The Maid(29)

“You look…great.” Rodney’s eyes darted about the room. “Let’s get out of here, okay? We can go to the Olive Garden down the street.”

I could not believe it! It was fate. A sign. The Olive Garden is my very favorite restaurant. It was Gran’s favorite too. Every year, on her birthday and on mine, we’d ready ourselves for a big night out together, complete with endless garlic bread and free salad. The last time we went to the Olive Garden together, Gran turned seventy-five. We ordered two glasses of Chardonnay to celebrate.

“To you, Gran, on three-quarters of a century, one quarter left to go, at a minimum!”

“Hear, hear!” said Gran.

The fact that Rodney had chosen my favorite dining establishment? We were star-crossed, meant to be.

Mr. Preston eyed us as we exited the hotel. “Molly, are you all right?” he asked as he offered his arm, steadying me as I wobbled uncertainly down the staircase in my new feline heels. Rodney had raced down the stairs ahead of me and was waiting on the sidewalk, checking his phone.

“Not to worry, Mr. Preston,” I said. “I’m very well indeed.”

Once we were at the bottom step, Mr. Preston assumed a low tone. “You’re not going out with him, are you?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact,” I whispered, “I am. So if you’ll excuse me…” I gave his arm a little squeeze and then teetered up to Rodney on the sidewalk.

“I’m ready. Let’s go,” I said. Rodney began walking without glancing up from the important, last-minute business he was taking care of on his phone. Once we were away from the hotel, he put his phone away and slowed his pace.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “A bartender’s work is never done.”

“That’s quite all right,” I replied. “Yours is a very important job. You’re an integral bee in the hive.”

I hoped he was impressed by my reference to Mr. Snow’s employee-training seminar, but if he was, he did not show it.

All the way to the restaurant, I babbled on about any and all topics of interest I could think of—the advantages of real feather dusters versus synthetic ones, the waitresses he worked with who rarely remembered my name and, of course, my love for the Olive Garden.

After what seemed like a long time but was probably only sixteen and a half minutes, we arrived at the entrance of the Olive Garden. “After you,” Rodney said, politely opening the door for me.

A helpful young waitress seated us in a perfectly romantic booth tucked to one side of the restaurant.

“Want a drink?” Rodney asked.

“That sounds lovely. I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay. Will you join me?”

“I’m more of a beer kind of guy.”

The waitress returned and we ordered our drinks. “Can we order food right away?” Rodney asked. He looked at me. “Ready?”

Indeed I was, ready for anything. I ordered what I always ordered. “The Tour of Italy, please,” I said. “Because how can you go wrong with a trio of lasagna, fettucine, and chicken parmigiana?” I smiled at Rodney in a way I hoped was somewhat coquettish.

He looked down at his menu. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like free salad and garlic bread?”

“No, that’s fine,” Rodney answered, which, I’ll admit, was a minor disappointment.

The waitress then left and we were alone under the warm ambient glow of the pendant light. Taking Rodney in from such a close vantage point made me forget all about salad and garlic bread.

He rested his elbows on the table, an etiquette faux pas that was forgivable this one time since it offered me a fine view of his forearms.

“Molly, you’re probably wondering what was going on today. With those men. In that hotel room. I didn’t want you to go away thinking anything bad or to start talking about what you saw. I wanted a chance to explain.”

The waitress returned with our drinks.

“Here’s to us,” I said, holding my wine stem delicately between two fingers as Gran had taught me (A lady never touches the bowl—it leaves unsightly fingerprints). Rodney picked up his beer stein and clinked it against my glass. Being quite thirsty, he gulped half of his beverage before setting it back down on the tabletop with a clang.

“Like I was saying,” he said. “I wanted to explain what you saw today.”

He paused and stared at me.

“You really do have the most arresting blue eyes,” I said. “I hope you don’t find it inappropriate of me to point that out.”

“Funny. Someone else told me the same thing recently. Anyhow, here’s what I need you to know. Those two men in that room? They’re Juan Manuel’s friends, not mine. Do you understand?”

“I think that’s lovely,” I said. “I’m glad he’s made some friends here. His entire family is in Mexico, as you know. And I think he may feel lonely from time to time. That’s something I can understand, having felt lonely myself from time to time. Not now, of course. I don’t feel lonely at all in this particular moment.”

I took a deep, delicious sip from my glass.

“So here’s the thing you probably don’t know about my buddy Juan Manuel,” Rodney said. “He’s actually not a documented immigrant at the moment. His work permit ran out a while back and he’s now working under the table at the hotel. Mr. Snow doesn’t know that. If Juan Manuel were caught, he’d be kicked out of the country and would never be able to send money home ever again. You know how important his family is to him, right?”