Page 115 of The Maid's Secret

“Busted,” Angela replies. “The sale was a fake-out.”

“I can’t believe it,” I say. “After all he’s done, Beagle is still the legitimate owner of the egg.”

Brown gives me a look that doesn’t fit any I’ve ever come across in my catalogue of human expressions. “Never count your chickens before they hatch,” he says.

—

Chapter 36

Dear Molly,

Today, while you were at work, a special visitor came to see me. You know him as our friend Mr.Preston, the doorman at the Regency Grand, and I know him as my beloved John.

He sat with me by my bedside, and we relived old times. He held my hand, and I couldn’t help but notice how much we’d changed—maps of our lives written in crevices and age spots on our thinning skin. We talked about Mary and how much we both miss her. We reminisced about Uncle Willy and Mrs.Mead and my long-lost parents…and our missing daughter, Maggie. We said a prayer for them all.

I told him, “This will be the last time I see you in this life, and I want you to know that I will always love you.”

We wept together, and he knelt by my bed, his head of silver, tousled hair resting on my bony shoulder.

He took something from his pocket. At first, through my tears I couldn’t see what it was, but as he held it forth, the heart twinkled between two tiny golden hands—the Claddagh ring.

“It didn’t work the first time, so I’m trying again now,” he said. “Flora, I have always loved you, and I always will. Will you take this silly old man to be your loving husband for whatever time you have left?”

I couldn’t believe it. He proposed to me right there, as I lay weak and dying in my bed. It was like turning back the hands of time, doing things over, doing things right. My answer was resounding and instant. “Yes,” I said.

We exchanged marriage vows that shall remain the only secret I keep from you, Molly. And when he slipped that ring on my finger, though it once was a perfect fit, it was now too big for me. I slipped the ring off and put it in his palm, closing his fingers around it.

“Hold on to it,” I said. “If ever Molly finds someone who she…”

I couldn’t say the words. It was a dream so big I feared giving it voice.

“I understand,” said John. “I’ll keep it for her. And I’ll give it to her if ever the time is right. I promise.”

“And one more thing,” I said, pointing to my bedside drawer. He opened it, taking out this diary.

“My stars,” he said. “You kept it all these years?”

“I did,” I replied. “And recently, I started writing in it. It’s for Molly, and it’s my story. She’s not ready to read it yet, but I trust you’ll know when it’s time. When the moment is right, you give it to her. She’ll know how to open it. The next time you visit, come in here and take it from that drawer. Keep it safe.”

He nodded, then tucked the locked diary back in the drawer.

“Will you lie with me awhile?” I asked.

“Just like the old days, underneath the oak tree?”

“Just like that,” I said.

He came around the bed and lay beside me, holding my hand. I was so content, I must have drifted into a deep sleep, for when I woke some time ago, he was gone.

Normally, the pain would have kicked in by now, but John took itaway with him, leaving peace as his parting gift to me. I know it won’t last long, but it’s nice for now. And I’m using this time to finish my final chapter, my last letter to you.

—

My dear Molly,

Once upon a time, there was an old maid who lay dying in her bed. She’d once had everything and lost everything, only to find that anything of value came back to her in the end.

I have lived a perfect life, a charmed life, a fairy tale in reverse. I was born wealthy and I die poor, but it matters not a jot. Here is the moral of my story. There is only one, and it is this: Love cannot be stolen. Not by anyone. Those who do not know love place no value upon it. Often, they don’t even know it’s there. But people like us, who do know it, who see and feel it and cherish it, possess a treasure that can never be taken away.

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