The Mystery Guest

I have no idea what’s funny, but I’m grateful his humor is holding. He strides over to where I stand in the threshold of the library. “Nothing can touch me today, Pip,” he says. “I could walk on water. I feel the way I used to before I quit drinking, back when my first book hit the bestseller list and I was on top of the world. Today, I’m capable of anything.”

Just then, I hear Gran calling up the main staircase: “Ten minutes to tea!”

Mr. Grimthorpe hears her, too. “She used to come up here and sit with me every day. Did you know that? She’d listen if I felt like talking. Through the worst of it—the shaking and the sweats—she’d regale me with stories. She’d distract me during the darkest days. Now she barely comes up here at all.” Mr. Grimthorpe licks his lips, his tongue darting across the ivory of his teeth before disappearing into the cave of his mouth.

“If you need my gran, why don’t you just go downstairs?” I ask.

He nods and smiles his beguiling grin. “Good idea, Pip. Maybe I will.”

“I have to go now,” I say.

“Ah yes, polish and shine. Restore everything to a state of perfection, my wife’s futile endeavor to preserve the illusion of a perfect marriage and a perfect husband, the two things she’s never had. I’ll let you in on a secret, Pip: the bloom never lasts. Nothing gold can stay.”

“I have to go now,” I say. “There’s something I need to do. Goodbye, Mr. Grimthorpe.” I reach out and push the Oxford dictionary. The wall of books closes, and Mr. Grimthorpe disappears behind it.

I don’t have much time. Gran will no doubt call for me yet again. I rush into the corridor and tiptoe down the front stairs. I grab my shoes from the vestibule, slip them on, then turn the front doorknob and sneak out the front door, closing it soundlessly behind me.

I skip down the path of roses, beyond their best bloom now, their necks heavy, petals dropping onto the cobblestones. As I walk, I search for a specimen that’s not yet faded and spent. It takes some time, but eventually I spot a dark crimson flower hidden deep in a thicket, its petals unfurling into its zenith of splendor. I reach my arm into the prickly brambles, ignoring the sting of thorns until my fingers find the stem that feeds the last resplendent rose. I pinch the stem and crack it, then pull the flower from the dense brush. There are scratches up and down my arm, red pinprick tracks, but that doesn’t matter, because what I hold in my hand is worth it—a fleeting treasure, the last specimen of this year’s crop.

I walk the rest of the path with my rose carried gingerly in both hands. When I reach the wrought-iron gate, I press the intercom button just like Gran always does. I speak into the little slats.

“Can you hear me?” I ask. “Can you see me? I am Molly, Maid-in-Training. Over and out.”

I wait for a response. Nothing. I look out at the watchtower, then push the button again.

“Whoever you are, I know you helped my gran and me. You lent us money for our rent. I think that’s very generous. I just wanted to bring you a gift,” I say. “And to tell you myself: thank you.”

A click, the sound of static.

“My dear girl, you’re most welcome,” I hear.

I look again at the watchtower. The tinted windows reveal nothing, but that doesn’t stop me from holding up my rose to the man in the tower before leaving it on the ledge by the intercom.

I bow deeply, executing my very best curtsy in his direction. Then I hurry up the path of roses and back to the mansion.

Chapter 18

Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been told—in direct and indirect ways—that I am a failure. Not good enough. Doesn’t meet the bar. Fails to grasp what others understand with relative ease. Molly the Mutant. Roomba the Robot. Oddball Moll.

Before this very moment, I never fully believed any of these pronouncements. I railed against the assumption that my differences made me lesser than. I refused to accept it. But now, as my feet pound the sidewalk and I rush off to work, where I will have to face Mr. Preston for the first time since I mistook him for a murderer, I’m starting to believe that everything that’s always been said about me might be true. Maybe I am lesser than. I most certainly am a fool, an A-S-S if ever there was one. How could I ever mistake Mr. Preston for a bad egg? How could I make such an awful blunder? And if I’m daft enough to do that, what other colossal errors am I capable of?

Juan Manuel called me this morning while I was finishing chew #14 of a bite of English muffin. I swallowed, then asked him, “Am I a good person? Am I a good egg?”

He was silent for a moment on the other end of the line. “Mi amor, what are you talking about? You’re more than a good egg. Molly, you’re my Fabergé.”

I gulped down my tea, then changed the subject entirely, asking Juan about his trip and his mother and his siblings, until he cheerily chirped away and forgot all about my strange questions.