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“You’d be in a lot of trouble. And Juan Manuel would be homeless,” I said.
“Yeah. Exactly,” he replied.
Yet again, Rodney was proving what a good man he was. Out of the goodness of his heart, he was helping a friend. I was so moved I was at a loss for words.
Fortunately, the waitress returned and filled the silence with my Tour of Italy platter and Rodney’s spaghetti and meatballs.
“Bon appétit,” I said.
I had a few extremely satisfying mouthfuls, then put my fork down. “Rodney, I’m very impressed by you. You’re a fine man.”
Rodney’s mouth bulged with a meatball. “I try,” he said, chewing and swallowing. “But I could use your help, Molly.”
“Help how?” I asked.
“It’s getting harder for me to know which hotel rooms are vacant. Let’s just say there are key staffers who used to slip me info, but they might not be so into me anymore. But you…you’re beyond suspicion, and you know which rooms are free every night. Plus, you’re so good at cleaning things up, just like you proved today. It would be amazing if you could tell me which room is empty on any given night and if youcould make sure you’re the one to clean it before and after we—I mean, Juan Manuel and his friends—stay there. You know, just make sure there’s no sign of anyone having ever been there at all.”
I carefully placed my cutlery on the edge of my plate. I took another sip of wine. I could feel the effects of the beverage reaching my extremities and my cheeks, making me feel liberated and uninhibited, two things I hadn’t felt in…well, as long as I could recall.
“I would be delighted to help you in any way I can,” I said.
He put his fork down with a clatter and reached for my hand. The sensation was pleasingly electric. “I knew I could count on you, Molly,” he said.
It was a lovely compliment. I was struck speechless again, lost in those deep blue pools.
“And one more thing. You won’t tell anyone about any of this, right? About what you saw today? You won’t say a word, especially not to Snow. Or Preston. Or even Chernobyl.”
“That goes without saying, Rodney. What you’re doing is vigilante justice. It’s making something right in a world that’s so often wrong. I understand that. Robin Hood had to make exceptions in order to help the poor.”
“Yeah, that’s me. I’m Robin Hood.” He picked up his fork again and popped a fresh meatball into his mouth. “Molly, I could kiss you. I really could.”
“That would be wonderful. Shall we wait until after you swallow?”
He laughed then and quickly gobbled the rest of his pasta. I didn’t even have to ask: I knew he was laughing with me, not at me.
I was hoping we could linger longer and order dessert, but as soon as his plate was finished, he promptly asked the waitress for the bill.
When we were leaving the restaurant, he held the door open for me, a perfect gentleman. Once we were outside, he said, “So we have a deal, right? One friend helping another?”
“Yes. At the beginning of my shift, I’ll tell Juan Manuel what room he can stay in that night. I’ll give him a keycard and the room number. AndI’ll pop in early every morning to clean the room he and his friends were in the night before. Cheryl’s tardiness is legendary, so she won’t even notice.”
“That’s perfect, Molly. You really are a special girl.”
I knew fromCasablancaandGone with the Windthat this was the moment. I leaned forward so he could kiss me. I think he was aiming for my cheek, but I moved in such a way as to suggest I was not opposed to a kiss on the mouth. Unfortunately, the connection was a little misaligned, though my nose was not entirely disappointed by the unexpected affection.
In that moment, when Rodney kissed me, it didn’t matter where his lips landed. In fact, nothing except the kiss mattered to me at all, not the splotch of red sauce on his collar, not the way he reached for his phone right after, not even the piece of limp basil stuck between his teeth.
It’s almost the end of my shift. Playing over our first date in my mind has made the day go by quickly and has amplified my anticipation for our date tonight. It has also helped me avoid memories of yesterday. For the most part, I’ve been successful at keeping the flashbacks at bay. There was just the one instance when I remembered Mr. Black, dead in his bed, and for some reason, in my mind, suddenly, it was Rodney’s face on Mr. Black’s body, as though they were twinned, inextricably linked.
What utter rubbish. How could I imagine them connected like that, when they exist on polar opposites of so many spectrums—old versus young, dead versus alive, evil versus good? I shook my head back and forth to erase the nasty image. And just like with an Etch-a-Sketch, a good shake was all it took to wipe my mind clean.
The other intrusive thoughts I’ve had today are of Giselle. I know she’s still staying in the hotel, but I don’t know where, which room on the second floor. I do wonder how she’s doing, what with her husband dead. Is she happy about this turn of events? Or is she sad? Is she relieved to be free from him or concerned about her future? What does she stand to inherit, if anything at all? If the newspapersare right, she’s the heir apparent to the family fortune, but Mr. Black’s first wife and kids will no doubt have something to say about that. And if I’ve learned anything about the way money works, it’s that it magnetizes toward those born with it, leaving those who need it most without.
It weighs on me—what will become of Giselle.
This is the problem with friendships. Sometimes you know things you shouldn’t know; sometimes you carry other people’s secrets for them. And sometimes, that burden takes its toll.
It’s four-thirtyp.m., only half an hour before I’m due to meet Rodney at the Social for our date. Our second date—progress!
