “You’ve got to stop saying that when people are upset. They’ll take it the wrong way.”

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant. But other people won’t.”

I’m quiet for a moment as I take this in, storing her lesson in the vault of my mind.

We’re still in the entranceway. I’m frozen in my spot, unsure of what to do next, what to say. If only Gran were here….

“This is the part where you invite me into the living room,” Giselle says. “You tell me to make myself at home or something like that.”

I feel the butterflies in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I say. “We don’t…I don’t have company very often. Or ever. Gran used to invite select friends round from time to time, but since she died, it’s been rather quiet here.” I don’t tell her that she’s the first guest to pass through the door in nine months, but that’s the God’s honest truth. She’s also the first guest I’ve ever entertained on my own. Something occurs to me.

“My gran always said, ‘A good cup of tea will cure all ills, and if it doesn’t, have another.’ Would you like one?”

“Sure,” she says. “Can’t remember the last time I had tea.”

I hurry to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I peek at Giselle from the doorway as she strolls around the living room. I’m glad that it’s Tuesday, as I just washed the floors last night. At least I know they are clean to perfection. Giselle walks over to the windows at the far end of the living room. She touches the frilled trim on Gran’s flowery curtains, curtains she sewed herself many years ago.

As I place tea in the pot, Giselle moves to Gran’s curio cabinet. She crouches to admire the Swarovski menagerie, then takes in the framed photos angled on top. It makes me slightly uncomfortable but also a tad giddy that she’s here in my home. While I’m confident that the apartment is clean, it’s not appointed in the manner to which a woman of Giselle Black’s station would be accustomed. I don’t know what she’s thinking. Perhaps she’s horrified by the way I live. It is not like the hotel at all. It is not grand. This has always been fine by me, but perhaps it’s not fine by her. It’s a discomfiting thought.

I pop my head out of the kitchen. “Please rest assured that I maintain the highest level of sanitation at all times in this apartment. Unfortunately, on a maid’s salary, I’m not able to purchase extravagant items or keep up with modern décor trends. I’m sure to you this home appears dated and old-fashioned. Perhaps a little…worn?”

“Molly, you have no idea how things appear to me. You don’t really know much about me. You think I’ve always lived like I do now? Do you know where I’m from?”

“Martha’s Vineyard,” I say.

“No, that’s just what Charles tells everyone. I’m actually from Detroit. And not the nice side of town. This place actually reminds me of home. I mean, home from long ago. Home before I found myself all alone. Before I ran away and never looked back.”

I watch from the kitchen doorway as she leans in to inspect a photo of Gran and me taken over fifteen years ago. I was ten years old. Gran enrolled us both in a baking class. In this shot, we’re wearing comically large chef hats. Gran is laughing, though I look very serious. I recall being displeased by the flour dusted on our pantry table. It was all over my hands and apron. Giselle picks up the photo next to it.

“Whoa,” she says. “Is this your sister?”

“No,” I say. “It’s my mother. It was taken a long time ago.”

“You look exactly like her.” I’m well aware of our resemblance, especially in that photo. Her hair is shoulder-length and dark, framing her moon face. Gran always loved that photo. She called it her “twofer,” because it reminded her of the daughter she lost and the granddaughter she gained.

“Where does your mom live now?”

“She doesn’t,” I say. “She’s dead. Along with my grandmother.”

The water is boiling. I turn off the element and pour the water into a teapot.

“Mine are gone too,” she says. “Which is why I left Detroit.”

I place the pot on Gran’s best and only silver serving tray alongside two proper porcelain cups and two polished teaspoons; a double-eared, cut-crystal sugar bowl; and a small antique pitcher of milk. All of these items store memories—Gran and I foraging in secondhand shops or picking through boxes of discarded items left outside the row of austere mansions on the Coldwells’ street.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Giselle says. “And your grandmother.”

“You have no reason to be. You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I know I didn’t, but that’s just what you say. Like you did with me at the door. You said you were sorry about Charles. You offered your condolences.”

“But Mr. Black died yesterday, and my mother died many years ago.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Giselle says. “That’s just what you say.”

“Thank you. For explaining.”

“Sure. Anytime.”

I truly am grateful for her guidance. With Gran gone, much of the time I feel like a blind person in a minefield. I’m constantly stumbling upon social improprieties hidden under the surface of things. But with Giselle around, I feel like I’m wearing a breastplate and am flanked by an armed guard. One of the reasons why I love working at the Regency Grand is that there’s a rule book for conduct. I can rely on Mr. Snow’s training to tell me how to act, what to say when, how, and to whom. I find it relieving to have guidance.

I take the tea tray into the sitting room. It rattles in my hands. Giselle sits down on the worst part of the sofa, where the springs poke through a tad, though Gran has covered them with a crocheted blanket. I sit beside her.

I pour two cups of tea. I pick up mine, the one rimmed with gold and decorated in daisy chains, then realize my error. “Sorry. Would you prefer this cup or that one? I’m used to taking the daisies. Gran would take the English cottage scene. I’m a bit of a creature of habit.”

“You don’t say,” Giselle says, and picks up Gran’s cup. She helps herself to two heaping teaspoons of sugar and some milk. She stirs the contents. She’s never done much housework, that’s for sure. Her hands are smooth and flawless, her manicured nails long and polished blood red.

Giselle takes a sip, swallows. “Listen, I know you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

“I was worried for you, and I’m glad you’re here,” I say.

“Molly, yesterday was the worst day of my life. The cops were all over me. They took me to the station. They questioned me like I’m some kind of common criminal.”

“I was worried that would happen. You don’t deserve that.”

“I know. But they don’t. They asked me if I got too eager as a potential heir to Charles’s estate. I told them to talk to my lawyers, not that I have any. Charles handled all of that. God, it was awful, to be accused of such a thing. Then as soon as I got back to the hotel, Charles’s daughter, Victoria, called me.”

I feel a tremor jolt me as I pick up my teacup and take a sip. “Ah yes, the forty-nine-percent shareholder.”

“That’s what she owned before. Now she’ll own over half of everything, which is what her mother always wanted. ‘Women and business don’t mix,’ Charles says…said. According to him, women can’t handle dirty work.”

“That’s preposterous,” I say. Then I catch myself. “Apologies. It’s rude to talk ill of the dead.”

“It’s okay. He deserves it. Anyhow, his daughter said way worse things to me on the phone. Do you know what she called me? Her father’s Prada parasite, his midlife mistake, not to mention his killer. She was raging so much, her mother took the phone away from her. Calm as anything, Mrs. Black—the first Mrs. Black—says, ‘I apologize for my daughter. We all react to grief in different ways.’ Can you believe it? While her lunatic daughter is yelling in the background, telling me to watch my back.”

“You don’t have to worry about Victoria,” I say.

“Oh, Molly, you’re so trusting. You have no idea how vicious it is out there in the real world. Everyone wants to see me go down. It doesn’t matter that I’m innocent. They hate me. And for what? The police, they suggested that I was violent against Charles. Unbelievable!”

I watch Giselle carefully. I remember the day she told me about Mr. Black’s mistresses, how she was so angry she really did want to kill him. But thought and action are different things. They’re different things entirely. If anyone knows this, I do.

“The police think I killed my own husband,” she says.

“For what it’s worth, I know you didn’t.”

“Thank you, Molly,” she says.

Her hands are shaking like mine are. She sets her cup down on the table. “I’ll never get how a decent woman like Charles’s ex-wife could raise such a bitch of a daughter.”

“Perhaps Victoria takes after her father,” I say. I remember Giselle’s bruises and how they came to be. My fingers tighten on the delicate handle of my teacup. If I grip it any harder, it will shatter into a million pieces. Breathe, Molly. Breathe.

“Mr. Black, he wasn’t good to you,” I say. “He was, in my estimation, a very bad egg.”

Giselle looks down at her lap. She smooths out the edges of her satin skirt. She is picture-perfect. It’s as if a cinema star from the golden age just crawled out of Gran’s TV and magically took a seat beside me on the sofa. That thought seems more probable than Giselle being real, a socialite who is actually friends with a lowly maid.

“Charles didn’t always treat me well, but he loved me, in his way. And I loved him in my way. I did.” Her big green eyes fill with tears.

I think of Wilbur, how he stole the Fabergé. Any fondness I felt for him turned to bitterness in an instant. I would have cooked him in a vat of lye if I could have done so without repercussion. And yet, Giselle, who has just cause to hate Charles, holds on to her love for him. How curious, the way different people react to similar stimuli.

I take a sip of tea. “Your husband was a cheater. And he beat you,” I say.

“Wow. Are you sure you don’t want to tell it like it is?”

“I just did,” I say.

She nods. “When I met Charles, I thought my life was made. I thought I’d finally found someone who would look after me, who had it all and who adored me. He made me feel special, like I was the only woman in the world. Things were okay for a while. Until they weren’t. And yesterday, we had a huge fight right before you came in to clean the suite. I told him I was sick of our life, sick of going from city to city, hotel to hotel, all for his ‘business.’ I said, ‘Why can’t we just settle down somewhere, like at the villa in the Caymans, and just live and enjoy life like normal people?’

“People don’t know this, but when we got married, he made me sign a prenup so none of his properties or assets belong to me. It hurt, that he didn’t trust me, but like an idiot, I signed it. From that moment on, things were different between us. The second we were married, I wasn’t special anymore. And he was free to give me what he wanted and take it away at any time. That’s exactly what he’s done throughout our two years of marriage. If he liked the way I acted, gifts would be showered upon me—diamonds and designer shoes, exotic trips—but he was a jealous man. If I so much as laughed at a guy’s joke at a party, I’d be punished. And not just by him turning off the money tap.” One of her hands flits up to her collarbone. “I should have known. It’s not like I wasn’t warned.”

Giselle pauses, gets up, and retrieves her purse by the door. She rummages around and her hand emerges with two pills. She sets her purse down on the chair by the door, returns to the sofa, and pops the two pills in her mouth, washing them down with some tea.

“Yesterday, I asked Charles if he would consider canceling our prenup or at least putting the Cayman villa in my name. We’ve been married for two years; he should trust me by now, right? All I wanted was a place to escape to when the pressure gets too much for me. I told him, ‘You can keep growing your business, if that’s what you want—your Black empire. But at least give me the deed to the villa. With my name on it. A place to call my own. A home.’ ”

I think back to the itinerary I saw in her purse. If the trip was for her and Mr. Black, why were the flights one-way?

“He lost it on me when I said the word ‘home.’ He said everyone always lies to him, tries to steal his money, takes advantage of him. He was drunk, storming around the room, saying I was just like his ex-wife. He called me a lot of things—a money-grabber, a gold digger…a dime-store whore. He got so mad that he pulled off his wedding ring and threw it across the room. He said, ‘Fine, have it your way!’ Then he opened the safe, rooted around in there, stuffed some paper in his suit pocket, then pushed past me and stormed out of the room.”

I knew what that paper was. I’d seen it in his pocket—the deed to the villa in the Caymans.

“Molly, that’s when you came in the suite, remember?”

I did remember—the way Mr. Black pushed past me, just another aggravating human obstacle in his path.

“Sorry I was acting so weird. But now you know why.”

“That’s quite all right,” I say. “Mr. Black was far ruder than you were. And to be honest, I thought you were sad, not mad.”

She smiles. “You know what, Molly? You understand more than anyone gives you credit for.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re the best.”

I can feel my face flush at the compliment. Before I have a chance to ask what other people think about me, a strange transformation washes over Giselle. Whatever is in the pills she just took, the change happens quickly. It’s like she’s turning from solid to liquid before my eyes. Her shoulders relax and her face softens. I remember Gran when she was sick, how the medications relieved the pain just like this, for a while at least, how her face would turn from a tight, stony grimace to a look of peaceful bliss so clear that even I could read it instantly. Those pills worked magic on Gran. Until they didn’t. Until they weren’t enough. Until nothing was enough.

Giselle turns to face me and sits cross-legged on the couch. She wraps Gran’s blanket around her legs. “You found him, right? Charles? It was you who first found him?”

“It was me. Yes.”

“And they took you to the station? That’s what I heard.”

“Correct.”

“So what did you tell them?” She brings one hand to her lips and nibbles at the skin by her index finger. I want to tell her that nail-biting is a filthy habit and not to ruin her lovely manicure, but I refrain.

“I told the detective what I saw. How I entered the suite to return it to a state of perfection, how I felt perhaps it was occupied, how I entered the bedroom to find Mr. Black lying on the bed. And when I investigated further, I realized he was dead.”

“And was there anything weird about the suite?”

“He’d been drinking,” I say. “Which I’m afraid I don’t consider unusual for Mr. Black.”

“You got that right,” she says.

“But…your pills. They’re usually in the bathroom, and they were on the bedside table, open, with some spilled onto the carpet.”

Her whole body stiffens. “What?”

“Yes, and some pills had been stepped on and were ground into the carpet, which is problematic for those of us who have to clean the suite after.” I wish she wouldn’t nibble her nails like a cob of corn.

“Anything else?” Giselle asks.

“The safe was open.”

Giselle nods. “Of course. Normally he kept it locked, never gave me the code. But that day, he took whatever it was he wanted and left it open when he stormed out.”

She picks up her teacup and takes a polite sip. “Molly, did you tell the police anything about Charles and me? About…our relationship?”

“No,” I say.

“Did you…did you tell them anything about me?”

“I did not hide the truth,” I say. “But I also didn’t volunteer it.”

Giselle stares at me for a second, then leaps forward and hugs me, which catches me off guard. I can smell her expensive perfume. Isn’t it interesting how luxury has an unmistakable scent, as unmistakable as fear or death?

“Molly, you’re a very special person, you know that?”

“Yes, I know,” I say. “I’ve been told that before.”

“You’re a good person and a good friend. I don’t think I could ever be as good as you, so long as I live. But I want you to know something: whatever happens, don’t you think for a second that I don’t appreciate you.”

She pulls back from me and springs to her feet. A few minutes ago, she was willowy and relaxed; now she’s overcharged.

“What are you going to do? Now that Mr. Black is dead?”

“Not much,” she says. “The police won’t let me go anywhere until the toxicology and autopsy reports are complete. Because if some rich guy turns up dead, then obviously his wife offed him, right? Couldn’t be that he died of natural causes, of the stress he caused himself and everyone else around him. Stress that his wife was trying to relieve him from so he wouldn’t drop dead.”

“Is that what you think happened? He dropped dead, just like that?”

She sighs. Tears spring to her eyes. “There are so many reasons a heart can stop beating.”

I feel a lump in my throat. I think of Gran, of her good heart and how it came to a stop.

“Will you continue to stay at the hotel while you wait for the reports?” I ask.

“I don’t have much choice. I’ve got nowhere else to go. And I can barely step outside of the hotel without being mobbed by reporters. I don’t own any property. I’ve got nothing that’s mine and only mine, Molly. Not even a crappy apartment like this.” She winces. “Sorry. See? You’re not the only one who steps in it from time to time.”

“That’s quite all right. I take no offense.”

She reaches out and puts a hand on my knee. “Molly,” she says, “I won’t know what Charles’s will says for a while. Which means I won’t know what becomes of me for a while. Until then, I’ll stay at the hotel. At least there, the bill is already paid.”

She pauses, looks at me. “Will you look after me? At the hotel, I mean. Will you be my maid? Sunitha is nice and all, but it’s not the same. You’re like a sister to me, you know that? A sister who sometimes says crazy shit and likes dusting way too much, but a sister nonetheless.”

I’m flattered that Giselle thinks of me in such a positive light, that she sees past what others don’t, that she sees me as…family.

“I’d be honored to look after you,” I say. “If Mr. Snow is fine with it.”

“Great. I’ll tell him when I go back.” She stands, walks to the door, and grabs her yellow purse. She brings it to the sofa and takes out a stack of bills—a stack that looks all too familiar. She flicks off two crisp hundred-dollar bills and places them on Gran’s silver tea tray.

“For you,” she says. “You earned it.”

“What? This is a lot of money, Giselle.”

“I never tipped you yesterday. Consider this your tip.”

“But I never finished cleaning the suite yesterday.”

“That’s not your fault. You just keep that. And let’s pretend this conversation never happened.”

I, for one, will never be able to forget this conversation, but I don’t say that out loud.

She stands and turns to the door, but then stops and faces me. “One more thing, Molly. I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

I immediately wonder if this will involve ironing or laundry, so I’m surprised by what comes next.

“Do you think you might be able to get into our suite still? It’s cordoned off right now. But I left something in there, something I desperately need back. I tucked it up in the bathroom fan.”

That explains it, the clunky sound I heard yesterday when she was in the bathroom, showering.

“What is it you want me to retrieve?”

“My gun,” she says, her voice neutral and calm. “I’m at risk, Molly. I’m vulnerable now that Mr. Black is gone. Everyone wants a piece of me. I need protection.”

“I see,” I reply. But in truth, this request produces raging anxiety. I feel my throat closing. I feel the world tilt around me. I think of Mr. Snow’s advice—“When a guest asks for something above and beyond, consider it a challenge. Don’t dismiss it. Rise to meet it!”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, but the words catch. “To retrieve your…item.” I stand in front of her, at attention.

“Bless your heart, Molly Maid,” she says, throwing her arms around me again. “Don’t believe what anyone says. You’re not a freak. Or a robot. And I’ll never forget this as long as I live. You’ll see. I swear, I won’t forget.”

She rushes over to the front door, retrieves her glossy high heels from the closet, and slips them on. She’s left her teacup behind on the table rather than carrying it to the kitchen as Gran would have. She has not, however, forgotten her yellow purse, which she slings over her shoulder. She opens my front door, blows me a kiss, and waves goodbye.

A thought occurs to me.

“Wait,” I say. She’s down the hall, nearly at the stairs. “Giselle, how did you know where to find me? How did you get my home address?”

She turns around. “Oh,” she says. “Someone at the hotel gave it to me.”

“Who?” I ask.

She squints. “Hmm…. Can’t quite remember. But don’t worry. I won’t bug you all the time or anything. And thanks, Molly. For the tea. For the talk. For being you.”

And with that she flicks her sunglasses down, pulls open the broken fire door, and leaves.