A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “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 pushi
ng 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 checkout 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

  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 p
rotect 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 polls 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 Consommé. 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.