She is like clockwork with the order of her questions. I’m pleased to be able to give her a positive update. “Mr. Buchanan. He’s still very smart and very handsome.”
She beams. “Wonderful! Tell me everything. Is he taking you out for dinner and to a show and walking you home afterward?”
“Not exactly,” I admit. “Yes to the dinner, but mostly we’re talking business.”
“Did he kiss you yet?”
“Grandma!”
“All right,” she surrenders. “At least tell me what you talk about. What’s this business that’s so important?”
“I told you he works in the archives, right? He’s a terrific researcher, and it ends up he knows a lot of history about where I’m working right now.” I pause. “Actually, you might be interested in this.”
I tell her how thrilled I am to be working at the Dominion, but I leave out all my suspicions and concerns about MSI and my basement adventure. I don’t want her to worry about anything.
“The Dominion,” she says wistfully. “What a lovely place. I was there when I was, oh, about seventy years younger.”
I picture Grandma in her twenties, with her pale orange curls and dancing green eyes. I would have loved to have been around then.
“There are so many great stories about the hotel,” I agree, relaxing in my chair. The steam from my tea fogs my glasses, and I take a careful sip. “And Matthew—”
“Is he the very handsome man?”
I grin. “He is indeed.”
Her teasing smile is adorable. I test the tea again, but it’s still way too hot. I put it down for now and grab a donut instead.
“Anyway,” I say, “Matthew and I have talked a lot about the hotel. He’s been telling me about former celebrity guests and the clock, and oh! Ghosts!”
“Ooh, ghosts.” She shivers dramatically. “I remember some rich and famous people who stayed there. Imagine what that was like. Seems like that hotel has been there forever.”
“Almost a hundred years. I’ve been reading all about its construction. I have access to some amazing photos and records, and Matthew has shown me even more. The photos really give an inside view of how it was, with the gala opening, the chambermaids in their uniforms—”
“I have a photograph like that,” Grandma says. She places her teacup on the table with a soft clink. “I think my mother was a chambermaid in a hotel.”
I can’t believe she just volunteered this. “Your mother? Eileen Davis?” I press gently. “May I see?”
She exhales, then curls her hands around the arms of her chair, about to push herself to her feet. “No, no, dear. My biological mother.”
I jump up. “Just tell me where. I’ll get it.”
“It’s in the old tin,” she tells me, pointing up at her tall bookshelf. “It’s all the chambermaids together. I don’t know which one is her.”
I follow her gaze and spot the ancient cookie tin. I had thought that was where she stored old sewing notions, like needles and bits of thread. This is so much more interesting. As I reach for it, I wonder if I’ll be able to pick out my great-grandmother by her features. My fingers land on a fine layer of dust covering the lid, which tells me how long it’s been since the tin has been touched. Grandma tries to dust things once a week, and this one has missed out. Almost as if she avoided it on purpose. I swipe my hand over the lid to clean it, then I place the box in front of her, beside the teapot. Her gnarled fingers have trouble removing the lid, so I do it for her.
We both lean forward and peer within. With one crooked finger she moves things around, then she plucks out a faded old photograph. “Here it is. I don’t know why I’ve kept it, since I don’t even know which one is her or where it was taken. Anyhow, here you go.”
I’ve seen this photograph before, I realize with shock. It was one of the first photos Matthew showed me when he opened his binder on the day we met. After that, he flipped through the photographs of celebrity and political guests, but I clearly recall seeing about a dozen maids standing primly in two rows, straight and proud in their Dominion Hotel uniforms. I am positive this is the same group. Shocked, I scan the black-and-white photo, but I cannot see anything familiar in the young faces.
“Grandma, this picture was taken at the Dominion in 1929.”
She squints harder at the photo. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen it before. Matthew showed it to me.”
“That’s very interesting,” she says with a hint of a smile. “Just think of that. You and meandmy mother were in the same building at different times.”
She stirs through the contents of the cookie tin again. After a moment, she sighs deeply and pulls out a folded piece of paper that has yellowed with age. Without a word, she unfolds it, reaches for my hand, and places the paper within it.
