Just then, Mr. Snow spotted me and beckoned me to the front of the room. I looped my way around the white-linened tables until I stood in front of him and the young woman.
“Molly,” Mr. Snow said. “Allow me to present Ms. Serena Sharpe, J. D. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary.”
She was wearing a bold blue dress that hugged her figure so perfectly, all eyes in the room were riveted to her. Ms. Sharpe smiled at me, a smile that did not quite reach her feline eyes. Something about her face was sphinxlike, and I could not quite read it.
“I’m Molly Gray, Head Maid,” I said by way of introduction.
“Ms. Sharpe is reviewing the final details of Mr. Grimthorpe’s appearance,” Mr. Snow explained. “I have assured her that no one without a VIP pass will gain entry to this room and that all guests will be served tea and refreshments at precisely 9:15 a.m. in anticipation of Mr. Grimthorpe’s entry at exactly 10:00 a.m.”
I was not at all surprised by Mr. Snow’s precise run-of-show because we’d spent hours reviewing every last detail the day before.
“I do appreciate you accommodating us in your new venue at short notice,” Ms. Sharpe said. “I know such requests put tremendous strain on all staff.”
Indeed they had. The builders had rushed to put the finishing touches on the tearoom’s tiled floor; the chefs and sous-chefs had quickly conjured an elegant breakfast tea menu, complete with finger sandwiches; Mr. Preston had arranged extra hotel security; and I was tasked with locating in our storerooms fifteen fine silver tea sets with matching cutlery. Long ago, I acquired quite a talent for polishing silver, so I buffed every piece myself, right down to the final spoon.
“It is a pleasure to serve,” I said to Mr. Grimthorpe’s assistant. “I hope you find our tearoom pleasing.”
“I do,” she replied. “In fact, everything’s so perfect, I think we’re ahead of schedule. If you’re interested, I can send J.D. in early to sign a few books for staff members.”
Mr. Snow’s eyebrows shot into his receding hairline. “That would be wonderful!” he exclaimed as he removed his phone from the pocket of his double-breasted suit and made a succession of rapid calls.
Within minutes, an eager group of hotel employees was lined up behind the burgundy cordon at the tearoom’s entrance. Angela, wearing her black barmaid’s apron, was midline, while Cheryl staked her claim up front. Lily shored up the rear, trailing behind various cooks, dishwashers, and maids.
“Walk them in, Molly, in an orderly fashion,” Mr. Snow said, and so I guided my fellow employees to line up in front of the book table, where an empty chair awaited the arrival of our VIP literary guest.
Ms. Serena Sharpe knocked on a hidden door in the paneling to the side of the stage. It creaked open, and Mr. Grimthorpe emerged—lean, lithe, with wild, hawkish eyes, unruly gray hair, and a measured, confident gait. He took his seat at the signing table. Ms. Sharpe handed him a black-and-gold fountain pen. The room rippled with murmurs and exploded with recording phones, everyone vying for the best photo.
“Molly, don’t forget to line up,” Mr. Snow urged. “This is your only chance to get a book signed by the master of mystery himself.”
My legs felt like tree stumps, but I urged them into motion, taking my place behind a bellhop who bobbed like an eager gopher in front of me.
I tapped his shoulder. “Did anyone tell Mr. Preston about the staff signing?” I asked.
“Of course,” he replied. “He didn’t want to come. Said he preferred to breathe fresh air rather than bow down to the author.”
“Is that really what he said?”
“Uh-huh,” the youth replied before turning his attention to the famous man at the front of the room.
Sweat gathered at my brow as the line dwindled and ecstatic employees rushed off with signed copies of J. D. Grimthorpe’s latest book tucked preciously under their arms.
“It’s your turn, Molly,” Mr. Snow said over my shoulder. “Step up.” And so I found myself standing directly in front of the writer himself.
“Your name?” Mr. Grimthorpe asked as he sized me up with raptorial eyes.
“M-M-Molly,” I managed.
“A pleasure to meet you. I am J. D. Grimthorpe,” he said, as if I didn’t already know.
He scribbled my name and his signature in my book, then passed it to me, making eye contact one more time. I waited, but recognition never dawned.
How was it possible that I remembered everything about him but he did not remember me?
Chapter 3
In my mind’s eye, I return to a memory.
I am ten years old, riding with my gran in the back of a taxi with squeaky faux-leather seats. I grip the door handle tightly as we head out of the downtown core of the city and into the suburbs, where each home seems larger and more exquisite than the last. We are on our way somewhere very special, and I’m performing a well-practiced magic trick in my head, the one where I sketch a recent and unpleasant experience on a chalkboard and then erase it, making it disappear from my thoughts, if not forever then at least for a little while.
Gran, hair tinged with gray, her glasses perched precariously at the end of her nose, sits beside me embroidering a pillowcase. This is a favorite pastime of hers. I once asked her why she likes to embroider.
“To transform the ordinary into something extraordinary,” she replied. “Plus, it relieves stress.”
She works away with her needle, pulling brightly colored threads one by one through the plain white fabric. She’s completed the first line on the pillow—God grant me the serenity—and has begun the line after it.
“What comes next?” I ask her.
She sighs and stops her sewing. “If only I knew.”
“It’s something about change,” I remind her.
“Oh, you mean what’s next on the pillowcase. 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 say.
“That’s right,” Gran replies.
“Are you sure we can afford it?” I ask, as I wiggle in my squeaky seat and readjust the seat belt digging into my waist.
“Afford what?” she asks.
“This taxi. It will cost us dearly, won’t it? Waste not, want not?”
“We can splurge every once in a while, just not all the time. And today, your gran could use a little splurge.” She smiles and takes up her needle once more.
“Tell me again what it’s like where we’re going,” I say.
“It’s a well-appointed grand estate with rolling lawns, manicured gardens, and many rooms.”
“Is it bigger than our apartment?”
She pauses, needle raised. “Dear girl, it is a palatial mansion with eight large bedrooms, a library, a ballroom, a conservatory, a study, and a parlor filled with priceless antiquities. It’s the antithesis of our modest apartment.”
I still cannot picture it in my head, the scale of it, the grandeur. I try to call up the fanciest house I have ever seen on TV, a home on an episode of Columbo with dormer windows, English gardens, and creeping ivy. But it’s only when the taxi driver turns one last corner and Gran says, “We’re here,” that I realize I have never in my life seen a home like this, not in real life or on TV.
The taxi stops in front of imposing wrought-iron gates topped with menacing spears. The gate is flanked by two austere stone columns. Farther along is a gray, three-story security watchtower with dark tinted windows.