A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  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 crudité,” 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 canapés and skewered meats while I assemble the pie and pop it into the oven along with the tartlets.

  Th
e 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 Chefs are 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.”