“I understand,” Mr. Preston said. “We don’t want you hurt, and we don’t want your family hurt either. You should also know that Molly’s in trouble as well…. Yes, that’s right…. She’s been framed for Mr. Black’s murder,” Mr. Preston said.
Another short pause, a bit more back and forth, and then, “Thank you…Yes…Certainly, we can explain everything in detail. And please know, we’d never do anything to…Yes, of course. All decisions will be up to you…. I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”
It’s now been over an hour, and Juan Manuel is still not here. All of this waiting and anticipating is having a most deleterious effect on my nerves. To calm myself, I think about what a difference it makes having Mr. Preston and Charlotte on my side. Yesterday, I was alone. This apartment felt bleak and hollow. All of its color and vibrancy drained away the day Gran died. But now it’s alive again, revitalized. I look at the feeder outside the window. Perhaps later I will scrounge for crumbs and fill it, no matter what Mr. Rosso says.
I feel overcharged and I can’t stay still, which is why I’m now pacing. If I were here by myself, I’d probably scour the floors or scrub the bathroom tiles, but I’m not by myself, not anymore. It’s altogether new and odd to have company. It’s also a great comfort.
Mr. Preston takes his seat on the sofa.
Charlotte ends her call.
Something is eating away at me, and I decide to voice it. “Don’t you think I should call R-Rodney?” I ask. His name trips me up again, but I spit it out. “Perhaps he can offer an explanation? Maybe he has nothing at all to do with the cocaine found on my trolley. It could have been Cheryl, couldn’t it? Or someone else? What if Rodney’s the one who can actually explain all of this?”
“Absolutely not,” says Charlotte. “I’ve just done a background check on Rodney. Rich family but kicked out at fifteen. Then in a group home. Then petty theft, assault, and various drug charges that never stuck, and a string of different addresses a mile long before landing himself in this city.”
“See, Molly? Calling that cretin is a bad idea,” Mr. Preston says as he smooths out Gran’s crocheted blanket on the sofa. “He’ll only lie.”
“And then he’ll disappear,” Charlotte adds.
“What about Giselle? She must know something that can help me. Or Mr. Snow?”
Before either of them can answer, there’s a knock at my door.
My breath catches in my throat. “What if it’s the police?” The room starts to undulate and I fear I won’t make it to the front door.
Charlotte rises from her seat. “You have a legal representative now. The police would have called me if they wanted to contact you.”
She comes to my side. “It’s okay,” she says, putting a reassuring hand on my wrist. It works. I immediately feel a little bit calmer and the ripples in the floor solidify.
Mr. Preston appears on my other side. “You can do this, Molly,” he says. “Let’s open the door together.”
I take a deep breath and walk to the entryway. I open the door.
Juan Manuel is standing before me. He’s wearing a pressed polo shirt, tucked into his neat jeans. He’s carrying a white plastic takeout bag in one hand. His eyes are wide and his breath is ragged as though he climbed the stairs two by two.
“Hello, Molly,” he says. “I can’t believe it. I never, ever wanted trouble for you. If I could have—”
He stops midsentence. “Who are you?” he asks, looking past me to Charlotte.
She steps forward. “I’m Charlotte, Molly’s lawyer and Mr. Preston’s daughter. Please don’t be afraid. We have no intention of turning you in. And we know you’re in grave danger.”
“I’m in too deep,” he says. “So deep. I never chose this situation. They made me. They made Molly, too. It’s the same but different.”
“We’re both in trouble, Juan Manuel,” I say. “It is most serious.”
“Yes, I know,” he says.
Mr. Preston speaks up from behind me. “What’s in the bag?”
“Leftovers from the hotel,” Juan Manuel replies. “I had to make it look like I was leaving for an early dinner break. There are afternoon tea sandwiches in there. I know you like them, Mr. Preston.”
“Oh, I do. Thank you,” says Mr. Preston. “I’ll lay them out. We all need to stay fortified.”
Mr. Preston takes the bag and brings it to the kitchen.
Juan Manuel stands at the threshold without moving. Now that he’s not holding the bag, it’s easy to see that his hands are shaking. So are mine.
“Won’t you come in?” I say.
He takes two unsteady steps forward.
“I’m grateful that you’ve come, especially given your current circumstances. I’m really hoping you’ll talk to me,” I say. “And to them. I need…help.”
“I know, Molly. We’re both in deep.”
“Yes. There are things that happened that I didn’t—”
“That you didn’t understand—until now.”
“Yes,” I say. I glance at his scarred forearms, then turn away.
He steps inside and looks around the apartment. “Wow,” he says. “This place. It reminds me of home.”
He takes his shoes off. “Where can I put my work shoes? Not very clean.”
“Oh, that’s very thoughtful,” I say. I step around him and open the closet. I take out a cloth. I’m about to wipe the bottoms of his shoes when he takes the cloth from me.
“No, no. My shoes. My job.”
I stand there not knowing what to do with myself as he carefully wipes his shoes, puts them in the closet, then folds the cloth neatly and tucks it away before closing the closet door.
“I must warn you that I’m not altogether myself. Everything has been very…shocking. And I don’t normally have visitors, so I’m not used to that either. I’m not very practiced at entertaining.”
“For the love of God, Molly,” Mr. Preston says from the kitchen. “Just relax and accept some help. Juan Manuel, perhaps you can assist me in the kitchen?”
Juan Manuel joins him, and I excuse myself to use the washroom. The truth is, I need a moment to collect myself. I stare into the mirror and breathe deeply. Juan Manuel is here and we’re both in danger. I look like I’m falling apart. There are black circles under my eyes, which are swollen and red. I’m tense and drawn. Like the bathroom tiles that surround me, my cracks are beginning to show. I splash some water on my face, dry it off, and then exit the bathroom, joining my guests in the living room.
Mr. Preston carries in Gran’s serving tray full of dainty cucumber sandwiches—crusts removed—mini-quiches and other delectable leftovers. I smell the food and my stomach immediately begins to rumble. Mr. Preston puts the tray on the coffee table. Then he brings an additional chair from the kitchen for Juan Manuel. We all take our seats.
I can’t believe it. Here we are in Gran’s sitting room, all four of us. Mr. Preston and I are on the sofa, and in front of me are Charlotte and Juan Manuel. Pleasantries are exchanged, as if this were a friendly tea party, though we all know it is not. Charlotte’s asking about Juan Manuel’s family and how long he’s worked at the Regency Grand. Mr. Preston comments on what a reliable and hard worker he is. Juan Manuel looks down at his lap.
“I work hard, yes,” he says. “Too hard. But still, I have big problems.”
We have tiny plates on our laps filled with little sandwiches, which we are eating, me faster than anyone.
“Eat,” says Charlotte. “Both of you. This isn’t easy. You’ll need to stay strong.”
Juan Manuel leans forward.
“Here,” he says. “Try these.” He places two lovely finger sandwiches on my plate. “I made them.”
I pick up a sandwich and take a bite. It’s an exquisite taste, fluffy cream cheese and smoked salmon, with a burst of dill and lemon zest at the end. I’ve never tasted a sandwich more delicious in my life, so much so that it’s nearly impossible to follow Gran’s chewing imperative. It’s gone before I know it.