A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas

A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas Lynn Marie Hulsman ‘A romantic, festive and feel-good book with loads of heart and a sprinkling of Christmas magic’ – Cressida McLaughlin, author of ‘A Christmas Tail’‘Christmas time or not, pick up this book. Lover of romance or not, pick up this book…It's captivating, comforting and a must read. I loved it.’ – Goodreads ReviewerOne lost dog. Two lonely hearts. A Manhattan Christmas full of magic.Shy homebody Charlotte is planning her usual quiet Christmas celebration: Turkey for two for her and her beloved pet dog Hudson. Only, this year, little Hudson decides to take matters into his own paws and give his favourite human a holiday adventure she’ll never forget.When Hudson runs away the week before Christmas, Charlotte is devastated. She’d rescued him from the trash years before and gave him a place in her home – and her heart. But with the help of uptight Englishman Henry, Charlotte ends up on a magical treasure hunt around Manhattan to find her furry, four-legged bestie.Spotted in Central Park as one of Santa's Little Helpers, or last seen in the arms of a supermodel in Times Square, Hudson leads Charlotte and Henry on a very merry dance around the Big Apple, where love, (or should that be Christmas?!) actually is all around.'Marley & Me' meets 'When Harry Met Sally'!‘Easily one of my most enjoyed Christmas books of the season' – Rachel's Random Reads A Miracle at Macy's LYNN MARIE HULSMAN A division of HarperCollinsPublishers www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Copyright (#u8cd19c87-14ea-5cbf-8176-9e1fefaf3310) HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015 Copyright © Lynn Marie Hulsman 2015 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Cover layout design © HarperColl?insPublishers Ltd 2015 Cover design by HarperColl?insPublishers Ltd Lynn Marie Hulsman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress. Ebook Edition © September 2015 ISBN: 9780008164331 Version: 2017-01-31 Praise for Lynn Marie Hulsman (#u8cd19c87-14ea-5cbf-8176-9e1fefaf3310) 'A fabulous read…just magical' Becca's Books 'A lovely, funny and sexy modern "upstairs, downstairs" story. Prepare yourself for a Christmas like you've never seen before' M's Bookshelf 'A classy, witty story with lots of laughs, a few tears and most importantly heartfelt romance' Jane Hunt Writer Book Reviews 'One of my favourite romantic comedies' Reviewed the Book 'Christmas at Thornton Hall easily makes it onto my list of my most favourite reads of 2013' Cosmochicklitan 'A good debut novel that I really enjoyed' Chick Lit Chloe For Rosie and Wolfie, the best presents I ever got. Contents Cover (#ue33ef9b7-8809-50bc-a1f2-a023089f6556) Title Page (#ubd7c04a5-8678-552d-8c3c-5db9170e8572) Copyright (#udf7a4f79-9aa1-5b8f-81f8-200ea2a8818e) Praise for Lynn Marie Hulsman (#u63396147-eed2-5dfb-93e6-7fca5fa7d2ba) Dedication (#ub758211b-4f91-51d9-b90d-de988a01e661) Chapter 1 (#uc4016bf6-92cc-5ab0-b723-22baa7d8cd24) Chapter 2 (#u98b7bb0c-1932-5f2b-b1a6-4b5c684988cb) Chapter 3 (#u37ce147a-2640-5068-864e-65f611c7b2aa) Chapter 4 (#ub348dad1-0820-5435-9710-1401b923ad83) Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Bonus Material (#litres_trial_promo) Lynn Marie’s Holiday Delights (#litres_trial_promo) Summer at Castle Stone (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Lynn Marie Hulsman … (#litres_trial_promo) Lynn Marie Hulsman (#litres_trial_promo) About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#u8cd19c87-14ea-5cbf-8176-9e1fefaf3310) They say dogs are man’s best friend and that a woman’s not a woman until she’s a wife. Wrong! I’m here to tell you that the most natural match in the world is a girl and her dog…end of. Take me and Hudson, for example. We couldn’t be happier. Ever since the magical day I found him wet and skinny, huddled in the back of a Macy’s shopping bag. You know the one. With the big red star on it? Since the day I saved him, we’ve been each other’s family. Well, that’s not the whole story. I mean, the family part is. But if I were to be honest, I’d have to admit that he saved me as much as I saved him. Maybe more. “Harf! Harf, harf!” “Quiet, Huddie,” I scold, as he comes tearing into the kitchen, claws skittering over the polished wood floor, launched from his cozy nest on the sofa. “It’s early. You’ll wake the whole building.” “Worf!” Not only does my little mutt keep barking, he also has the nerve to start jumping against the kitchen island where I’m up to my elbows grating frozen beef fat (suet, to those in the know) so I can to test a recipe for traditional English mincemeat Christmas pies. ‘It’s a marshmallow world in the winter…when the snow comes to cover the grouuuund…’ “Oh, the phone! Of course. You are a wonder dog, aren’t you?” My December ringtone is the jaunty Dean Martin rendition of one of my favorite retro holiday songs. I should have guessed. Hudson has a knack for barking right before my phone rings. I chalk it up to being a version of that thing animals do when they sense earthquakes and tsunamis. “Rowf!” “Yes, the phone. I hear it, Huddie. I’m getting it. It’s not life and death,” I say wiping my hand on a freshly bleached, extra-large Williams-Sonoma kitchen towel. “I do have voicemail, you know.” “Hello darling, I scarcely have a minute to breathe, never mind visiting the loo, but I promised I’d ring you this week. I’m told you’re in my diary, so here I am.” It’s Aunt Miranda. If she were Native American, her name would be more “Bursts in Frantic,” than one of the more traditional, serene names like, “Walks with Nature” or “Drifts on Clouds.” “Good morning, Aunt Miranda,” I say slipping Hudson a pinch of the suet. He’s considerate enough to nibble it gently out from between my fingers. I know that took disciplined restraint on his part. “I’ve missed you too.” Hudson finishes his morsel, and rubs against my leg to give me a hug. “Now Charlotte, don’t be like that! You know I always miss you, it’s only my hair’s on fire with the Rockefeller Tree Lighting tonight. As you know, those early December blizzards really threw a spanner in the works. We had this planned for the week after Thanksgiving, the way it has been for years and years. But they’ve only just managed to resurface the skating rink after the weight of the snow caused that massive crack. The commissioner only just declared it safe to the public. Pulling off this huge event this close to Christmas Day will be the triumph of my career. Between you, me, and the lamppost, it’s going to be spectacular.” It amazes me how Aunt Miranda can talk a mile a minute when she’s downloading information to me, but the second she’s in the presence of a client or celebrity, she’s as measured and gracious as The Queen. Her chameleon-like ability to adapt has catapulted her the top of her field. My Aunt Miranda is a party planner on steroids. She produces major events all over the globe, ranging from celebrity weddings, to movie openings, to charity marathons, to high-profile ribbon cuttings. Her company, Nichols Bespoke Events, is, as they say, a major player. “Sounds awesome.” “Awesome? Honestly Charlotte, one would imagine you were born in The States and educated on a Disney cruise ship, rather than born in England and educated in the finest public schools.” “You mean the finest boarding schools where you could chuck me on the Northeastern coast. I’ve lived in America longer than in England. I moved here when I was 12.” “I know very well when you moved here. I raised you, if you’ll remember.” “Sort of,” I mumbled. “What’s that?” Miranda shouts, not bothering to muffle the phone with her hand. “NO! Shandelle, the horse blankets belong in wardrobe! And tell craft services to track down those cases of NutriWater. If we don’t have Pomegranate-Acai, then we don’t have Miss Miranda Lambert in a fringed jacket and cowboy boots handing over a billboard-sized check to Toys for Tots in front of millions of television viewers! No. I said pomegranate! It’s the pink one. Do you enjoy being employed?!!” I pick up a microplane grater and calmly begin shaving nutmeg seeds into a bowl. It’s been my experience that Aunt Miranda’s tirades can go on so long that she forgets about me and walks away from her phone. I shouldn’t have picked up. This call is throwing me off my schedule. I have a plan for the day, as usual. There is very little that makes me happier than a solid plan. Today’s agenda: 1. Test the recipe for Mince Pies 2. Update The Cozy Brownstone Kitchen, (Maybe a blog post on Potted Meat?) and respond to questions from my followers 3. Go to the butcher to pick up the crown roast I ordered for my next recipe test 4. Make lunch for myself and Huddie and eat it together while watching the end of You’ve Got Mail 5. Research the origins of the preservation of Potted Prawns in the days before refrigeration 6. Prepare said crown roast, with an array of winter vegetables 7. Test a recipe for a Bakewell Tart, 8. Watch some animal planet with Hudson, and maybe the first part of Love, Actually 9. Early bedtime with my fat new Harlequin Superromance novel and Hudson (he never judges what I read) Perfection! “…and the baby for the cr?che scene needs a laminate,” Aunt Miranda is still shouting. “Strangling hazard? So remove the cord and pin it onto his pyjamas, do I have to solve every problem? What? Then Velcro it! It’s not rocket science. Of COURSE the mother needs an all-access pass as well. Do you think the baby is going to climb up into the manger and swaddle himself? Why are you still standing here? GO!” “Right then, sorry about the interruption,” she says smoothly transitioning back to me. “Charlotte, dear, I’m ringing to respond to your invitations to Christmas Eve brunch and Christmas dinner. I have some very big deals in the works, and I’m not at liberty to discuss them at this point, confidentiality agreements, meow meow, etcetera. At this point I’m afraid I still can’t commit.” None of this comes a surprise, of course. Aunt Miranda may be my only family, apart from a few very distant cousins numerous-times removed who live in far-flung tiny villages dotting England and Wales, but she is first and foremost a businesswoman. “Oh,” I respond, trying not to sound disappointed, “it’s just that I’ve already blogged that I might have a crowd here in the brownstone so I can serve the traditional English feasts I’ve been working on recently. I mean, this is a really good way to test the recipes for the cookbook I’m researching. I’m told by my agent, Beverly, it’s expected to sell big.” This latest cookbook, The English Manor Cookbook: Traditional Meals for Holidays, Shoot Lunches, and More, is due out next year. Hudson takes advantage of my being distracted by climbing onto a kitchen chair and straining his pointy little muzzle toward the bowl of beef fat. I swat him away. “Hey you, you had your share.” Sometimes I forget he’s a dog and treat him like a person, but his animal instincts come roaring to the forefront when there’s raw meat within smelling distance. “Huddie, shoo!” Disappointed, he hops down, and slinks to his basket in the corner of the kitchen. Aunt Miranda sighs down the phone line. “Why can’t you just fly off to Saint Thomas like other sane, single young women and forget Christmas is even happening?” I hear the subtext: Because that would be so much more convenient for me. “That’s what I’d do…” she continues. “A few frozen cocktails, a chaise lounge, a bottle of tanning oil, a personal butler. Before you know it, Christmas will be done and dusted, and you’ll come home bronzed and more relaxed than you’ve been in years, if you catch my meaning.” “Subtle, Aunt Miranda. Is that how you speak to the Dalai Lama when you’re overseeing his blessing ceremonies? Anyway, I don’t want to leave New York at Christmas time. I’m planning to put up my tree tomorrow.” I feel a frisson of pleasure buzz up the back of my neck. I love everything about having a real, living Christmas tree. I love choosing it, I love springing the branches free from the bundling, I love the herbal floral fragrance, and I just adore draping it in lights. “You should try it some year.” “What’s the point? I’m never at home. Besides, if I wanted a sticky pine tree swathed in handmade ornaments and drugstore tinsel, I have people for that. You know, Charlotte, you could have people, too.” “I don’t need people.” I lean over and give Hudson a little scratch on the belly. He twitches, and bicycles his stubby legs. He smiles a blissed-out smile. “I’m saying that I have connections. I could give you a leg up to a real career.” “I have a real career.” I pick up my nutmeg and begin grating with renewed determination. “Pfft! When are you going to stop testing recipes for cookbook authors, and write a cookbook of your own? For heaven’s sake, how many awards did you walk away with when you graduated from The Culinary Institute of America? I’d never have sanctioned your turning your back on university in favor of The CIA had I known you’d toss out any chance of success and waste your time with that little blog.” “This recipe testing and my ‘little blog,’ happen to pay my bills, thank you very much. I’m getting more and more paying sponsors every day. Since last month, 37 more members have signed up.” “Ah, yes, your ‘Charlotte’s Chefs.’ Has it ever occurred to you, young lady, that you spend more time with the followers on your blog than you do with live humans?” “Charlotte’s chefs are live humans.” “Technically, yes, but you must see my point. A 26-year-old girl shouldn’t rely on online friendships and a stray dog as her entire social sphere. She should be out in the city, getting dirty and making mistakes. Speaking of dirty, have you heard from James?” My back stiffens as I accidentally hack a large chunk of skin off of my knuckle. “Ouch,” I cry, chucking the microplane and the nutmeg into the sink. “No, I have not heard from James, and I’ve asked you repeatedly not to bring him up.” I crouch down on the floor, gather Hudson into a hug, and suck on my wounded finger. “With your talent and his star-power, you could be someone by now. I know you blew your chance by turning James down way back when, but I’ve an idea he’d welcome you back with open arms. Team up with a real player like that firecracker, and you’d be a New York Times columnist and a leading restaurateur in short order. Your literary agent, the one who gets you all those testing jobs… what’s his name? Beverly Chestnut! That’s it. He’s said as much a number of times. What a character that man is! Ha! The bolo tie he wore to the World Literacy Fund Charity Ball slayed me. Genius! All I’m saying, darling, is that you could be someplace in this world.” “I am someplace in this world.” I look around my cozy kitchen, decorated just the way I like it with a combination of French country touches, and mid-century appliances. “I’m where I want to be.” Hudson turns in a circle, and snuggles into my lap, burrowing with his little, pear-shaped head. I give him a scratch behind the ears. He fusses a little, then settles in the crook of my knee. Aunt Miranda sighs. “I care about you, Charlotte, I truly do, but I’ll never understand you.” I notice the clock, and see that the day is getting away from me. “So, is there a chance you’ll come to Christmas brunch or dinner, or is it an absolute ‘no?’” “One moment Charlotte… I beg your pardon! Of course we cannot supply cocaine to the on-air talent. Who do you think I am? The concierge of the Chateau Marmont.” I put the phone down on the counter. Maybe I can make some apple butter, I think to myself while Miranda rants on, with lots of clove. That’ll be so warm and yummy for the winter. Hmm…when will I be able to hit Fairway to see what they have in the way of decent New York State apples…? “Charlotte, are you there, darling?” “I’m here,” I say firing up my Nespresso machine to make a nice, steaming double-shot cappuccino. “As I was saying Charlotte… Actually, hold the phone. You’d better tell that talent wrangler that if any pop star, politician, or for that matter, Muppet, is too high to sing in the final number, he’ll be looking for a job come New Year’s! Sorry darling, it’s a madhouse here. Tell you what, come down to the tree lighting tonight and we’ll discuss. I really can’t stay on the line.” “No thanks,” I say, pulling my antique, hand-cranked food mill from under the sink. “I’m going to watch it on TV.” “Darling, you must come. It’s the pinnacle of my event-planning career to date, and I’m not going to be very English about it and pretend it’s really nothing. Taking a leaf from the Americans’ books, I’ll simply say it. If I pull this off, I’ll frankly be one of the top global Production Directors, period. Hello Cannes! Hello coronation of Prince William! Say you’ll pop round.” I glance over at Hudson snoring lightly in his warm bed. I don’t want to go out for walkies today, much less eject myself into one of the single-most crowded events on the island of Manhattan. “I don’t know…” “Super. The broadcast starts at 7, and the lights go on at 9. I’ll phone or text you later. I won’t take no for an answer.” Before I can argue, she’s put down the phone. I’m on a schedule, too, you know. Maybe I’m not organizing the lighting of the tallest tree in the Northeastern U.S., but I have responsibilities. I stomp my foot and let out a scream of exasperation, waking Hudson. He leaps out of his bed and runs from the kitchen to the hallway. I hear a ching ching and I don’t even have to turn my back to know that my determined little roommate is rattling his tags, leaping up against the wall under the little blue plastic IKEA hook shaped like a dog’s rear end. He’s trying to grab his leash. “Seriously? I have a countertop covered in mincemeat and dough waiting to be made into tiny pies. You’d love a mincemeat pie, wouldn’t you, boy?” He doesn’t rise to the bait. “Besides, I haven’t had enough coffee yet. Do you really need to change the game plan?” With one concerted leap, he snatches the loop of the leash in his muzzle. He stands there, staring. “No, I won’t do it.” I cross my arms in defiance. “Both you and Aunt Miranda need to learn to respect my boundaries.” No response. “I know you don’t need to do business. You always hold it until 11:30.” More staring. “The answer is no.” I turn my back on him. “Schedules are healthy. I read that all the best parents keep their children on schedules. I had no parameters when I was little, no rules. I read in Psychology Today that can make you feel unsafe.” I peek over my shoulder. Hudson hasn’t moved a muscle. I wonder if he’s breathing. He doesn’t even blink. “Hudson…” Still as a statue. “Oh, OK!” I heave myself out of my desk chair and pull my coat from the rack. Hudson breaks his freeze, and begins a frenzy of circling, first one way, and then the other. I crack up. “Do you love me?” I ask him. He runs at me, and banks off my calf. He’s scratching frantically at my leg, as if to climb me. I know he wants to give me a kiss, so I bend down so we’re nose to nose. He gives me a bounty of face-licks, then stretches his neck out so it fits in the crook of my own. He rubs his cheek against mine, with a few upward jerks. “Aw … huggies!” I say. It’s a thing we do. “You do love me! Sweet boy. OK, we’re going out,” I explain, pulling on my knit hat, “but we’re not going to the dog park. This is just a quick relief break, then I’m coming back to make coffee, and get back to work. Got it?” I click the ring of his leash onto his harness, and hold open the door. “Did you hear me? Five minutes. That’s final.” For a quick second, his eyes twinkle before he bounds onto the landing, and skitters down the stairs. ***** Scratching to get in the park gate, Hudson pulls hard on his leash as I juggle my Starbucks flat white. It spills all over my mittens. “Huddie, there’s a reason we make coffee at home. You talked me into leaving the house against my will, can you at least be patient?” I fumble with first one gate, then another. There are always two gates at dog runs: Opening them one at a time contains the “flight risks.” Once we’re inside, I squat down try to unfasten the ring on Hudson’s leash, while maintaining my balance. A man with sunny reddish-blonde, curly hair and warm, brown eyes smiles at me. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.” “He’s a handful, all right,” I mumble. Hudson whines impatiently. “Doesn’t the run look fantastic? The community board pitched in funds for all these twinkle lights and the decorations. I hardly recognize the place with all the Christmas trimmings.” I take a minute to glance around. It’s breathtaking. The chain-link fence is festooned with glowing shapes made from strings of lights: A dog bone, the outline of a dog, a dog’s face, a dog dish that says “Spot,” on it. And there are various sizes of Christmas tree in every corner, decorated with strings of popcorn. “Oh, wow,” I whisper involuntarily. “I know, right? I heard they chose popcorn for the trees since it’s biodegradable. Peeing on them is encouraged. By the dogs, of course. Merry Christmas to them.” Now I'm on my knees in the dirt and gravel, still struggling to free Hudson. I perch my coffee carefully on a large rock. “Listen, Puppy Dog,” I say, “you have to stop pulling if you want me to undo this.” He’s spied some of his neighborhood dog friends and he’s eager to get into the mix. “Hold still,” I tell him. “And before you run off, remember this: We’re only staying five minutes. Don’t look at me like that. I know I said that before, but I really do mean it. Pay attention to the time. I don’t want to have to embarrass you in front of your friends.” He’s panting with expectation, and his curled tongue and open mouth form a goofy grin. I finally manage to free him from his restraint, and he races toward the clump of canines like a shot. He jumps up to nip the nape of a young Great Dane’s neck, and the oversized pup swings around playfully, nearly taking out a couple of Chihuahuas with his huge feet. The look of sheer joy on Hudson’s face as he throws himself into the throng of dogs makes me smile.The blonde guy catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. He thinks I was smiling at him! “Oh, no,” I mumble, waving my hand as if to erase the moment. “I was… well, my dog…” I say pointing. Embarrassed, I take a seat on one of the benches along the edge of the fence. The air is cold, but it’s warm in the midmorning winter sun. I loosen my scarf and take in the twinkly scene, trying to relax. I can’t help looking at my watch. I really wanted to start baking by now. I eat lunch at one and this unplanned trip is throwing off my schedule. There is no way I’m going to the tree lighting. Relax, I tell myself. Five minutes, I promise myself. Five minutes. Not far away, groups of school children are filing off of yellow buses and up the path to the Natural History Museum. They’re nearly as frisky as the puppies in the park. I don’t imagine much schoolwork gets done in the run-up to Christmas. On the corner of 81st, a group of musicians circle up and take out instruments, setting their cases in a bunch near a handler. A mom sits on the bench opposite me, and lifts her toddler out of a stroller. He’s wearing a knitted hat with reindeer antlers attached. The baby babbles and points at me. I can feel my cheeks start to turn pink. “Yes, that’s a pretty lady,” the mom says. The baby squeals, delighted, and points again. I wish the baby would focus on someone else. I pretend to be concentrating on picking Hudson out of the pack. Four more minutes, I tell myself, picking at a thread on my sweater sleeve. Hudson comes tearing toward me, running so fast that he’s scooping up gravel and flinging it behind himself with every bound. He comes to a stop and bangs into my knees. He shakes all over, and looks up at me, tongue still curled, goofy smile still in place. “Hello, my baby,” I say, scratching his ears. “Are you having fun?” My shoulders drop. Maybe we can stay for 10 minutes. It makes him so happy. “Who’s a good boy?” I bend down to let him lick my cheek and I nuzzle his whiskery snout. “You’re a good boy, right Hudson?” “His name is Hudson? That’s my son’s name!” The guy with the curly blonde hair comes walking up to the bench. I straighten up, and look at his face. He’s handsome, and I cannot pull my eyes away. Seconds pass as I try to think of something to say that won’t sound weird. C’mon Charlotte, I coach myself, he’s waiting. It’s been awhile since I’ve made conversation with a guy. Or anyone, really. I try to think of the last time I talked to someone face-to-face. Was it yesterday? The day before? I’m still staring. He’s still waiting. Just say something, I tell myself. Anything. “I named him after the deli where I found him,” I finally blurt. “He’d been living in the trash.” “Hey, that’s what happened with my son!” I stiffen, and suck in some air. “Really? I’m so sorry…or I guess, I mean, that’s great…?” He bursts out with a deep belly laugh. “I’m joking!” He sits down on the bench beside me. Hudson is my ex-wife’s surname, so we thought, you know, since he’d have my last name, that it was nice that he’d have something of hers. Do you have kids?” “No,” I say simply. I don’t elaborate, but I feel like he’s waiting for more of an explanation. He probably thinks something’s wrong with me. I want to tell him that I’m not even married, but saying that might sound like I’m coming on to him. I try to think of something else to talk about. “No,” I say again. Good one, Charlotte! I notice that Hudson has jumped up onto the bench beside the man, and is nuzzling his snout into his armpit. “Just… no.” “Well,” he says “this little Westie must keep you busy.” I don’t bother to mention that Hudson is a mutt. Everyone who meets him assigns him a breed. It’s like they see what’s familiar, and decide that’s what he is. The man leans back against the fence and stretches out his long legs. “Does your mommy spoil you, Hudson?” The way Hudson is pushing his head under the man’s arm makes it look like he’s nodding in agreement. “Yeah, thought so.” My heart is beating fast. Aunt Miranda might be right. I think I’ve lost the art of having to hold up my end on of the conversation with a live human. When my agent Beverly or book editors take me out to lunch, they’re always happy enough to do the talking, filling the space with business details. And when I make an appearance at Aunt Miranda’s parties or opening-night events, I stick to the background. Anyone who’s had a drink or two generally relishes the chance to monologue, I’ve found. My strategy is to stand next to the Champagne guzzlers. No need to say a word. Hudson is now fully seated in the guy’s lap. Should I scold him playfully? Is that the way dog people banter? I pull off my knit hat. My scalp is starting to sweat. “That’s my girl over there,” he says, pointing. He has a girlfriend and he’s flirting with me? It’s James all over again. “The spotted one.” I look at a klatch of dogs engaged in a ball game, and spy a Dalmatian. “Oh, your dog,” I try. “She’s lovely.” “Yeah, she’s a good girl,” he says. I exhale. I’m making this harder than it needs to be. Deep breath, Charlotte. OK, this isn’t bad. This is what I should want, right? To sit and chat with what anyone might call a good-looking man. He’s friendly. He’s not creepy. Look at me! I’m being normal. “Your dog is gorgeous,” I tell him, stretching myself. She really is. She’s all legs and flapping ears, filled with energy. One thing I never mind talking about is dogs. Hudson jumps off of the guy’s lap, and heads off to the waste bin, sniffing around. “Hudson,” I call, “leave that alone. Here, Hudson. Come!” The brass band at the west side of the museum strikes up, and we’re treated to a loud, merry rendition of Let it Snow. I check my watch again. It’s been over 20 minutes. I’m itchy to get home. “Huddie! C’mon boy. We should get moving,” I call. “Oh, are you leaving?” He looks disappointed. “I was hoping you’d stay for a while.” “We should go soon,” I tell him and I risk stealing a glance. He smiles. Breathe, Charlotte. This is how people meet people. I don’t feel a particular spark with this guy, even though he’s nice, but maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. Maybe slow and steady wins the race. “Soon-ISH, anyway.” I lean my back against the fence. ‘Ten minutes won’t throw me off my schedule too badly.” “People say Dalmatians aren’t the brightest bulbs on the tree, but that’s not true about Daphne.” There’s no rush in the man’s voice, no tension. It’s like he has no other plans for the day. He beams out at his dog. “She’s an angel, smart as a whip,” he says, his voice filled with affection. He’s so relaxed, I think. Are other people born like that? I wonder. I sip my now-cold coffee, just to have something to do with my hands. Am I missing a gene? “What do you do for a living?” he asks, scanning the playing field. “I’m a food writer, and I test recipes on the side. I have a blog.” “Do you have a card? With your website on it?” “I do,” I say fumbling in my bag. I’m down to my last one, it’s a bit damp, and crumbs from the bottom of my purse are clinging to it. I brush it off, and wonder if he’ll think it’s too gross if I hand it to him. “Cool. I’m an art director,” he says, taking the card and pocketing it. “My name is Ken by the way. My friends all call me a foodie. I hate that word, but it’s kind of true. I like cooking, and I really love eating out.” “Food is… really great,” I say awkwardly. He smiles encouragingly. “Really. I eat it all the time.” I’m starting to sweat. Not pretty. I try to scratch surreptitiously under my arms. Beneath my coat, perspiration is making me feel all prickly. “Glad to hear that. I was just thinking that I’d love to take you out to dinner some night. Do you like Ethiopian?” Oh my God. He’s asking me on a date. I see Hudson bounding up, holding something in his mouth. “Hudson! Put that down. We don’t pick up trash in our mouths,” I say. I hear my rigid, school-marmish tone. Does this guy think I’m a stick-in-the-mud? “Hudson,” I try again, “bring that to me. That’s right. Come here. Good boy. I’ll take that.” I hope I sound less uptight. My peppy little angel is headed right toward me, so I bend over and hold out my hand. At the last minute, Hudson veers and lasers in on the guy. He drops the magazine from his mouth, onto the guy’s feet, and sits down, looking very pleased with himself. “I’ll get that,” I say quickly. I don’t want him to think my dog and I are litterbugs. “Don’t worry.” He’s already reaching for it. “No, really, I’ve got it.” I bend over to grab it and smack my skull into his. “Ow!” I say, rubbing my head. “I’m so sorry!” He’s got the magazine in his hand. “Don’t worry. He points to his head. “Hard as a rock,” he says with a laugh. “Hey, you didn’t answer. Would you go out to dinner with me?” I reach for the magazine, but the guy is examining it. He turns it over, and to my horror, it’s American Bride. Hudson’s on his feet, with his expressive tail high in the air, wagging like metronome on the verge of exploding, looking from one to the other of us. The guy laughs out loud, and points to the magazine’s cover. “You have to go out with me now. Your dog obviously has big plans for us.” I can feel my whole face go red. Could I go out with this guy? I wonder to myself. It’s been a long time. Why not? It’s crazy that I’m a food blogger and I haven’t eaten out at a nice place in… how long? “I guess dinner would be OK,” I say, doubting that’s the truth, even as I say it. I’m talking slowly, turning the possibility over in my head, thinking through any potential pitfalls. What would we talk about for two hours? “Great! Have you heard of that new place in Chelsea? The Fork?” “No, I haven’t.” I’m embarrassed. The truth is, I don’t know what’s hot or new on the city restaurant scene. “Is it new?” “Really new. It’s James Keyes’ latest. American comfort food. He’s the chef behind Four Chairs and East 4th. Do you know of him?” I feel like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down my back. “Oh, I definitely know of him. In fact, I know him.” “Cool!” How did you get to know someone so famous?” “We went to culinary school together. You know what?” I say, scrambling to pull on my gloves and gather my belongings. “Thanks anyway, but I’m super busy. I really don’t think I can work in going out to dinner any time soon. I’m sorry, we have to go now,” I say, lunging toward Hudson, and snapping the leash onto the ring of his harness in one swift motion. I snatch the magazine from the guy’s hand, and zoom for the gate, dragging my unwilling canine behind me. “Wait!” the man calls. “Your coffee!” By the time he says it, I’m locking the second gate behind me. I chuck the copy of American Bride into a trashcan, and cut around the museum instead of taking the shortest route home. Hudson won’t stop tugging in the opposite direction. “Huddie, no,” I pant. “We’re not going back.” He sits down on his rump and gazes at me. It looks like he’s raising his one black eyebrow. “It’s just a bad idea. I just want to keep things simple right now. Let’s go boy,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. When I hit the avenue, I’m just starting to slow from a jog to a normal gait. My phone buzzes on my coat pocket, and I pull over in front of the German bakery in the middle of the block. I can smell the butter and raspberry from the Linzer tarts and my stomach starts to rumble. I’ve missed breakfast, now I just want to get home, make myself lunch, and maybe, just maybe, slip into my PJs. Pulling out my mobile I see a string of text messages waiting for me. Can’t phone, so texting. Utterly mad on Rock Plaza. Our life-sized Elf On A Shelf developed sudden-onset agoraphobia and won’t leave her trailer + pranking flash mob dumped buckets of marbles onto skating rink This just in: Xmas Eve at yours is no-go. *Big* celeb getting engaged onstage with the Rockettes. Say you’ll come to Radio City that night, and we’ll order in from Mangia. Still hoping to make it for Xmas dinner at yours. I don’t want you to be alone. x OH, and don’t think you’re skiving off on me tonight. You can be my date. I expect to see you here by 7 sharp. If you behave, I’ll bow out and fix you up with Kermit the Frog. xo I guess I’ve finally hit bottom. It’s come to my aunt accepting the fact that the only dates anyone can see me having are with a spinster or a puppet. Of course, I just threw away a chance with someone who seemed like a nice guy. Maybe I have become a crazy dog lady. But isn’t that OK? Is there a law that says I have to put on a coconut bra and dance on barroom tables every weekend? Why can’t I just be me, by myself, the way I want to be? “Excuse me,” a man barks, pushing past me to get in the door to the bakery. “Nut job,” he mutters under his breath before pushing into the shop. I look at the phone in my hand, and realizing I’ve been staring at it for quite awhile now. I glance down to see Hudson doing a little dance, hopping from one foot to another to another. “Sorry boy, are you getting cold? Let’s go.” I turn downtown, the shortest route to my apartment, but Hudson won’t stop tugging in the opposite direction. “Huddie, no,” I tell him. “We’re not going back.” He sits down on his rump and gazes at me. Raising his eyebrow at me again. “You’ll freeze your tail off.” He jumps up and down, smiling, as if to say he’s fine. “It’s just a bad idea, OK. I just want to keep things simple. Now come on,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. “Sorry, boy, I really want to be home right now. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. How does a snuggle in your blankies and a nice, big bone sound? I’ll even turn on the TV for you. Animal Planet.” He doesn't look back at me. He seems resigned. He just pulls me to the crosswalk that he knows takes us home. I swear he sighs, before he steps off the curb. We walk home together in silence. ***** My arm is going numb from being held high in the air, trying to beckon a cab on Central Park West at shift-change time. Three yellow taxis have already slowed down, clocked that I have a smiling, be-sweatered little dog on the end of my leash, before speeding off. My high-heeled wedge boots are pinching my feet, and I feel constricted in my good wool dress coat. I had to haul myself into the shower, blow my hair dry, and put makeup on my face to leave my apartment. I wouldn’t dare show up to one of Aunt Miranda’s events without making an effort. It won’t be to her standards, but at least she can’t say I didn’t try. Believe me when I tell you, I decided that I wasn’t going tonight no fewer than 50 times but I always circled back to the hard truth: Aunt Miranda’s haranguing would be harder to endure than an hour at Rockefeller Center. Like I told Hudson, we’re going late, showing our faces, staying for half an hour… an hour max… and then home to my jammies and Netflix. With any luck, we’d be burrowed into the couch with the TV on by the time they actually flicked the switch to light the 100-foot Norway Spruce. Just as I can no longer feel my fingers, a taxi swoops up to the curb, and shouts out the window, “Where you going?” “Rockefeller Center, 50th Street between 5th and 6th.” “I know where the Rockefeller Center is. I’m a New Yorker. I’ve lived her for 20 years since I moved from Delhi as a kid.” “Sorry.” “Your dog, is he a good dog?” Hudson lets out a little whine, culminating in an affirmative yelp. “Yes, very good.” “I like good dogs. I do not like bad dogs.” “Fair enough,” I say. “Yes or no?” I can no longer feel my left foot. “OK, get in. I take you.” “Oh, thank you!” Hudson and I pile into the cab. I spy myself in the rearview mirror. My nose is pink with cold. “They make the tree lights tonight. Very big crowds, very crowded.” “I know,” I say, voice filled with dread. “I have to go. My aunt is producing it.” “She’s a movie producer? Like Steven Spielberg? I look very handsome on camera. Very handsome indeed.” “No, she’s in charge of the tree lighting. Production Manager, that’s the title. She’s in charge of the guests, everything that happens onsite, coordinating with the television crew, just… everything.” He whistles a low whistle. “Your dog is VIP. Or shall I say VID? Understand? Very Important Dog? That’s funny, I think! Very funny!” I laugh. “Yes, it is.” “I do stand-up comedy. Here,” he turns around, and shoves a card through the little tray that tunnels through the plastic between the front and back seats. “Vijay Singh, this Monday night, Broadway Comedy Club. Next week, Caroline’s Comedy Club.” Impressed, I tuck the card in my handbag. “From what I hear, getting into Caroline’s is a big deal.” It just goes to show if you take the time to speak to your taxi driver, you never know who you’re going to meet. Once I even met an opera singer though this guy was my first comedian. “It is a very big deal! I’m hilarious. Very funny. Trust me when I say this to you.” “I believe you.” The sparkle of multiple flashbulbs going off catches my eye from the little TV screen affixed to the back of the seat in front of me. It’s a New York One live report from the tree lighting. Hudson tries to stand and sniff the screen, but Vijay is driving like a maniac, so my little dog looks like he’s surfing. “Sit, Hudson.” I scootch over and put my arm around him. “Look, here’s Aunt Miranda’s event. See the tree?” A tiny country singer with long blonde hair and a powerful voice begins belting out O Holy Night. Suddenly, the cab slams to a stop and Hudson goes careening into the footwell. I fish him out from the floorboards, and kiss his little head. As the singer is reaching the crescendo of the song, the camera cuts to a woman holding a sleeping baby, and singing along, sincere and misty-eyed. My heart does a little jig. The impact of the soulful song, and the beauty of the swaying crowd among all of the festive decorations, send a frisson of holiday excitement through my body. Now I’m glad I made the effort to get out of the house. A Christmas feeling from when I was a little girl washes over me. I feel the safety and joy of when our cook, Bridget, baked up a storm, and my parents stayed around the house instead of going out all the time. That was before the car accident. Before I moved to the states to live with Aunt Miranda. Hudson stands up, putting all the weight of his pointy little feet onto my thigh. On the television, other musicians, sports stars, and the mayor of New York join the singer on the stage in front of the soon-to-be brilliantly illuminated tree. The camera pans the audience. People are holding up their phones and tablets to snap photos. Suddenly, I’m glad I’m en route. I can’t believe I almost passed up this opportunity. When the camera pans to the very edge of the stage, I see Aunt Miranda. “Look, Hudson, there she is!” I wave frantically, as if I’ll really get her attention. “Hiya, Aunt Miranda! Hi!” Hudson barks. “No barking in the taxi,” Vijay says. “Look, there is your Radio City Music Hall.” “I’m a New Yorker, I know where Radio City Music Hall is.” “Touch?,” he says. Hudson pants and smiles, eyes on the TV. Can he see Aunt Miranda, I wonder? She looks impeccable in a classic winter white wool coat with a large golden brooch, reminiscent of the bronze Titan Prometheus statue that graces the lower plaza of Rockefeller Center. I’m sure it was no accident. Aunt Miranda is the very essence of style. Standing next to her, typing into an iPad is a young man I’ve never seen before, with wavy light-brown hair falling over the edge of his roundish tortoise-shell, horn-rimmed glasses. He has a neat, close-trimmed beard. He’s smiling, I think. Is he? I can’t be sure, since the shot isn’t a close-up. Maybe it’s just the way his heavy eyebrow arches. He looks like he’s thinking of an amusing story or a joke. It’s usually Cerie who assists Aunt Miranda, but I recall that she’s on maternity leave. If her right-hand assistant is gone, no wonder my aunt is more tightly wound than usual. “Look Hudson, look at that man with Aunt Miranda. Who do you think he is?” The guy is wearing a deep oxblood-colored leather pea coat with a chunky forest-green scarf twined around his neck. It looks hand-made. I wonder if he chose his clothes, or if Miranda “styled” him. He looks up at the scene onstage and smiles a satisfied smile, unmistakable this time. It’s so unrestrained, it makes me smile too. For half a second, I wish I were there, smelling the pine scent of the enormous tree, and enjoying the rumbling of the bass singers in my chest during the carols. I feel wide-awake, even though usually it would just about my bedtime. The guys’ eyes twinkle behind his glasses for a moment before Miranda points to something up in the tree, and his eyebrows knit together. I can’t see his face anymore, because he’s furiously scrolling through his tablet. I wonder what’s wrong. All of the sudden, the man disappears and the screen is blue, demanding that I touch a button declaring whether I’d like to pay with cash, credit, or debit. I have the sensation of the film breaking in an old-time reel projector. I feel a bit robbed. I wanted to watch him longer; to know what changed his mood. “Here we are, as close as I can drive,” says Vijay. “There are police barricades, so I’m very sorry, but you must walk the rest of the way.” Hudson stands up on his back legs, front paws against the window, eyes bright and expectant. “That’s fine,” I say, tapping the touch screen and sliding my card into the machine. “We expected that.” I tip him 25%. He did, after all, rescue both me and my little dog from frost bite. “Thank you, miss,” he says, pushing the receipt through the slot. “Merry Christmas!” I tell him, opening the door to a crisp blast of wintry New York air. “I don’t celebrate Christmas.” He waves a hand indicating his turban and dark skin. “The nativity story isn’t sweeping Punjab, if you hear what I’m saying.” “Oh, I’m sorry, that was rude…” He cuts me off, smiling. “No need to apologize. Many, many people confuse me with Brad Pitt!” I open my mouth to respond, but my brain is working hard to catch up. He really doesn’t look anything like the Hollywood actor. “Joking! Of course I don’t look like Brad Pitt.” I laugh uncertainly. He should probably work on his routine. Hudson leaps onto the sidewalk and is straining on his leash. “Well, happy winter and good luck with the stand up,” I say, just before slamming the door hard to make sure he’s not heating the whole of the outdoors. I hear, “Don’t forget! Vijay Singh at Caroline’s. Very funny!” I feel a smile spreading across my face as I walk across the sidewalk on 50th street toward the huge crowd. “This is fun, isn’t it Huddie?” I call above the din of the throngs and the amplified Muppet version of All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth that’s coming from the ceremony site. There are tourists everywhere, and to a person, they are all wide-eyed and beaming. As we approach, I spy the hundreds of flags surrounding the ice rink. Normally, the flagpoles fly the colors of every country in the United Nations, but this… I have to catch my breath. To herald Christmas, all of the flags have been replaced by red, green, and gold banners. Against the majestic gold flagpoles, and the myriad lights draped in the potted trees, shrubbery, and along the walls and fences, it makes my heart soar with the promise of what Christmas will bring. And that’s to say nothing of the lush, towering evergreen, standing at the ready to be set aglow. There’s no other word for it, I feel uplifted. Hudson scrapes ahead of me as if he’s trying to dig up the concrete; he’s clearly eager to get into the mix. As we get closer to the tents from which stars, PAs, and Teamsters emerge, the crowds become thicker. I bend down to scoop Hudson up, and clutch him to my chest. “Ready boy?” His skinny tail thumps against the front of my coat, and I give him a big smooch on the muzzle. People are clearly here to celebrate. The attendees range from bare-legged young women in filmy coats and cocktail dresses, who are so fashion-forward they wouldn’t dare don tights with their stilettos, even in this cold weather, to families wearing matching parkas and knit caps declaring, “Wheeler Family Reunion—Xmas NYC,” to young couples who have such eyes for one another it’s a wonder they can even see the skyscraper of an evergreen. A door to what looks like the holding area catches my eye, and I set my sights on beelining through all the bodies to get there. The surprise at my enjoyment of being here is pumping adrenaline through my body, and making me feel like I’ve had a split of Champagne, though I’m stone-cold sober. I have to admit, I’m kind of loving it. Maybe I’ll become the kind of girl who goes to the Macy’s fireworks along the river, or dresses up and boards a Halloween float in the West Village. One thing’s for sure: Hudson is in his element. Chest-to-chest, I can feel his little heart drumming rapidly, and his curled tongue is out and bobbing up and down with each step I take. I call that expression his “perma-smile.” I love that he’s happy, but I could do without the wet dog saliva on my already freezing ear. Note to self: Next year, wear earmuffs to tree lighting. We shoulder our way through the revelers, and finally make it to the door of a white tent. I hear general buzzing inside, with the occasional shout. I’ve been on enough “sets” of Aunt Miranda’s events to know that tension will be high as the stage managers inside are ruled by the stopwatch, and the talent is marking time, waiting to be led to the stage. I approach a refrigerator of a man, wearing a black suede overcoat, dark glasses, and a formidable headset. “Hello, sir,” I begin. “You can’t be here, move to the right, miss,” he cuts me off. “I’m supposed to be here, you see…” “No entry without a laminate.” I saw that I was going to have to pull the Aunt Miranda card. I hated myself for what I was about to say. “I’m on the list.” “Name?” He barks. “Charlotte Bell.” He picks up a clipboard from the director’s chair beside him, and traces down the column of names with the wrong end of his pen. “Nope. Move it to the right.” The buoyant holiday bliss I’d recently experienced was fading rapidly. Without warning, the throbbing in my feet resumes. “Can you check again, please,” I said, full of sweetness and light. Aunt Miranda wasn’t much in the way of motherly, but she had taught me a few essential life skills. Her top tip is never to piss off the gatekeeper, i.e., the receptionist, the secretary, the personal assistant, or the hotel clerk. That was a pure guarantee, she said, of being separated from what you hoped to gain or achieve. “My aunt works here. Maybe you know her?” He gives me a hard once-over. At least I think he does. It’s hard to tell behind his menacing shades. At any rate, he’s standing still and facing me. Hudson lets out a little whine, and bicycles his front legs. I give him a squeeze to warn him not to blow it. To my surprise and relief, a slow smile spreads over The Refrigerator’s face. “That’s a good-lookin’ Jack Russell,” he says. “Real cute dog.” He presses a button near his chest, and says, “We need an escort at A4. Send a PA right away.” He reaches out, and says, “May I?” Bemused, I hand over Hudson, and the big teddy bear of a bouncer snuggles my dog, cooing, “Who’s a handsome dog? You are! That’s right. You’re a handsome dog!” Hudson wriggles gleefully, twitching and contorting his body into a near backbend, burrowing into the multiple chins of the big softie. I look on, smiling. I smell coffee coming from inside. My stomach rumbles. I can’t wait for Aunt Miranda to walk me in, show me where the craft services table is, and sit me down someplace with a view of the tree. I have to confess, I do love a craft services table. I hope they have pastry. Something sweet and fruity would hit the spot about now. “Who did you say your aunt was?” the bouncer asks, setting Hudson down on the floor. “Miranda Nichols,” I tell him. We both squat down to play with Hudson. “Aw, hell no. For real? You’re not messin’ around.” He presses the button near his chest a second time. “Escort to A4, pronto.” Hudson nuzzles the man’s huge, ham of a hand. “Heh, heh. Real cute dog.” Huddie’s extra-frisky tonight. Maybe it’s the cold weather or the snow on the ground, but I suspect it’s from being out in the melee. Guilt nudges at the corners of my heart. I really should bring him out more often. I mean, I make sure he gets exercise, and he has plenty of opportunities to relieve himself and all, but he’s such a social butterfly. I wonder if he ever regrets being saddled with a homebody like me. Even though he’s a dog, Hudson is a “people person.” He rolls over on his back, writhing like an alligator, flapping his paws above him. This elicits a big belly laugh from our formerly foreboding friend. We take turns pretending to nip at Hudson’s hindquarters with our forefingers and thumbs, and each time, he whips around pretending to snap at the offender. He couldn’t look happier if he tried. Without preamble, two impeccable men’s Italian leather boots appear in my field of vision. Hudson romps over, and moves in to give them a sniff. “Can I help?” demands a stern, disembodied English voice from above. I struggle to rise from my position on all fours, but find that now, not only are my feet numb, my knees are stiff from the cold. My new friend, the bodyguard, has nimbly risen and is back at his post, stiff as a statue, staring straight ahead. Hudson thinks I’m still playing a game. He keeps leaping up, punching me in the legs with his two front paws. I teeter, trying to stand, but there’s nothing solid to grab onto. “I need to see Miranda Nichols,” I say, trying to push up with my hands from the ground. Hudson licks my face with glee. “Miranda Nichols?” He barks out a short laugh before recovering. “She’s a bit busy at the moment.” There’s no sarcasm colder than an Englishman’s sarcasm. “I’m sure, but could you, just, uh,” I stammer. “Could you please go and get her for me?” I’m hoping by the time she gets here to meet me, I won’t still be scrabbling around on the floor. “That won’t be possible. She’s unreachable at the moment.” I see his feet shifting impatiently. I’d better get up quickly. He’s grouchy, and obviously has better things to do. Like Aunt Miranda says, you don’t annoy the gatekeepers. The harder I try to get up, the more the pins and needles prick my feet, and the more Hudson bounces off of my hip like a circus poodle. “Huddie, no! Down!” If I could only push off from something… I grab at the man’s knee, but the physics of lifting are all wrong. I strain to re-position my arms. Maybe if I can just crab walk to the director’s chair, I think. Hudson notices my struggle and begins springing up and nipping at my ear. “Huddie, cut it out,” I say, breathless from trying to maintain my yoga-like position. He barks playfully in response. I try to gain equilibrium, woefully aware that my backside is pointing skyward. My dress coat, cut quite close through the shoulders, if effectively functioning as a strait jacket. Miranda convinced me that sleek was in last winter. I think I hear fabric ripping. I’m dizzy from hanging my head downward, and Hudson’s sharp barks so close to my ears are making them ring. In a valiant leap, he winds up on the flat of my back, and teeters there for a proud moment before we both tumble over in the snow. I land hard on my bum. It smarts a bit, but I can’t help laughing as Hudson flails like a bug on his back. “For heaven’s sake,” the man says impatiently. He hooks his hands under my arms and, with seemingly little effort, pulls me up to standing. I’m face-to-chest with an oxblood leather coat, and green knit scarf. “Oh! It’s you.” Behind his glasses, his eyes are a startling clear blue. I’ve never seen eyes that blue before. I look closer, trying to see if there’s a corona of gold, green, or even turquoise around his pupils. Nope, just bright Grecian blue. “Have we met?” he asks, holding my gaze. Oh god, I’ve been staring. “I know you. I mean, no. You’re one of the production assistants I saw on TV.” I hear a high-pitched little gasp. I whip around to look at The Refrigerator, but he’s cool as a cucumber, arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. If the gasp came from him, he’s not letting on. “I most certainly am not a production assistant,” he assures me in a Little Lord Fauntleroy voice. He stands up taller, which is a feat. I mean, he’s pretty tall in the first place. “I’m the Assistant Production Manager.” He looks at his watch. “And right about now, I’m responsible for seeing that the mayor of your fine city is briefed before she goes on live television. So, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, turning crisply to walk away. “Wait!” “I’m sorry, there’s no access through this door. You’ll have to queue by the barriers for autographs.” He turns again, and Olympic race-walks in the other direction, deftly dodging crates, printers, and myriad interns as he goes. Hudson lets out a low, slow whine, ending in a bark. He wants the man to play! He’s bowing down with his rump in the air, shimmying. Clearly, he isn’t as offended by the man’s rudeness as I am. “I’m not here for autographs, I’m going backstage.” “No dogs allowed. Please exit through the front with your animal. This is a restricted area,” he says, still walking.” No dogs allowed? I just saw the outlines of a camel and what appeared to be two fully grown sheep through the far tent wall. As if Hudson’s going to infect the place! “Not for us!” “Goodbye,” he calls not bothering to turn around. “Marlon, please escort the lady and her dog out to the public plaza.” His snootiness ignites a fire in me. Is that the way he talks to the minions in his fleet of servants back home on the manor in Jolly Olde England, I wonder. I think it’s time he was taught a little respect. I hate to do it but he’s left me no choice. “Miranda Nichols is my aunt,” I fire, just as he’s exiting through a flap door on the other side of the tent. All of the fresh-faced young people hunched over their laptops around a table littered with coffee cups, stacks of papers, and wires for days look up with interest. The Assistant Production Manager freezes. Slowly, he turns back around, one eyebrow raised. I scoop Hudson up in one arm, plant my other fist on my hip, and raise my eyebrow right back. “I see. Very good, would you follow me, please?” he asks, in a clipped, efficient voice. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I don’t make a move. Tilting my head toward Hudson, I dare Mr. Blue eyes to say he’s not welcome. He walks back to meet me, and gently takes my elbow with an elegant protocol that would rival a Buckingham Palace butler’s. “I beg your pardon, Ms. Nichols. Would you both follow me, please?” Before I know it, all of the PAs have their eyes back on their computers, and I’m gliding through the tent with him like we’re Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I have to give it to him. He’s good. But I’m not soon going to forget the spurn. Sure, he’s nice to me now he knows I’m connected. But where was his common decency before? It’s James’s world all over again — only the rich, titled, or famous count. And it goes without saying that any enemy of dogs is an enemy of mine. “My name isn’t Nichols,” I declare crossly, and set Hudson down on the floor as if throwing down a gauntlet. I itch for this pompous ass to complain about Hudson’s muddy paws. He doesn’t say a word, but instead leans down to scratch Hudson’s ear, which infuriates me. Ms. Nichols! How lazy of him. Didn’t his fancy boarding school or wherever he crawled out from teach him better than that? I’m just about to lecture him about the folly of making assumptions when we pass through a tent flap serving as a door. It’s like day and night. One moment we were in a grubby production office, and now suddenly we’re standing on a richly patterned, claret-colored Persian Rug, adorned with a full tapestry-covered living room suite dotted around with hundreds of votive candles. There’s nothing above our heads but the New York City skyline and a pinkish smear of stars gilding the remnants of the day’s clouds. From the bustling streets of Manhattan to this… It was like a genie had transported me to another land. I can’t help myself. “What is this place?” I breathe. “VIP holding. It’s where we seat the talent right before they go on stage.” A warm smile spreads across his face. He looks at me for a long time, seeming to take me in for the first time. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, eyes sparkling. His gaze makes me feel shy. “It is,” I agree, turning away and running my hand along the wood of one of the bookshelves along the wall. “Welcome to the wonders of high-budget, network television,” he says. “May I offer you a glass of wine?” He gestures to a carafe surrounded by crystal glasses on a substantial mahogany sideboard. The magic of the scene is throwing me off-kilter. I surprise myself and nod. “By the way,” he asks, the shadow of a smile turning up one corner of his mouth, “what is it?” He hands me a ruby-hued drink, which I accept. I don’t make a habit of drinking alone, so it’s been awhile since I’ve had wine. I take a tentative sip. His eyes are on my lips as I drink. The wine is very, very good as I suspected it would be. “What is what?” “Your name.” He takes a step closer to me. He doesn't seem as harried as before. If your name isn’t Nichols, what is it?” “It’s Bell. Charlotte Bell.” He tilts his head, considering me. “It suits you.” He pauses, and looks straight into my eyes. “Charlotte Bell.” Ding-dong, ding -dong! Ding, ding, ding, ding-ding ding-a dong ding-ding ding-a-dong diiiiiiiing… Hudson freezes and cocks his head at a high-pitched chiming noise. “What’s that?” I ask. The man’s eyes widen. He looks down at his tablet and scrolls to wake it up. The harsh artificial light of the screen cuts through the glow of the candles. “That, Ms. Bell, is the Sonos Handbell Ensemble playing Sleigh Bells. Right on cue. And my signal to be on the alert.” He’s halfway across the carpet, and nearing the door of the adjacent tent. “The, mayor is due on set in four minutes.” He stops to pull his phone from the pocket of his leather coat. “Send a PA to VIP holding to escort a young woman and an animal to Area J. It’s a canine. No, she’s ordinary. Thank you.” Ordinary? “My apologies,” he says curtly, “but I’ll have to ask you and your dog to clear the area.” His eyes keep flicking to an actual wooden door leading from a diaphanous tunnel coming from yet another tent. “Strictly for security reasons, you understand.” He now has the palm of his hand on the small of my back, and he’s pushing me to a flap in a tent opposite the wooden door. I barely have time to set my half-full wineglass on a Chinese cabinet as we hurry past it. What does he think I’m going to do? Lunge at the mayor, and threaten to take her hostage? Sic my dog on her? Burn out her retinas with my ordinary-ness? Within 5 seconds, a thickly bundled young woman with a knit toboggan emblazoned with the network’s logo under her headset slips through the flap door and grabs me by the arm. “You’ll need to come with me.” I short-leash Huddie to make sure he doesn't get stepped on. Talk about having a bucket of cold water thrown on you. I look behind me, and catch a glimpse of the man’s broad back, and call out, “Thanks a lot!” “It was my pleasure,” he says, looking over his shoulder. Apparently he gives better than he gets in the old sarcasm department; he didn’t seem to clock my annoyance at all. I’m quivering with irritation. His face is all business but I detect a twinkle in his eyes, and the slightest bit of mischief around the eyebrow. Or do I? I can’t read him. Four men in long, black coats stream through the door, and line up to form a tunnel. I didn’t know the mayor traveled with that kind of entourage, but to be honest, it had been years since I rubbed shoulders with anyone with more status than the check-out clerks at Whole Foods or the Nook support crew at Barnes & Noble. “Connie, see that Ms. Bell gets my card,” he says just before turning around and stepping forward to receive not the mayor, but – oh my god – the president! Connie pulls me through the flap, hard, and I tug Hudson behind me. In a shocking change of circumstances, we’re now standing in what appears to be a men’s dressing room for the lowest rung of extras. A couple of guys dressed as reindeer are playing poker on a milk crate. A skinny man wearing nothing but a snowman’s head and a pair of tighty-whiteys hollers, “Hey! You can’t be in here. I’ll call the union.” “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Frosty,” Connie says. “We’re just passing through.” She pulls me through another flap, and my nostrils are assaulted by the fertile smell of dung. All around me are stalls reminiscent of a fair, in which sheep, goats, a cow, and a small elephant loll and recline. “There’s a bench. Have a seat. Someone will be with you in a minute. Oh right,” she says. She rifles through her breast pocket and fishes something out. “Here.” It’s an off-white card, engraved in black letters. There are only two words on it. HENRY WENTWORTH Underneath his name should also be written, Pretentious Jerk. I fling the card as hard as I can, and it lands in a puddle next to the hoof of a donkey. I watch as it soaks through and sinks. Chapter 2 (#u8cd19c87-14ea-5cbf-8176-9e1fefaf3310) By the time we’re up and out the door bright and early the next morning, Henry Wentworth and his pompous insults are a distant memory. Hudson woke me up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so I promised him a real walk this morning. He’s been extra-restless, and the tree lighting didn’t seem to quell his appetite for adventure. I’m just glad to be in my deliciously comfortable, if not exactly trendy, Uggs this morning. Last night, after half an hour of enduring a freezing cold tushy on a hard plank bench, I decided I couldn’t spend one more moment inhaling eau de farm, so I stumbled off to try to find Aunt Miranda on my own. Here’s an insider tip: when the president of the United States is on the premises, one is not at liberty to wander around a venue. I was denied at every exit. In the end, I gave up and managed to make it to the edge of the Plaza just as the ceremony peaked. Hudson and I may not have been up close and personal as originally promised, as we finally waded through the throngs to reach 51st Street and find a cab, the sky caught fire. Not only did great bursts of fireworks tear through the blackness of the night sky, we were bathed in blanket of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ as everyone within sight of the spectacle joined in a shared moment of awe. We could smell the gunpowder’s tang as it cut through the scent of evergreen and hot chocolate. Huddie and I stopped in our tracks and looked upward, mouths hanging open when the statuesque spruce was set ablaze, lighting up the New York City skyline, and everyone joined in to sing Joy to the World. Honestly, it stole my breath. As much as I appreciate having experienced it, I am nothing if not a creature of habit. I won’t lie to you. Once I was home in my cozy apartment, swathed in flannel and curled up on the sofa, I was a very, very happy girl. Hudson was my star, as usual. He crawled up into my arms, burrowing into my bathrobe, and lay on my chest. His heart beat fast against mine, as it beat slowly. Still, except for the comforting in-out of his breathing, Hudson lay on me without falling asleep. It’s like he knew I needed the soothing after being so exposed out in the chaos of the city. I thought it was odd that Aunt Miranda hadn’t gotten in touch, but I’d chalked it up to her perpetual business duties and frankly, her self-centeredness. Well, maybe that’s not entirely fair. She did want me there. It’s just that she’s always on the job. AT&T doesn’t do well in that part of midtown, and when I checked my phone, ten texts that never reached me last night flooded in from Aunt Miranda all at once. They ran the gamut from Beavering away, can’t catch my breath, to R U here yet? to Don't miss the mini marble cheesecakes in craft services. They’re a triumph. And lastly, About to hit “go” on the tree! Find me! In a cherry picker 20 floors up on the west side of the plaza! In a flash of anger born of wounded pride, I dashed back a quick text selling Henry Wentworth up the river and ratted to Aunt Miranda about how abysmally he’d treated me. Didn’t bail on you last night! Was there, but held hostage in a pig pen by security, no thanks to that plummy ASS of an assistant of yours. But glad I saw lighting. Congrats. You nailed it, naturally! Will call later today x C I hit send, but immediately regret being so hotheaded. I know Aunt Miranda all too well, unfortunately. On a good day she fires three people before her first cup of tea. I don’t want that kind of blood on my hands. Left alone, I’m sure in short order that pompous poser would have dug his own grave. I push it out of my mind, and take a deep breath of the frosted air, laced with the promise of snow to come. The less I think about him, the happier I am. This morning I decide to detour to Broadway to my favorite coffee place, Zabar’s, to pick up a latte and a bagel before we hit the park. The sky is a clear, bright blue, and the air is crisp and cold. Walking briskly feels good; my muscles warm as my blood pumps. Hudson’s short legs are moving a mile a minute. The chill seems to make him even friskier than usual. Several passers-by call out “Cute dog!” and “What a sweetie!” I beam with pride. I have to admit he looks extra-dapper today in his quilted red tartan coat. I tie Hudson’s leash to a bike rack outside the big front windows of the cafe so I can keep a careful eye on him. Pushing open the door, I am enveloped in the smell of warm, yeasty bagels, and strong, black coffee. My mouth literally starts to water. When it’s my turn to order, I get an oversized everything bagel with lox so I can give Hudson a few treats. He goes wild for salmon. We stand on the corner, basking in the warm sunlight, and taking bites of the fresh-from-the-oven bagel and creamy Nova lox while I drink my coffee. The breakfast gives me a pep, or maybe it’s the sun, so I feel like stretching my legs and start walking south, toward 57th Street, where we’ll enter Central Park. Work can wait just a little while longer today. “It’s still early, Huddie. Let’s take a long walk down to Columbus Circle, and we can cut into the park and walk home on the paths.” He’s not even listening to me. He’s too busy greeting every dog that passes, and trying to hoover up food scraps from the sidewalk. He looks so happy; it melts my heart. Just then, a burly man, staring at his cell phone, smashes into my shoulder. “Watch where you’re going!” he growls, and keeps on walking. Spun around in the opposite direction, I wind up jerking Hudson’s leash, and halting from the shock of it. Hudson lunges out after the guy to protect me. I open my mouth to yell after him, willing the people around me to brace themselves for hair-curling profanity, but what’s the point, really? I breathe in a cleansing breath, scratch my dog’s head, and plod on. People are going to act how they act. Nothing I do or say can change that, and trying is a fool’s errand. Better to keep to myself. I learned that a long time ago. I look at Hudson’s little half tail, spiked up in the air on high-alert, as he trots ahead and I feel a smile rise from my heart to my lips. I love him so much. So what if people can be jerks? Dogs never are. All along Broadway, the shops are displaying the holiday spirit. Wreaths and garlands adorn the windows, and snippets of festive holiday music push out onto the street with every determined customer. Even New York City itself has started to deck the halls, so to speak. Arches of lights in snowflake patterns cross the wide avenue, and greenery flows down the poles of the gas lamps and the signs declaring the names of streets and avenues. We pass Fairway Market, with its outdoor stalls featuring brightly colored cranberries, pumpkins, cabbages, red potatoes, and myriad other fruits and vegetables shining like jewels on the sidewalk. Live trees of all heights and shapes are being unloaded from a huge double-parked truck and piled into a much-coveted parking spot. The balsam scent gives me itchy fingers. I can’t wait to get home to dig into a mixing bowl full of pie-crust dough. Some make their crusts with a stand mixer or a food processor. Not me. I like to feel the texture of the pastry between my fingers. It’s how I know it’ll turn out perfect from the oven. The smell of Christmas trees makes me think of Spiced Apple Tart with plenty of clove. I’ll make one of those when I get home, I think to myself, shivering with excitement, and since I have apples, I’ll do a platter of Apple-Stuffed Pork Chops with Rosemary too. The thought of spending the afternoon in my oven-warmed kitchen with my Pandora radio to the Vintage Christmas Carols station gives me a lift till I’m practically skipping. The blocks melt away as I enjoy the feeling of sunlight on my chilled cheeks, and watch Hudson delight in the sounds and aromas of a New York pre-holiday morning. As we near Columbus Circle, we veer toward the park. The crowds thicken as we approach the Trump International Tower Hotel, and holiday tourists are gathered around the impressive Globe Sculpture snapping shots. There’s the entrance to one of Manhattan’s most famous upscale restaurants, the sublime Jean-Georges, and I remember ducking in there out of the rain one summer afternoon. James and I had planned to rent bikes and ride around the park, maybe grab a hot dog from a cart. The shower hit fast and hard, and we ran for the awning. Before I could protest about the state of my elderly sundress and wet hair, we were standing at a desk with two models in white blouses and black suits in front of very discreet three-inch letters lit by a subtle golden spotlight, spelling out Jean-Georges. Every seat in the place was reserved, but we didn’t mind eating at the bar. We shared Charred Corn Ravioli, and Line-Caught Hake in Lemongrass Consomm?. It was early on, and I felt flirty with James. I remember telling him I could cook better, and he threatened to call for the chef. The bartender comped us several rounds of Cucumber-Mint Martinis, and when we emerged sated and buzzy into the sunshine, I had felt loose-limbed and hopeful. It’s funny how things don’t always turn out how you expect them to at first. James, summer, and living spontaneously feel like long-ago daydreams as the chilly air tickles my nose and freezes the tips of my earlobes. Across the way, I see The Shops at Columbus Circle. It’s hard not to lose track of time when shopping in the uber-luxurious glass-fronted building with panoramic views of Central Park. If heaven had a trademark scent, it would be the comingled aromas of the merchants there. Shampoos from Aveda, bath salts from Crabtree & Evelyn, the rich leather smells from Coach and Etienne Aigner, the rich cocoa notes floating out from Godiva and La Maison du Chocolat, the tangy fresh fruit smell from Jamba Juice, the wonderful cooking smells like curry and saut?ed onion rising from Whole Foods Market in the basement… even the sweat and freshly showered man-smell from Equinox intrigues. Visually pleasing at any time of the year, the shops have been amped up to the Nth degree, decorated with 14-foot three-dimensional hanging stars that hang from the 150-foot Great Room. Lit during the day with blue and purple lights, they’re easy to see from the park. Like an ice palace, the whole Time Warner Center, with its Shops on Columbus Circle, acts as an ornament to Central Park’s festive greenness. “Look, Hudson,” I say, pointing. “See the stars? I heard that they do the world’s biggest projected light show there, from the time the sun goes down to midnight, and that they play Christmas music and everything.” He cocks his head, body poised to pounce. He’s on high alert. “Oh, not now, Huddie. In the evening. Probably not tonight,” I tell him, “but maybe sometime. We’ll see.” And there’s Per Se… How long has it been since I’ve eaten at Thomas Keller’s sublime restaurant, I wonder. A long time, I think, as my mouth waters. I sigh, remembering passing through the simple, classic, blue painted doors and entering the serene, intimate restaurant. On paper, it would seem to be everything I hate, with its artfully arranged dishes, infusions, foams, and sugar cages over exquisitely shaped meringues. But the food won me over. In spite of the upscale presentation and cheffy techniques, the emphasis was on the simplicity and goodness of the food. The Butter-Poached Nova Lobster, humbly prepared with leeks, carrots, watercress and the most eye-wateringly brilliant sauce — a sauce bordelaise — remains to this day one of the top dishes I’ve ever tasted in my life. My shoulders stiffen as I recall, Oh, right. That was with James, too. I walk on, doing my best to concentrate on cut-diamond brilliance of the meal and tease it away from the memory of James scheming and plotting, and eventually wangling his way back into the kitchen to shake hands with Keller himself. Even though James had been with me, I’d dined alone that night. At the light, Hudson and I turn and drift with the herd across the street to Merchant’s Gate, the entrance to the park at 59th and Central Park South. As we wade into the crowd, I notice the array of food trucks selling delicacies ranging from warm roasted chestnuts, to sugared Dutch stroopwafels, to fragrant Indian samosas, to your basic New York hot dog with that world-famous onion sauce. Even though it’s freezing, there’s still a Mr. Softee truck out, and there’s even a line for the creamy cones. “C’mon Hudson, let’s go into the park and start home,” I say, tugging his leash toward the path. “Time to head back.” He sits down, panting and taking in the crowd. “You are a stubborn thing, aren’t you? You’re going to freeze your little tail off sitting on the concrete in this weather. I have work to do. Recipes to test. You can have a quick sip of water, and then it’s go-time.” I pull a collapsible water bowl and small metal bottle out of my coat pocket, and pour him a drink. He perks up, and helps himself with gusto. “That salmon was salty, huh boy?” While he drinks, I people-watch. Sitting in a chair by the base of the fountain, an elderly man with a wispy gray beard plays a warbling, Asian-inspired Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on an erhu, pulling the bow back and forth with the grace of a ballet dancer.He’s competing with a group of Madrigal singers in full Renaissance garb, standing behind a sign proudly declaring Skidmore College Glee Club. Further out, I hear hip-hop strains coming from an oversized boom-box. Glancing over, I see that five fit youths in futuristic tracksuits and Kabuki masks are breakdancing. People dressed as cows are handing out individual Greek yogurts from refrigerators attached to oversized tricycles. “Elfies! Come take a free holiday Elfie, compliments of Takasaki Worldwide. Takasaki: On the cutting edge of global technology! Free Elfies! No money to pay!” Hudson, chin dripping from his drink of water, lasers in on the high-pitched voice piercing through the din from a crowd of Japanese youngsters, dressed as Manga-style elves. They’re so hip it hurts, with the red and green streaks in their hair, black-and-white striped tights, off-kilter ponytails, and pointed high-heeled elf boots. That’s girls and boys, mind you. I feel tragically frumpy in my brown puffer coat. Hudson strains toward the Elfie tent, standing on his back legs, paws bicycling in the air, chest supported by his harness. “Wait, Hudson! Stop.” I shake out his dish, fold it up, and pocket it. Once I’m upright, he’s scraping his claws on the pavement, pulling me toward the tent. “Huddie, I’m not getting my picture taken,” I explain as I walk him over to the teeming gaggle of elves. One by one, revelers and tourists sit on the brightly colored sleigh situated in the center of the staging area, allowing Santa’s Helpers to drape them in festive scarves and to plop pointy hats with jingle bells atop their heads. There’s a mirror, so all newly ordained Christmas Troopers are able to see themselves. To a person, they all laugh when they catch sight of themselves transformed into elves. Upon exiting, they’re given a lapel button declaring, “I can’t ELF myself — I jingle for Takasaki!” “You want photo?” one of the elves demands, pointing straight at me. “Step up here. Take a seat on the sleigh! Sit now! Free, from Takasaki.” Hudson climbs the first step to the dais where the sleigh sits empty. “No thanks,” I call. “We were just looking.” “Come on! You take photo now. No one else waiting. Your turn. Come!” He picks up a scarf and a hat, and gestures toward the sleigh. “Not today. Thanks anyway. Come on, Hudson, time to go home.” “Oh, hello, little dog! Oh, cuuuuuuuute.” The elf comes toward me, arms outstretched, and Hudson starts dancing like a loon. “Mai, Sparkles, come! Come and see this little dog.” Before I know it, we’re surrounded by elves. “Let’s take an Elfie of this doggie!” Another elf picks Hudson up, and holds him high in the air ? la Simba in the Lion King, and there’s a cacophony of Japanese phrases spoken in excited, high-pitched baby voices surrounding us. Like a flock of birds, the elves drift toward the sleigh, and I’m swept along, still holding the end of the leash. I can’t even see Hudson above all of the pointed hats, and I trip on the step leading up to the sleigh. I couldn’t fall down if I wanted to, though, because I’m shoulder-to-shoulder in a herd of Santa’s Finest. “Hudson!” I call, as I find my footing. The leash goes slack in my hand. I can’t see my dog anywhere. As if on cue, the crowd parts like the red sea to reveal my dog up on the sleigh being fussed over like Dorothy just before she meets The Wizard. They’ve stripped him of his harness and collar, and two elfin stylists are brushing back the wispy hair around his face. Is that hairspray? From the look on his face, he’s enjoying the fuss. An elf takes out a baby-sized green-and-red scarf and winds it around his neck, and another sets about fitting his little head with a tiny elf hat with jingle bells on top. A girl pulls an elastic headband from her own hairdo, and from what I can see, fashions a chin strap out of it and… what is that? Maybe safety pins? A crowd of impossibly tall and impossibly blonde tourists presses in front of me. “Look Astrid! Gus! See the elf dog?” They’re all wearing huge, thick sweatshirts that say, ‘Lincoln Nebraska Future Business Leaders of America.’ “Excuse me,” I say to a tree of a farm boy, “I just need to get to the front to pick up my dog.” I can see the elves, phones out, taking turns leaning in to get in shots with Hudson. He has a smear of lipstick on the white part of his muzzle from all the elf kisses. “That’s your dog?” The towering teen asks me. “He’s hilarious. He oughta be on TV or something.” “Thanks,” I say, trying to muscle past. The crowd is closing in, and I just get a glimpse of the chair Hudson was sitting on. It’s empty. “Excuse me,” I holler. I’m eye level with the shoulders of all the Midwestern giants. I stand on my tippy-toes to see if I can spot Hudson. I can’t. “Move!” I yell, garnering lots of affronted looks. “You don’t have to scream, Ma’am,” one of the boys admonishes. “It takes more energy to be rude than to be nice. Here, I’ll help you through.” He uses his body like a barge in an icy river in order to part the crowd, and I walk in his wake until I hit the step up to the dais. “Hudson!” I call. I don’t see him. My chest starts to feel tight. “Hey, where’s my dog? Where’s Hudson?” The elves all begin to look around their feet. Smiles melt from their faces as it’s clear he’s not there. “Where is my dog?” I demand, starting to feel dizzy. Their voices rise in a cacophony of panicked Japanese sentences, and a tall boy- elf holding Hudson’s collar and harness points. “There! There is the dog!” I swing around only to glimpse Hudson’s tail disappear between the tall Uggs of a teenaged girl and out toward 57th Street. “Hudson!” I scream. “Someone, grab my dog! Help!” I start to push my way into the crowd, but I’m like a salmon swimming upstream. “He doesn’t know what to do in traffic!” “Wait lady,” the boy-elf shrieks. “You forgot your selfie!” I don’t stop, but he manages to catch up with me. He lurches into my back, propelled by the sea of bodies, and says, panting, “All this yours! Take!” and shoves Hudson’s leash and harness, along with a piece of cardboard, into my hand. I think I spy some fur, down by a man’s expensive leather brogues, but I can’t be sure. I see a hole in the crowd, and take off into a run, but I lose sight of him. I keep calling, and launch my body like a bottle-rocket in the direction I last saw him. He must have crossed the street. My lungs constrict. What if he gets hit by a car? Out of nowhere, a horse and buggy speeds into my path, and almost runs me over. By the time it’s gone, I can’t see Hudson anywhere. “Hudson, here Huddie!” I cry over and over again. “Someone help me!” My blood is icy. I’m running in wide circles, paying no attention to cars and bumping into bodies everywhere. I’m too terrified to cry. I hear myself screaming Hudson’s name, and feel rawness in my throat. I stumble at the entrance to the subway, and almost go headfirst down the stairs. Shaking, I lower myself to the top step and sit down, even though there is a sea of humanity ascending from underground. If he went down these stairs, anyone could have snatched him and hopped the A, C, B, D, or 1 train in the blink of an eye. He could already be in another borough. It hits me. It’s possible I could never see him again. I hang my head between my legs and sob. ***** “Miss?” Through a fog I hear a husky, male voice. It sounds impatient. “Hey, Miss. Are you listening to me? You can’t sit on the stairs. You need to move, now, or I’m gonna have to move you.” I take my face out of my hands, and look up to see a muscular, dark-skinned New York City cop, clad in traditional deep blue. The gun on his hip is inches from my face. Scrambling to me feet, I wipe my running nose. “Sorry, officer. I’m moving. There. I’m up.” Hands in his belt loops, he gives me a stern once-over. I try to tell him I’ve just lost my dog, but my face crumples, and I know that if I talk, nothing will come out but a wail. I clamp my lips shut. His stern demeanor turns to concern. He leans in. “Did someone hurt you? “No, it’s just…” I swallow the lump in my throat, and manage to say, “My dog was stolen.” He pulls a pad from his utility belt. “What did the perpetrator look like?” “OK, I don’t know if he was stolen stolen, but he wouldn’t run away. I know that.” A shiver skates through my body. He wouldn’t, would he? “Miss, in New York City, there are leash laws. Your pet should have been properly restrained.” He slides the pad back into his belt, and stands in front of me with his hands on his hips. He’s solid. His silver badge reads simply ‘Curtis.' I can only assume no one messes with this guy. Still, he does sport a tiny candy cane pin on the collar of his turtleneck sweater. Maybe he has a soft side. “Yes, I know.” Weakly, I hold up the leash in my hand. “I live here. It’s just that he was taking a selfie…” “Your dog was taking a selfie?” “They dressed him in a hat and scarf… I need to get his collar from the elves… the giants kept me away from him…” “Miss, are you on drugs?” Officer Curtis whips out his flashlight, shines it in my face, and peers deep in to my eyes. “Of course not! Wait, you’re a police officer, right? Can you help me find my dog?” “Miss, this is New York City,” he barks. “I’m not exactly Fireman Joe from Podunk, Nowhere who spends all day getting cats down from trees. We have serious crimes to deal with.” Another cop, this one skinny as a whip, with an angular face and pink cheeks, sidles up to us. “Everything alright here, Curtis?” he asks, checking me out sideways. “I lost my dog. I need help,” I interrupt. “That’s right up your alley, Curtis,” the other cop says. “What kind of dogs do you and your mother have up there in the Bronx? Sporks? Porkies?” “Morkies,” Curtis mumbles. “That’s it! What are those little fellas a mix of?” “Maltese and Yorkshire Terriers.” “Yeah, that’s right, Curtis and his mom rescue little mixed-breed dogs. Tiny things. Pretty cute. Curtis loves dogs, don’t cha’ Curtis?” “Well, yes. I do. But we are on duty, Scrivello.” He pulls his partner to the side. I hear him whisper-hissing, “How’s it gonna look if at the end of the day all we have to show for ourselves is a citation for public urination and a found puppy?” “It’s gonna look like we made people keep it in their pants, and like we helped the distraught citizens of our fair city. You worry too much, Curtis. Probably why you don’t have a girlfriend. Help the young lady! We’ll crack the Columbian drug ring after Christmas. Come on, show the girl a picture of your dogs. You know you want to.” Without having to be asked twice, Officer Curtis pulls out his wallet, and flips it open. “The big bruiser there is Apollo. Don’t let his size fool you, though. He’s a teddy bear.” From what I could tell, Apollo could fit in a loaf pan and probably didn’t weigh 10 pounds soaking wet. “And here’s a picture of the girls, Aretha and Tina, from last Christmas.” “Lemme see,” Scrivello said, craning his neck. “Ah yeah, that’s when we took ‘em to see Santa Claus and hang out at the senior center.” I feel a surge of adrenaline. These men love dogs. Maybe there’s hope I could find Huddie today. “Please, Officer Curtis? Help me find Hudson.” “Oh, all right. You’re in this, too, Scrivello.” He puts his phone away, and takes his pad out again, letting out a big sigh. “Name and description of the missing person?” he asks me, pen poised. “Atta boy, Curtis,” Scrivello says. “Never fear, lady. You have the finest of New York’s finest on the job.” My heart lifts, and I begin to tell the story. “Hudson Bell. He weighs about 22 pounds, his hair is smooth and wiry…” “What color?” “Pretty much every color a dog can be… he has a pointy face, and bright eyes…” “Do you have a photograph?” “I do on my phone… wait!” I root in my backpack where I’d shoved the leash and cardboard the elf had given me. It was a picture frame, and inside was a fabulous photo of Hudson all decked out in his elfwear. “Here he is. That’s my Hudson,” I say, with a little crack in my voice. “Aww…” Scrivello says. “He’s a cutie. Looks like he’s smiling for the camera.” Curtis takes a long hard look at the photo, as if he’s memorizing every detail. Meeting my eyes, he says, sincerely, “I’m going to do everything in my power to find your dog, Miss.” In no time, we are combing the south side of the park, the way the police officers had been trained to do for a missing person. I look at my watch. It’s still morning. The sun is shining. I feel a smile spread across my face. Hudson and I would be safe and warm at home by lunchtime. Dinnertime at the latest. ***** “Sit down there,” Officer Curtis, or Craig as I now knew him, said to me, motioning to a park bench around Central Park West. “You need some water. You’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t slow down. That won’t do you or Hudson any good at all.” New York starts getting dark in the winter at about four thirty in the afternoon. We’re sitting in the ever-increasing blackness, and I have no clue what time it was. The only real light is coming from the twinkling snowflake decorations on the west side of the Natural History Museum. My feet are throbbing, and I am so frozen through I can’t feel my limbs anymore. Still, Hudson’s out there alone somewhere in the city. I can’t just give up. He needs me. “You want a hot dog?” Craig calls from the steaming cart half a block from where I sat. I shake my head no. We’d been all over the south side of the park, east and west. The officers had radioed all their friends on beats on the north side with Hudson’s description, and they sent a report in to the station. There’s was nothing left to do. “Drink this,” Craig said, handing me a bottle of water. He munches hungrily into his hot dog. “Listen, Charlotte, you need to go home and get some rest. Hudson has an identity chip. Someone will probably find him and bring him into a vet, or he could wind up at the pound. The first thing they do is scan. Plus, we have all kinds of people out there looking for him now. I’d keep on going, but my Moms has Bingo night at her church, and I promised I’d go home and take care of our dogs. There’s a houseful. We have three fosters right now, on top of our own three.” He chuckled. “This one, I call her Fang, is a puppy and she can’t stop gnawing on me with those little needly teeth.” I think about how little and frail Hudson was when I brought him home, and tears pool in my eyes. I will myself not to cry. “No, of course you need to go. You aren’t even on the clock.” I turn my back and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m fine. Thank you for everything. You’ve been amazing.” He stands up. “Well, I’m not done. I’ll make some calls, and tomorrow Scrivello and I will keep looking and asking around. Plus, we scanned that photo of yours, and my crew at the station’s been passing it around to the other precincts. I have your card, and you have mine.” He wads up the paper from his hot dog, and takes a step toward the 86th Street subway station. “Don’t worry. As a cop, I see things like this work out lots of times.” And the other times? I think to myself. I need to be alone. I can’t feel all of this in front of someone I’d just met. To be honest, I can’t feel this much in front of anyone. I’m more comfortable being alone when things are going badly. It’s what I’m used to. “Go!” I tell him, forcing a smile. “It’s all going to work out.” “Sure it is,” he said, smiling back. “You go home, now, and call all your friends and family. The more people you got working, the sooner you’ll find that dog of yours.” “Right!” I said brightly. My gut feels hollow as I take mental inventory of my friends and family. Apart from my online friends, Charlotte’s chefs, there was… Aunt Miranda. And, of course, Hudson. “Will do. I’m fine. Go home and take care of your pups.” I make myself start crossing the street toward the west side, so he could feel free to go. “Alright then. You have a good night, Charlotte, and keep the faith.” “I will!” I watch him disappear up the block before I let my body sag. I know I have to get home and take some kind of action, but every step feels like dragging a bag of lead weights without my furry little friend by my side. I plod on. There’s a little dog out there who needs help, and I’m the one to help him. Just like before, just like when he came to me. He’s mine and I’m his. When I finally reach my building and start up the stairs of my brownstone, I feel the loneliness right down to my bones. It’s like climbing Everest. I know why. When I open my apartment door, I know there will be nothing there to greet me but darkness and silence. Chapter 3 (#u8cd19c87-14ea-5cbf-8176-9e1fefaf3310) I wake up with a start in the half-light of the early Manhattan morning, facedown on my sofa in a puddle of drool. Panic electrifies my body as I re-remember Hudson is gone. My eyes feel like they’ve been doused in a combination of lemon juice and glue. They sting, but I can’t quite pull them open. I’d spent the early part of the night alternately laying down, feeling like a freight train was racing through my brain, then leaping up and pacing the apartment. I wonder how many hours of sleep I’d I’ve had. Two or three? I had been sure the police would call, or that someone at the shelter would get in touch to say that Hudson had shown up. My cell phone never left my hand. As I moved from room to room, filled with an energy to act, but having nothing to do, I’d stop and pick up a squeaky toy here, or a morsel of kibble there, each time calling, “Huddie!” before realizing again and again, like Groundhog Day, that he wasn’t there. Everywhere I looked was another reminder of our life together. The framed photo of us at The Chelsea Piers Mixed-Breed Dog Show, the prescription bottle of antiseptic the vet had given us when he stepped on that nail on Amsterdam Avenue, the fluffy donut bed I’d splurged on from Orvis with his name embroidered on the front. Awake now, and at the end of my tether I punch Aunt Miranda’s number in via “Favorites.” Actually, it should be “favorite,” since she’s the only one. Despite the pre-dawn hour, she picks up before the second ring. “Oh hello, darling,” she launches in immediately. “I only have a split second, but I’ve rung to say I’m mortified I haven’t gotten in touch since the fiasco at the tree lighting.” “You didn’t call me, I called you.” “Be that as it may, I’m standing in The Russian Tea Room overseeing the set-up for an informal meeting of the G8 leaders, but you didn’t hear that from me. Would you believe the Prime Minister of Canada flat out refuses to sit at a table where smoked sable is being eaten? Claims it makes him gag. Usually Canadians are the least of my worries, always so polite.” “I don’t care about the tree lighting,” I interrupt her, stripping off my sweaty clothes from the night before, and pulling on sweat pants and a sweatshirt. “That’s the attitude!” she bursts in. “Shake it off and move forward. Let it go, or get revenge. No point dwelling. By the by, I’m still not up to speed with what happened, but rest assured when I find out, heads will roll. Say you aren’t cross with me.” “I’m not, but…” “Well, I should think not,” she cuts me off. “Doubtless you got some underling’s back up, and in the short term that can only lead to a dead end. Until you’re prepared to shoot through the heart, never show your gun. Have you still not read that copy of the “Art of War” that I had Cerie ship to you?” “You are not listening to me. I’m trying to tell you that Huddie is missing.” “He’s quite small…have you checked under the bed? You know, at one time Cerie was a warrior. I once watched her bring Joan Rivers to tears! I loved Joanie, God rest her soul, but Cerie was right. The Gucci bootlets were too youthful.” I sense that she’s in the middle of a monologue, and not about to come up for air any time soon. I take the time to run into the kitchen and pop a capsule into my Nespresso machine. I’m going to need coffee today, and lots of it if I’m going to find my little needle in the haystack that is New York City. “Aunt Miranda, do you even care that my dog is missing? Do you?” “Of course, darling, but I’m in the middle of a story. Just let me finish my thought. Losing Cerie was like losing my right arm, let me tell you. I will never, as long as I live, understand how she could have chosen to take leave just as I was on the brink of locking down the curation of Caitlyn Jenner’s world debut.” “Didn’t you say she was in labor?” I demand in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Aunt Miranda.” I slam down my coffee cup. “We all make our choices, don’t we? Any old hoo, I’m calling to break the news that Christmas Day lunch at yours is defo a no-go. I’m sorry, darling, it’s just the event planner for the Vatican Christmas Dinner quit in a huff. It seems the new pontiff is a good deal more humble than previous ones, and he’s insisting on keeping it simple.” “Aunt Miranda! I called to talk about Hudson. I don’t have time to talk about Christmas.” “Several cardinals are in an uproar, and Jacques Desmaisson refuses to work with such a low budget, “low” being in heavy inverted quotes, you understand.” While she rattles on, I pour milk in the frother, and watch it swirl and foam. “Aunt Miranda,” I say, cutting in where there’s a breath, “I need you to focus. On me, for a change.” “Oh, but don’t you want to hear my genius plan to make this disaster an opportunity by introducing a shabby-chic element? Picture it: The Vatican meets Pottery Barn meets Summer in Provence! It goes without saying that all of the gold staffs and mitres could distract from the theme, but my new assistant has some ideas that could tie it all together.” “You are seriously not going to listen to me, are you?” “Hold the phone, darling. You cannot put silver spoons in the Beluga caviar, you nitwit! That’s why we special-ordered an entire crate of mother of pearl ones! Sorry about that, as I was saying, Henry did a short stint in Connecticut last summer for Martha Stewart, you know. During the Post-Prison Renaissance. I stole him from under her nose. She’s furious. Suffice it to say, I won’t be shucking clams at her beach house any time soon. Still, it was worth it. Henry is a hungry young thing who works like a machine. I have him here through to New Year’s when he’s promised himself to Nigella Lawson for some launch or another. I’ll be sorry to see him go, even though he’s in the doghouse with me at the moment for the way he treated you at the tree lighting.” I feel a stab of guilt. “Don’t punish him on my account. Even if he is a puffed-up jerk.” “Don’t try and defend him! I’ll think of a little lesson to teach him. If you give the brilliant ones too much rope early on, they don’t learn discipline. If I check his ego, he’ll respect me for it and take it like a man. He’s the closest thing to a mini-me I have. No offense, darling.” “None taken. Believe me.” I slurp down my second coffee in one hot gulp, the bitter burn no match for the hole in my heart left by the fact that Aunt Miranda is continuing to ignore me. It’s no secret she has always been disappointed that I don’t click around behind her in high heels and a form-fitting pencil skirt barking orders at catering staffs around the globe. But you’d think she’d be on deck for me in a time of crisis. As if I’d want to be a robot like that stick-up-his ass Englishman she had toadying for her. I wish I didn’t need her. It would feel so good to just hang up on her. But today I do. I can hear crystal tinging, and people shouting in Russian. “Aunt Miranda! Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Why won’t she just pay attention to me and let her little shadow handle whatever is going on at The Russian Tea Room. He’s probably lording his power above PAs and waiters as we speak. I’m not sure if my heart is pounding from the two shots of espresso I just chugged, or from abject fear of never seeing my dog again. I check my circa 1955 red Bakelite kitchen clock, and see that morning is now fully upon us. “All right. No more monkeying around. It’s go time. You have to listen to me, now. Hudson is gone, Aunt Miranda. As in not here. As in lost!” There’s a beat of silence on her end of the phone. “Well, surely if he were dead you’d have heard by now, wouldn’t you?” I burst into tears with the force of someone turning on a jet-powered spa shower. Grabbing a kitchen towel to contain what has unexpectedly come forth from my nostrils, I consider what I hadn’t even allowed myself to think last night. That Hudson might be dead. “There, there, darling, I’m just trying to be practical. I didn’t mean to be insensitive, but it seems to me that this is an awful lot of fuss to make over a dog.” “He’s not just a dog,” I cough out, still sobbing. “I know you don’t like him, Aunt Miranda, but I can’t believe you’d say that. He’s my family.” “Oh, there, there Charlotte,” she says awkwardly. Aunt Miranda doesn’t do tears. “It’s not that I don’t like him, exactly. I’m just not a dog person, as they say. Cheer up. If you don’t find him, I’ll order you another.” The heaving sobs threaten to squeeze my heart till it stops. I’m gasping for a full breath. In the background, I hear someone calling, “Ms. Nichols, you’re needed in the staging area. The vendor sent 30 pounds of cheesecake instead of cream cheese.” “I hear that you’re upset, Charlotte. And truly, I am sorry, it’s just… hang on, I’m so sorry, one more mo… Then get your arse down to Food Emporium and buy every block of Philadelphia’ s finest in the dairy case! In 20 minutes, we’ll have the heads of the most powerful countries on the planet sitting on those rococo chairs to inhale their breakfasts while they solve world war! Are you going to be the one to tell them they’re going to have to eat naked bagels??? I thought not!” I put the phone on speaker, set it on the counter, and splash cold water on my face. A glimpse of my kitchen calendar tells me I’m falling behind on the recipes for The English Manor Cookbook and I haven’t responded to Charlotte’s Chefs on the blog in two days. My regular fans, like Martha26 and GrillDadNJ will be worried. I’m meticulous about responding to my blog followers. I consider them friends. But I can’t think about that right now. It’ll keep till Hudson is back safe and sound. I dry my face on my dishtowel and steel myself to move forward. All by myself. “Hello? Hello, darling? Are you there?” I consider just hanging up, and pretending the connection was lost but I take a breath, and answer. “Yes, I’m here.” “As you can tell, sweetheart, I’m swamped, but I’ve put you on my list. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll check in after the last chancellors and presidents are out the door and on their way to see The Book of Mormon. You cannot imagine how I had to move heaven and earth to get them orchestra seats for the matinee. Hottest ticket in town!” “You know, Aunt Miranda, I’ve learned not to expect much from you but this time I’m truly disappointed.” “Charlotte, please don’t say that. Really, I am trying to think of a way to solve your little problem.” “I thought talking to you might help. I feel worse than I did before I called.” “Darling!” “Maybe if I were a country star or the Prime Minister or something, you’d give me the time of day.” “Not another word, Charlotte. I promise you, the minute I’ve put the butts of the most powerful leaders in the world in their seats, I will solve your little dog problem. You have my word.” There’s a little pause. “Please. I want to help.” “Fine.” I doubt she’ll remember to call back, but it doesn’t matter. A lightbulb has gone off in my head, and I don’t want to waste another minute. “I have to go now.” “That’s better, then. Keep your pecker up. As I said, I will find a solution… Not Clamato! Are you out of your gourd? Two words. Shellfish allergies. Do you want to kill off a leader of the free world…” Aunt Miranda trails off and I hang up the phone. I pad in to the bathroom to quickly brush my teeth and twist my dirty-blonde hair up into a clip. I don’t dwell for a minute on my blotchy skin and swollen eyes. In my heather gray sweat suit, I’ll be nothing but invisible today. That’s just how I want it. Then I won’t have to slow down and explain myself to anyone. After the car accident, people always wanted me to talk. I hated that. I like being a grown-up. No one can make me share how I’m feeling if I don’t want to. ‘If you want help, look to the end of your own arm,’ isn’t that what they say? “Everything will be fine,” I tell myself in the mirror, just as I have nearly every day since I was 12, “Believe.” It’s been my mantra ever since Bridget, our cook and my nanny, packed me up from the old house in England, and waved goodbye. I look myself straight in the eye. “You will find Hudson.” I get ready to go. ***** “Geek Squad!” answered the cheerful tech support girl on the other end of the phone line. “What’s your problem?” What’s my problem? My problem is that my tiny dog is lost out in the freezing cold in one of the world’s biggest cities. “I can’t make my computer talk to my printer. I need to be able to scan and print. It’s urgent,” I reply. For over an hour I’d been trying to make flyers from the cardboard-framed Elfie that the young man from Takasaki had pressed into my hand. Time was ticking. I can just about manage my blog, and Microsoft Word, but no one could accuse me of being tech-savvy. “We can help you with that. Can you explain exactly what’s going on? Let’s, uh, start with the computer part.” Sighing with relief, I recount the frustrations of trying to make my ‘Lost Dog’ flyer with the planet Mercury taunting me from its position in retrograde, making all of my electronics and technology go pear-shaped. “Please hold.” She clicks off, leaving me to listen to the Geek Squad’s hold music. It’s a syrupy Muzak version of The Carpenters’ Close to You. I would have expected someone cooler from the Geek Squad. I sit at my writing desk, in the little maid’s room off the kitchen, and drum my nails on the desk. For something to occupy my mind, I click on to my blog while I wait. Yes, I said maid’s room. Yes, my brownstone is Pre-War. Yes, I know how lucky I am. I managed to buy it with what was left of Mum’s money after all the debts were paid. I needed a place with a big kitchen, and this one came kitted out with a Chambers stove and an industrial, French-doored refrigerator. It was a match made in heaven, so I splurged. I haven’t regretted it for one single day. I can’t stop looking at the photo of Hudson in his holiday garb. It’s clear that he had liked the elf who was snapping the photo. The goofy smile on his scruffy little face is evidence of that. His one black eyebrow is sky high, and he appears about as happy as he’s ever been. He looks so vital, like he’s just about to burst out of the picture and land in my lap. Tears prick at the backs of my eyelids. My arms ache from the emptiness of not having him to squeeze. Wow, I have been on hold a long time. My phone beeps and I grab it quickly, in turn putting the Geek Squad on hold. If I can wait, they can wait. Maybe it’s Officer Curtis with some news from the police department? “Hello?” I say breathlessly. “This is Charlotte.” “Ms. Bell. This is Henry Wentworth ringing from Nichols Bespoke Events, on behalf of Miranda Nichols.” I feel my shoulders rise to ear level. “Did she make you call to apologize? Because I don’t have time for this. My dog is missing.” I stab at various keys on my computer, hoping that a technological miracle occurs so I can skip the whole Geek Squad appointment, and take action. “Erm, no. The nature of my phone call is to offer my services, not to apologize.” Then, with a slightly prickly tone, he says, “I wasn’t aware that I had anything to apologize for.” “You wouldn’t, would you?” My patience is wire-thin. “Listen, I have another call on hold, so goodbye…” “Wait! Ms. Bell, please,” he says. “It’s MISS Bell.” I’m aware that my mouth is a tight line. If I didn’t like this man before, I really didn’t like him now. “I have a call on the other line.” “Your Aunt, that is, Miranda asked me to ring you to see how I might help you find your dog. To start, I think we should report the animal missing.” “We? Since when are we ‘we?’ I’ve already reported him missing. Thanks for the inventive suggestion.” Great, this was her “machine”? Her right arm? Her mini-me? I’d do better hiring a tween with a smartphone and a bookshelf full of Nancy Drew Mysteries. “I’ve even filed police reports, if you can imagine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the middle of an important phone call!” I click over to the Geek Squad. The girl is gone, and they’re playing a wordless jazz version of Close to You. I didn’t think it was possible for that song to get any sappier or more maudlin, but they made it happen. I drum my fingers on the desk. Geez, how long are they going to leave me hanging? I try to hang up so I can call back, but the other line is still engaged. I wind up clicking back to Henry, and he’s in midsentence. He is just like Miranda! She never listens when I speak on the phone either. “…given your fragility due to your parents early deaths, may I express my condolences, she felt that you might be a danger to yourself if your dog were to be found, pardon me, deceased and you were left alone.” Oh, no. No, no, no. I’d had enough pity back when I was twelve years old. Nonstop pity from everyone, starting with the police lady who gave me the news, to the social worker who was assigned to get me through the school term, to the air hostesses who watched me on the flight to America, to the head mistress of the boarding school where Aunt Miranda dropped me off that fall. It’s exhausting to be pitied. People want you to make it OK so they don’t have to feel worried for you, so they don’t have to consider that life is fragile and that terrible things could happen to them, too. It’s hard work being the object of pity. I had to nip this right in the bud. “Don’t worry about me,” I told him breezily. “I’m fine. Tell Aunt Miranda that she’s absolved. I am noting that she did something to help. She sent an assistant. Box checked. I’m officially releasing you from duty. She’s off the hook, and so are you. Have a nice day!” I hang up the phone, for real this time. If I didn’t need Aunt Miranda, I certainly didn’t need some random lackey who was being paid to be my fake friend. I switch back over to the hold music. They’re now playing a peppy Latin-inspired version of Toni Braxton’s Unbreak My Heart. “Geek Squad. Thank you for holding,” a voice says, breaking through the knock-off pop song. “We’ve considered your case, and we think the best course of action is to deploy remote crisis intervention.” “Wow.” I realize I’m no Steve Jobs, but that sounds intense. “Yes! I want that. Does that mean you’re coming here?” “Yes ma’am. We can launch a vehicle within the hour.” Launch? That’s taking their branding a bit too seriously, if you ask me. Unless they really are going to launch something. “Fine!” I concede. “Launch away.” I don’t even ask what this personalized service is going to cost me. It simply doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting Hudson back. I give the Geek Squad rep all my details, and hang up. I can’t shake the itching feeling of needing to do something other than wait. I consider calling Craig to check on the police department’s progress, but I don’t want to slow him and Scrivello down. I know they’ll get in touch if they have news. Calling the shelters this early in the morning could backfire. If I interrupt while they’re getting to their desks and setting up for the day, they’re more likely to blow me off. I’ll call after the lunch hour, when people are in a good mood and more willing to go the extra mile. I can’t make flyers until my printer is fixed. I can’t go search on foot since I have to wait for tech support. There’s nothing to do but distract myself. I head to the kitchen and pull out the homemade pie-crust dough that’s been chilling since my Christmas Mince Pie operation got thwarted. Out of habit, I turn my vintage chrome-and-laquered radio’s dial to “on” to listen WNYC to listen to National Public Radio. Maybe it’ll take my mind off things. “…And if you’re just joining us today here on ‘Last Chance Foods,’ we’re talking with frequent guest food writer, blogger, and chef Melissa Clark. Today on the show, we’re discussing one-dish meals and holiday tables. Welcome, Melissa.” “Glad to be here, Amy.” Even though she’s decades her junior, Melissa Clark reminds me of Bridget, my parents’ cook. They both delight in all aspects of food: The sensual feel of it in the hands during preparation, the libertine delight of allowing something delicious to melt in the mouth, and the warmth and pride of sharing good food made well with delighted guests. When I was in cooking school, my favorite teacher said that I must have cooking in my blood. I remember nodding, unable to answer because of the knot in my throat. Bridget may not have been blood, but she was more family than my own kin in many ways. For a while, I’m able to push away the fear of never seeing Hudson again, and get lost in the rolling and pinching of my pie dough. Melissa Clark shares her secrets for simple, crowd-pleasing holiday hors d’oeuvres while I scoop spoonsful of the now-integrated mincemeat mixture into tiny, prepared tins. “Don’t be afraid to offer simple crudit?,” Melissa encourages. “During the holidays, people are overwhelmed with rich, complicated meals. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy them, too. I’m just advising you to let yourself off the hook so you’ll have time and energy to enjoy your guests.” “So not every dish has to come from the Cordon Bleu cookbook, am I right, Melissa?” “Absolutely.” While I listen, I’m soothed by the familiar actions of baking. A kind of zen rolls over me. When thoughts of Hudson push their way into my brain, I feel positive. I’ll have him back soon, I’m sure of it. This Christmas, I’ll make him a special savory pie made with chopped steak. He goes nuts for steak. I check the clock; there’s half an hour left until The Geek Squad is due. Since I have pie crust at the ready (Insider tip: I make and freeze enormous batches, storing the dough in patties suitable for single-crust and double-crust pies. When it comes to pie crust, very cold butter is the secret to flakiness.), and leftover roasted vegetables from testing a Sunday Lunch recipe from the cookbook, I roll out what I need to make a Deep Dish Winter Veggie-and-Egg Pie. My stomach is starting to growl, and this delicious recipe is the closest thing to ‘slow’ fast food that I can think of, apart from an omelet. I spend a chunk of time listening to Melissa Clark’s take on canap?s and skewered meats while I assemble the pie and pop it into the oven along with the tartlets. The voice of the radio presenter interrupts my zen. “Cuisine innovator and owner of highly rated restaurants such as Four Chairs and East Fourth, James Keyes, is here today to share his recipe for Sweet Green Pea Guacamole. Welcome, James.” “Thank you, Amy. Happy to be here.” I dive to turn off the damned radio. And just as I was starting to feel calmer. I’d managed not to hear his voice for nearly four years now, the last time being when he left that voicemail before I’d gotten my number changed. Now, the last thing on earth I needed today of all days was to be transported back to James-land. No thank you. Feel free to live your celebrity life, but do it far from me. Besides, putting peas in guacamole is just stupid. It’s just like James to do something over-the-top just to get attention. Sure, it’s nutritious, but they’re peas! In guacamole! It’s the most unholy union I can think aside from James and me. I wipe my hands, and set a timer. No time like the present to move on. I check the clock again. Where was the Geek Squad, anyway? What did they launch? A skateboard? I survey my mutinous computer and realize I never actually looked in on my blog. According to my schedule, I always post and reply to comments three times daily, and often once more before bed. Firing up the site, I can see that my negligence has caused a backlog. Charlotte’s Chefsare in a tizzy wondering where I’ve been. Martha26 writes, Dear Charlotte. I’m still waiting for your answer about substituting mint for rosemary in my Christmas Compote. It’s a bit worrying that you’ve disappeared. I hope you’re off on a grand adventure, or better yet, a romantic weekend ;) There must be twenty or more inquiries about where I’ve been and whether I’m all right. I debate telling my online friends how horrible the situation is, but they all know Hudson. There will be an outpouring of concern and pity. While I ponder my next move, blog-wise, I check the mince pies to see if they’re done. As I open the oven door, I’m wrapped in a blanket of steaming, fragrant winter spices. The tops of the tartlets are a perfect golden brown, so I hustle to de-pan them to cooling racks. No, I think, heading back to my desk. I’m going to keep the whole Hudson situation to myself for the time being. I can’t handle reassuring everyone when I’m on shaky ground myself. I’ll just act as though everything is hunky-dory. Where on earth was the Geek Squad? Dear Martha,’ I answer. Either seasoning will do! Fruit loves herbs, and doesn’t differentiate. Keep on baking, and please post a photo when you’ve made the recipe. Cheers! Charlotte. I’m just about to dig into GrillDadNJ’s question about marinades, when the buzzer goes. Oh, thank God! I run to press the button by the door. “Who is it?” “It’s BrrRR-UUUUumph.” I hear nothing but the Doppler effect of a motorcycle speeding across what is supposed to be my quiet Upper West Side street. I push the button, and it emits the sizzling-sounding electric noise that opens the outer safety door down at the top of the stoop. I rush over to tidy up my desk in preparation. First, I want to get my printer rolling so I can make flyers. Then, I’ll ask them to help me hook up the scanner I bought last month, and promptly chucked back in the box. Sure, the Geek Squad guy might think I’m an idiot, but I deal with food, not electronics. Ding-dong. I race across the room, my chunky knitted socks skidding on the bare parts of the floor as I go, and fling open the door. “Oh! It’s you.” Standing in front of me is not a uniformed Geek Squad representative, as I’d expected. It’s Henry Wentworth, all six-foot-three of him, dressed casually in jeans and a Sherpa-lined suede peacoat. His face is like thunder. “You say that a lot. Now, please step aside so I can come in and help you find your dog.” ***** I’ll be honest with you. I’m a peaceful person, but I can get ugly when I’m backed into a corner. Ask Penelope Granger. If Lulu Wong hadn’t stepped in when she did, not only would Penelope’s art final have been ripped to shreds, she’d have had a fat lip as well. I’ll bet it’s the last time she ever tried to extort money from an underclassman at boarding school. It’s only by the grace of God, and Henry Wentworth’s lucky stars, that the sweet-faced, mild-mannered Geek Squad guy arrives at precisely that moment. He looks nervously from Henry to me. I bite my tongue. Unleashed, the string of expletives backed up behind my teeth would have made Amy Schumer blush. I can feel that Henry is as near to bursting with rage as I, but we both swallow it out of common courtesy to the socially awkward young man who is clearly just trying to do his job. Still, he’s like a little kid when mom and dad are arguing. He can sense the tension. “Smells great in here,” the young guy tries, shuffling from one foot to another. “Like my Granny’s on Christmas.” I offer him a wan smile, and he smiles back and breathes out with huge relief. “Good! Great! Let’s fix that machine.” Henry steps aside while I lead Blake! (As his nametag proclaims) to the computer, and explain my issues. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry surveying my abode. He peeks around the corner to the kitchen. I watch him eyeball the cooling tartlets with interest. “Do not touch those!” I hiss quietly, irritated to have been interrupted during my computer consultation. Who does he think he is, pawing through my house? Like the commander of a starship, Blake has lowered himself into my chair and has taken charge of his domain. He finally looks comfortable in his own skin as he flicks switches, and plugs machinery into sockets. Henry ignores me, pushing aside one of the curtains and looking at the windowsill. He’s pretending to be all CSI about it, picking up a framed photo of Hudson and nodding his head, but I think he’s just nosey. “Psst! Why are you even here?” I whisper, trying not to distract Blake. The faster the Geek Squad expert gets my computer up and running, the better off I’ll be. “Go!” I whisper-hiss, making huge motions with my arms indicating shoving Henry out the door. “Just go.” He mouths “No!” then picks up notebook I left lying on the arm of the couch. It has thoughts on favorite recipes and lists of dishes that I want to cook next, along with perfect menus for different occasions. “Put that down,” I mouth, pointing to the couch. “Down!” I feel like I’m talking to Hudson. “Lamb chops for Valentine’s Day,” he mumbles, tilting his head in consideration. “Maybe,” he says, bobbing his head up and down, reading the pages. I tear across the room, snatching my notebook from his hands. “Give me that!” He holds up his hands in surrender, and is off to the next corner, poking and prodding. Comfortable in his wheelhouse, Blake continues typing in long strings of characters. From time to time, he roots in his messenger bag for items to plug into ports in my computer that I wasn’t aware existed. I leave him to it, and turn my attention to His Snobby Highness. “Now, if you’d go and get yourself dressed, I can supervise your computer technician.” He makes a big show of averting his eyes from my worn tracksuit. “I am dressed,” I huff. “I’m in my own home looking for my lost dog, not gearing up to walk the red carpet at the Oscars.” He looks me up and down. “Very well.” He looks unsatisfied, but shakes it off. “Let’s get down to business, then, shall we?” He’s halfway through slipping off his coat, when I pull him aside. “Don’t get comfortable. You aren’t staying.” I whisper so as not to make it even more awkward for the boy. “To the contrary, Miss Bell, I will indeed be staying as your aunt has given me explicit instructions that I’m not to report back to The Russian Tea Room, or for that matter, any of our soundstages, party venues, or offices, until I locate your pet. It is now my job.” Underneath his closely trimmed beard, I see a muscle twitch in his jaw. His blue eyes are blazing, but other than that, his face is placid. “So calm down.” There is nothing, and I mean nothing, I hate more than being told to calm down when I’m already calm. Or even if I’m not calm. Jot this down, it’s a sure way to make me punch you in the nose. I ball up my fists. “Get out,” I say. “Leave.” “You need help, and I’ve been dispatched to offer it. Relax, and put yourself in my capable hands.” Relax! That’s even worse than calm down. “I have hands of my own, as you can see.” I show him my quivering fists. “I’ve been on my own since I was twelve. I’m good. I’ve got this. You can go now.” I pull out my phone and stab in a text to Aunt Miranda. Dear Aunt M, I appreciate the offer of help, but am fine on my own. You can tell HW to come back to the office. If I need to talk to you, I can contact you directly. I really hope to find H today. x C “Listen to me, Charlotte,” he says in a soft voice full of urgency, “you haven’t ‘got this.’” I don’t even raise my eyes from my phone. I just keep on texting. “Look at me,” he says. Begrudgingly, I do. He nods in Blake’s direction. “Case in point: Your big plan of the day is to run off some scrapbook-level flyers and…and what? Attach them to telephone poles with pushpins? Slide them under the doors of the people in your neighborhood? Maybe wear a sandwich board declaring ‘I’ve lost my dog’?” I’m starting to sweat around my hairline. Maybe I haven’t fully thought this through. “What do you know?” I fire off, knowing I sound like a testy adolescent. I need to get Hudson back and I’ve been doing everything I know how. “How dare you…you snobby asshat, come into my home and tell me I don’t know how to find my dog? I’m figuring it out.” Henry Wentworth puts both hands on my shoulders, and fixes my eyes with those Aegean blue lasers of his. “You’ll burn hours and hours of precious time, and to no avail in the end. Meanwhile, your dog is God-knows-where, far from home and hearth. Now, allow Bill Gates, Jr. to finish up, and I’ll come up with a real plan of action.” I hear the buzz of a phone. Henry sighs loudly. “Hang on, I have to check this.” He pulls out his phone and listens to the message. From my vantage point, all I hear is a high-pitched yelling. Is it Aunt Miranda? I strain to hear, but he sees me listening and turns his body away from me. His face closes off, then blooms into an expression of irritation. I scrutinize him, thinking about my next move. On the one hand, I don’t trust this pontifical, self-important Englishman, emphasis on ‘man’. Being treated like the proverbial fragile little lady has always chapped my ass. Add to that his ulterior motive: He’ll say or do anything to get back under Aunt Miranda’s wing, where the action is. Come to think of it, Aunt Miranda shouldn’t trust him either. I’m getting a real All About Eve vibe from this one. On the other hand, if I need to swallow my ego to Huddie back, so be it. I owe it to him to take advantage of every opportunity, no matter how distasteful. “Charlotte, please,” Henry says in a low voice. His posture has softened. “Your dog could be shivering on the street somewhere, cold and scared. And I hardly want to hint at it, but people have been known to steal animals.” A tiny cry escapes my throat. “Shh.” He squeezes my shoulders. “Stay with me. The faster we find him, the better. Wouldn’t you rather he were here, being fed home-cooked morsels off your plate, and shoving you over in the bed till you’re teetering on the edge while he snores peacefully?” Oh, Huddie. I let my eyes drift to the floor. I don’t want Henry to see my fear. “All right, ma’am,” Blake breaks in, standing up and gathering his equipment. “You’re all set to print and scan, and I ran some diagnostics and cleaned off some malware. Today’s visit is $349.99. You should bring her into the shop soon if you want us to run updates.” “Never mind, that won’t be necessary” Henry says, brandishing a credit card. Before I can intervene, the card is run through a swiper. “I can do the updates myself.” “Wait a minute,” I begin. “That will be all for today, thank you,” Henry breaks in. “Well, great then!” says the boy, moving toward the door. “If there’s anything your husband can’t handle, just stop in or give us a call.” “He’s not my…” “I can handle quite a bit, can’t I, my dear?” Henry cuts me off, giving the young man just the lightest shove out the door, and closing it. “And at 350 dollars a visit, I’d certainly offer you more than 15 minutes of fiddling around!” I feel my eyebrows hurtle skyward, and my mouth drops open. “That is to say… Miss Bell, what I mean to say, is…” “Bing!” Saved by the oven timer. I hurry to the kitchen to take out the egg-and-vegetable pie. Heading into the kitchen, I grab my heavy-duty silicone oven gloves. As I’m bending over to heave the substantial pie from the oven, I’m aware that Henry is behind me. Why won’t he stop following me around? I need a minute to think. Whether it’s from panic or lack of sleep or the distraction of having a person in my apartment, I cannot cut through the fog. I’m edgy, and I know it. I have to keep my cool. I want my dog back, and as Henry has pointed out, two heads are better than one. Especially when one of the heads isn’t firing on all cylinders. I slide the pie onto a cooling rack, and turn around. Henry is leaning, arms crossed, against the door jamb. “Did you make that?” “Of course I made it. Do you see anyone else around here?” Easy, Charlotte, my inner voice tells me. Keep your eye on the prize. “I mean, did you bake that? From scratch? And those little, what are they, mince pies, as well?” He sidles up to the counter, inspecting my wares. “Yes, I did. Why?” “It’s just I don’t know any women, apart from my mum, who do that.” He looks at me with that maddening eyebrow lift. “All the women I’ve dated have only ever known how to pick up the phone to order food.” “Well I made them. Any other questions before you help me find my dog. I mean, that is why you’re here, isn’t it? I mean,” I suck in my breath and let out a long sigh, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It wasn’t fair. Please, help me find my dog.” “Apology accepted. I do have one question…any chance of a cup of tea? I was ejected from the offices first thing in order to come to your rescue.” I stare at him. I can feel my breath rising and falling at a rapid rate, and I remind myself not to make an angry face. “One quick cup, then we get to work. OK?” “Perfect.” “Sit down at the table,” I bark. “I mean, please. Have a seat.” I flick on the electric kettle and in short order, I’m setting a cup of strong, milky tea and a plate of mince pies in front of him. “Thank you,” he says. He bites into one of the pies, and moans. “God, this is unbelievable. What are you, a witch?” He takes a drink of tea, and greedily pops the rest of the pie into his mouth. “Heaven!” I can’t help feeling proud. Half the time when I bake, I just do a ring-and-run, leaving the leftovers at the door of the elderly couple in apartment 1F. They always leave an index card under my door thanking me, but it’s not the same as watching someone appreciate my food. “Well done, really. This is absolutely superb. You’ve got quite a talent.” “Thank you.” I’m starting to warm to him a little. “Hudson loves my cooking. I like to think I’m pretty handy around the kitchen.” “The kitchen, yes, but you were taken to the cleaners with that house call.” I feel steam rising. “It was an emergency.” “I could have fixed your computer problems easily.” He bites into a second pie. “Oh, mmm. These may be better than my mother’s,” he marvels. “And I meant to mention earlier, a single woman like yourself shouldn’t open the door to complete strangers. This is, after all, New York City.” “I didn’t open the door to a stranger. I opened it to the Geek Squad.” “Perhaps, but who was standing there? I could have been a common psychopath.” “Could have been…” I mumble under my breath. “At any rate, I’m here to help. You’ve made the right choice. Now, we can finally do something that will work.” He mutters something that sounds like, “…pleased you’ve come to your senses.” I grit my teeth and smile. “Thank you for helping,” I manage to cough out. Ooh, it would feel so good to smack him across his smug, beardy face right now, but I can’t afford to be emotional. “We have an understanding. I’ll use you to get what I want. Just as you’re doing with me. I need my dog; you need Aunt Miranda’s approval. One hand can wash the other. It’s a win-win, right?” “Sounds perfect,” he replies. I push away the little voice in my head that reminded me that, in a nutshell, this was James’s modus operandi and the reason I wasn’t standing next to him at the openings of his top-shelf restaurants. But today was a new day. As they say, “All’s fair in love and war.” At least I think that’s what The Art of War said. I don’t know, I really only skimmed the first few pages. Or maybe that’s from a Humphrey Bogart film. It doesn’t matter. Henry Wentworth has something I need and I’m not going to give up until I get it. Chapter 4 (#u8cd19c87-14ea-5cbf-8176-9e1fefaf3310) “Slow down there,” Henry calls. I’m already halfway up the block. Once my feet have hit the sidewalk, my body kicked into high gear. I couldn’t slow down if I wanted to. Henry does a little jog, and catches up with me, panting slightly. “It’s a good thing I wore trainers today. Now, tell me again, where exactly was Hudson when he slipped away? We’re going to retrace your steps.” It didn’t matter to me that I’d been all over the park with Officers Curtis and Scrivello. Today was a new day, and Henry Wentworth had a new perspective. If I had to pretend to trust him to find my dog, then that’s what I’d do. “Hello there, what’s that?” he said, gesturing to Paws & Claws, a mom-and-pop pet supply store on the avenue. “Have you ever been there?” “Yes,” I tell him, “that’s where I get Huddie’s food. I know the lady who owns the place.” “Let’s make a detour, then. Follow me.” I swallow the urge to tell him not to boss me around, and I do as I’m told. After all, it’s not the worst idea. He surveys the complimentary water bowl that Mrs. Rabinowitz leaves out for passing dogs. This time of year, its deep blue with a yellow Star of David painted on the bottom. I see Henry take in the kitty-cat menorah sitting in the window, waiting for sundown when she’ll turn on the right number of bulbs for this night of Chanukah. She spies me through the window, and waves enthusiastically, gesturing for me to come in. Once Henry pushes open the door, tinkling the shop bell, Mrs. Rabinowitz races over, pumping her elbows and leading with her ample, pigeon-shaped bosom. “Come in! What, you never visit anymore? Don’t tell me you’ve been getting Hudson’s food from the internet, God forbid, puh puh puh,” she spits. “We haven’t seen you in weeks!” I open my mouth to ask if she’s seen Huddie, but before I can form the words, she holds up her hands in surrender. “I get it,” she says before I can speak, “you’re a young girl, you’re busy with the young men, and the social life, and the this and the that.” She gives a not-subtle-at-all nod to Henry. “Where’s my little bubbeleh?” she asks. “That’s the thing, Mrs.…?” Henry replies. “Rabinowitz,” she offers, scowling. “Everyone knows that. But what? What’s the thing? Is something the matter? Talk to me.” Henry pulls a card from his pocket, and gestures toward a cup of pens on the counter. “May I?” She nods her head, and he chooses one, and scribbles on the back of the card. In the name of all that is holy, why doesn’t he just print his phone number, email, and Twitter handle on his cards like everyone else in the 21st century? From the way she’s eyeballing him, I get the sense that Mrs. Rabinowitz is as suspicious of Henry as I am. She loses her patience and quickly blurt out, “forgive me for being a buttinsky, but there’s something you’re not telling me. Out with it, already.” “Hudson has gone missing,” I whisper. She looks horrified and then Henry informs her briskly. “Here’s my card. If you hear anything from pet owners in the neighborhood, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.” She takes the card without looking at Henry. “What happened, my Shayna Maidel?” she asks me. I feel a lump rise in my throat. “Was he stolen? You poor dear.” I shake my head no, pinching my lips together so I don’t cry. I don’t like to cry in front of people under the best of circumstances. I sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of Henry Wentworth of the Heavy Cardstock Wentworths. But Mrs. Rabinowitz’s eyes are wells of pure concern. I look away. There’s nothing worse when you’re trying not to cry than having someone be nice to you. “Talk to me. What happened?” “We’re not sure. He was last seen around Columbus Circle. He slipped away without his collar and tags,” Henry says. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. How long has he been gone?” “Not quite 24 hours,” Henry supplies. Mrs. Rabinowitz shakes her head and says a quiet string of what I think are Hebrew words, ending in A-meyn. She sighs a ragged sigh. “May God help the poor little thing. Lost in a big city such as this one.” Bustling over to the bulletin board on the wall with photographs of her furry customers, she zeroes in on one and pulls out the staple. Some of the pictures were brought in by the pets’ families; others were taken with the old Polaroid camera she keeps behind the desk. “Here, take this, and use it in health. She shoves a photo of herself clutching Huddie to her ample chest. Eyes at half-mast, he’s resting his head amongst her multiple chins and his face reflects pure bliss. “You could show this to the police, maybe?” Henry accepts the photo, and studies it. “We have a flyer to hand out. If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Rabinowitz, would you keep this here? To show your customers, and inquire about whether they’ve seen Hudson?” “Mind? Why should I mind? I love that scraggly little treasure like he’s my own!” I’m afraid an ugly sob might escape if I open my mouth, so I simply hand over one of the fliers made from the Elfie photo. “Look at the little boychik! Give me a stack of those. I’ll have my delivery boy, Sheldon, leave one behind with every order. Oy, my heart is going to break and fall out onto the floor,” she wails. “My dear,” she says to me, “tell me your name.” I take a deep breath. “It’s Charlotte,” I manage. There. No sob. Back on solid ground. “Listen to me, and listen to me good, Charlotte.” She cups my jaw with her hand and tilts my head, and looks me in the eye. “I’m saying this as a mother.” Her faded brown eyes start to blur as the tears pool. “There are people out there, not nice people, if you understand me. I hear all sorts from this one who rescues, and that one who works at a shelter. Enough said, am I right?” I nod. “We’re not going to let that happen to Hudson, kayn ayin hara,” she turns her head and spits through her fingers, “puh puh puh.” I shake my head no. “We have to find our boy, and find him fast. I’m going to get on the horn and phone every pet shop owner in the book and tell them to keep their ears to the ground. It’s good to have friends.” She pulls me into a squishy hug, and I stiffen in surprise. She’s having none of it. She squeezes tighter until I relax, then rubs my back. “Have faith, my Charlotte. Hope is needed most when times are the darkest. I know you’re not Jewish, and neither is Hudson, but Hashem watches over all of us.” My heart lifts in my chest. I almost believe that it’s all going to work out. “Now, what is the plan?” she asks Henry. Henry tacks the photo back up in its place on the board. “We’re headed back to where the dog escaped to retrace Charlotte’s steps.” She narrows her eyes. “Not the dog. His name is Hudson. And believe you me, he didn’t escape. Why would he? Look at her! Would you escape from a gorgeous girl like that?” She waits for an answer. “Would you?” Henry takes a long look at me. “No. I certainly wouldn’t.” “That’s right you wouldn’t! And neither did Hudson. Charlotte, my dear, didn’t you tell me Hudson loves the fountain at Lincoln Center?” Her eyes light up. “That he likes to jump and bite at the fronds of water?” I feel myself smiling when I picture Hudson with his front paws in the water. Technically, dogs aren’t allowed up on the rim of the fountain, but I always let him sneak on. “Yes, he can’t get enough of it.” “So, boom. You’ll have a little look around Lincoln Center. You,” she says accusingly, poking her finger into Henry’s chest. “You take care of this one. Make sure she eats. Make sure she rests.” She takes a card from the display tray and thrusts it at him. “You call me twice a day until you find Hudson, no excuses.” He pockets the card, and assures her he will. “Go on, dear,” she says to me. “See that bin of bones by the door? Walk up there and choose a nice one for when you find Hudson. Go.” She watches me walk away before addressing Henry. “Remember,” she says, pulling him to the side, and whispering. “The sooner the better,” she says. I strain to hear. “There are sick people out there,” she says even more softly. “I hear they take them to Canada. If you can, find him today.” ***** I’m practically hyperventilating as we hop in a cab to head downtown. “Lincoln Center, please, driver,” Henry says crisply. “We’ll start there and if we come up short, we’ll head back to where you last saw Hudson.” I can hardly hear what he’s saying. My blood roars in my ears. Against my will, images of animals in danger play like film clips across my brain. I wish I’d waited outside the pet store for Henry. Now I can’t unthink about creepy animal-nappers. I lean back against the seat, and try to close my eyes, but that just makes it worse. “Listen Henry, we’ve got to do something! We’ve got to do something now!” “We are doing something. We’re going to check out spots that Hudson knows. Animals have an excellent ability to return to places familiar to them. First, we’re going to the Lincoln Center.” “But what if he’s not there? I mean, I know this is crazy, but what if some scientists found him, and they want to take him to a lab, for you know, experiments?” “Yes, that is crazy. Calm down, no mad scientists are roaming New York City’s streets searching for lab animals.” “Lab animals! A-ha. You said it yourself,” I say, sitting up on my tailbone. “What if, you know, cosmetics companies are sending out interns to find strays? It’s illegal to test on animals, right?” “Not exactly…” “So they’d have to do it undercover, like, by dark of night.” He squints his eyes and tilts his head. “Didn’t you say Hudson was lost late yesterday morning?” “That’s not my point,” I could feel my blood start to race. He wasn’t listening to me at all. “What I’m saying is, they’d have to steal animals because they couldn’t buy them at a pet store or online because they’d get arrested.” The cab takes a sharp right, and I’m flung across Henry’s lap. He sets me upright and untangles his arms from mine. We’re hip to hip. “Again, I don’t think you understand the regulations for cosmetics companies.” He looks down at our touching thighs. “I’d feel much more comfortable if you were to fasten your safety belt.” I shift over. I can’t keep my hands still. I’m bubbling over with nerves. Now my brain is functioning on high speed. Suddenly, I feel like I see the big picture. “I know what we have to do,” I say, buckling my belt. A strange calm settles over me. “We have to contact the FBI.” I pull out my phone and punch in the number for information. Henry snatches my phone from my hand, and hangs up. “Charlotte,” he says with exaggerated patience, “the Federal Bureau of Investigation is not going to get involved with finding a lost dog.” “They might if we tell them he’s being experimented on.” “Charlotte, please,” he says. “Driver, could you let us off on the right-hand side, please? In front of the steps. Thank you.” He takes some bills out of his wallet, and pushes them through the slot. “May I have a receipt, please?” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lynn-hulsman-marie/a-miracle-at-macy-s-there-s-only-one-dog-who-can-save-c/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.