Medic McSteamy gives me one last burning, tango-worthy look. I can only imagine he must do this to every living, breathing female. I cannot imagine that I, with my flattened hair and questionably laundered tracksuit could merit such ardor. “Feel better. And call if you need something.”
“Grab the gurney, let’s go,” the baby-faced guy waves his finger in a circle above his head, and a doorman has already opened one of the heavy doors before the smoldering medic moves. With a flourish, he embraces the wheeled stretcher and conducts it through the hall. Pocket Square nearly collapses with relief. Medical equipment and emergency technicians conflict directly with the understated luxury The Plaza Hotel no doubt wishes to project.
“When you’re ready to walk, miss, we’d be pleased to escort you to the Palm Court for Afternoon Tea. Unless you need a wheelchair,” he adds, looking alarmed.
“I’m fine now,” I say, standing up. Henry rushes to take my elbow. “Really, I’m fine,” I tell him. He keeps my arm linked with his.
“Be that as it may, this isn’t the time to take chances. Shall we?” Henry asks.
“I can’t go to tea at the Plaza in my Gap sweat suit.” I look down at myself. “Especially with this glob of mustard on my thigh.”
“Of course you can,” Pocket Square says wearing a pinched smile. He pulls out his handkerchief, dips it in my water glass and kneels down to scrub at the stain. “You’ve been given medical advice to take refreshment. We at The Plaza won’t rest until we’re sure you’re feeling one hundred percent healthy. May I give you my card?” He asks, brandishing a tasteful gold square. “If there’s anything I can ever do to be of service, I hope that you won’t hesitate to call. Now, we’d be delighted for you to be our guests for tea. Please, follow me.”
“Henry, I can’t. We need to go find Hudson.”
He holds up the front page of the Post. “Does this look like a dog in distress?”
My limbs tingle as relief floods my body. Hudson has been snapped in mid-wriggle, and the usually arch super model has her head thrown back in laughter. I feel like my face might break as my lips pull into a huge smile. “No. Exactly the opposite.”
“Precisely. We’ll fortify ourselves with strong tea and all manner of sandwiches and cake, then we’ll head to Times Square and collect your pooch. Doctor’s orders!”
*****
The steaming hot, milky tea warms my mouth. It acts like a miracle drug; I swear I can feel it coursing through my veins, restoring and revitalizing me. Hudson is not only fine, he’s happy. I take another sip of my excellent hot drink, sink back into the high-backed banquette, and practically float away on the dulcet tones of the harp music.
“Feeling better, are we?” Henry smiles knowingly. “A strong cup of real English brewed tea is what was called for. I put sugar in yours, for the shock.”
“Do you really think that helps?” I look at the tiered plate stands featuring tiny crustless sandwiches, bite-sized Scones with Double Devonshire Cream and Fruit-rich Jams, and an array of pastries ranging from parti-colored Macaroons, to Éclairs, to individual New York-style Cheesecakes. “There’s no shortage of sugar in this delicious food,” I say, helping myself to an Egg Salad on White Toast, and a Roasted Turkey and Cranberry on Whole Grain with what appears to be French mustard. I make a mental plan to come back for the New Red Potatoes topped with Crème Fraîche and Ossetra Caviar.
Henry’s phone rings. “Please excuse me,” he says, quickly pulling it out and switching off the ringer. He checks the number, scowls, and pockets it. “Sugar in tea helps shock, it’s a proven fact. His face relaxes into a smile. At least that’s what I was taught by my Gran and Mum down on our farm on the outskirts of what can loosely be called our village, Harrogate. Drive past it quickly, and you won’t have known it was there.”
“You grew up on a farm?” I’m gobsmacked. I can’t stop picturing a little Henry toddling around a manor in baby Prince George outfits.
“Have you never been warned about judgment, books, covers, and so forth?” He looks at me levelly. “You shouldn’t make assumptions.”
I’m intrigued. “So that’s where you learned to goat-wrestle?”
He nods as he pours his own tea through the strainer. With perfect manners, he serves himself several sandwiches. “It is.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“Am I right in remembering that Aunt Miranda said you went to Cambridge?” I’m trying to untangle the story in my head. I had him pegged for being the most tedious kind of entitled twit.
“Yes, and Eaton before that.”
“You must miss your family. Do you talk to them often?”
“Hmm.” Henry replies, avoiding the question.
“Champagne, sir,” declares the sommelier, indicating a busser setting up a silver bucket on a stand next to our table. “Compliments of The Plaza Hotel.” He opens it and pours some for Henry to taste. He nods.
“Champagne, miss?” he asks, holding the bottle at half-mast above my flute.
“I don’t think I should. Henry?”
“Have a glass. It will be good for your nerves.” He nods, and my flute is filled. “Once we’ve retrieved Hudson, you can go home and have a nice long sleep.”
I cannot wait. Being back home, quiet and alone with my best little friend sounds like heaven. Although, I have to admit to myself, there’s something to be said about being treated like a princess in one of New York’s finest hotels. It’s funny that I’ve lived here so long, and it’s taken a foreigner to show me a whole different side of my own home city. Starting with Henry’s sitting me down in the fairy-tale holding area behind the skating rink at Rockefeller Center, it seems like I’ve been on an insider’s, behind-the-scenes adventure in my own beloved Manhattan. I feel warm thinking that Hudson would be pleased. He’d want me to feel excited.
“To finding Hudson,” he says, and raises his glass.
I raise mine in return, and sample the Moet & Chandon, Brut Impérial Rosé. Drinking with Henry was starting to become a habit. First the glass of wine he gave me in VIP waiting at Rockefeller Center, and now this. The wine smells fruity and dry, and the bubbles tickle my nose.
“In a few hours,” he says, “this sleuthing will be a distant memory. Our job will be done, and it’ll be business as usual.” He smiles as he chews his sandwich.
A waiter approaches the table, and says, “Pardon me, sir? Are you Henry Wentworth?”
“I am,” Henry says, brow wrinkled.
“You have a telephone call at the desk.”
Henry frowns. Thank you,” he tells the man, laying his napkin aside. “Would you excuse me, Charlotte? It must be Miranda.” He rises and follows the waiter.
My sandwich plate is cleared, and I move on to the scones. Back to business as usual, Henry had said. He didn’t have to look so happy about it. I survey the gorgeous table in front of me, planning what I’ll eat after the scones. What’s his hurry? Sure, we all want to get back to our lives. I have work to do, too, Henry Wentworth, I pout to myself. I certainly wouldn’t have signed up to spend the day like this, either. But, was spending time with me in one of New York’s top restaurants really that bad?
Henry returns to his seat, and puts his napkin back on his lap. “Apologies,” he says. He chooses a scone and sets it on his plate. He seems content to be here, so I relax.
“You know,” I tell him between sips of Champagne, “when I get my hands on that rascal, I don’t know what I’m going to do. At the very least, he’s getting a stern lecture.” The waiter steps forward and refills my glass the second the base of it hits the table, then fades backward as quickly as he appeared. “I mean, he told me he’s been dying to get out more, but he could have just asked again.”
“He told you that?”
“Well, not in English. But you know.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“I’m just saying that Hudson has always wanted to leave the apartment more, see the city. Really, this is so like him.”
“Are you seriously implying that your dog had a plan when he slipped out on the Japanese elves?” Henry scans the pastry platter, and selects a Salted Caramel Tartlet and a slice of Opera Cake.
“Obviously,” I say, staking my claim on a Lemon Meringue Bar and an individual Dark Chocolate Ganache. “He’s always trying to drag me places. He’s always like, ‘You should get out more.’”
Henry is slowly shaking his head at me, mouth wide open.
“What? Didn’t you see the look on his face in the photo in the paper? He went looking for adventure and he found it. That little so-and-so! At least I can relax for a little while knowing he’s happy. And not being experimented on in Canada. He found a way to get what he was craving.”
“I feel I might need to stage an intervention. Did you hit your head in that fall? Charlotte, it’s a dog.”
“Yes, so?” I take another long quaff of my delicious bubbly. “By the way, Hudson is a ‘he,’ not an ‘it.’ You grew up on a farm, right? You must have had dogs.”
“Yes, but they weren’t magical.”
“I didn’t say Hudson was magical. I just said he planned to go on an adventure.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Wait till you meet him,” I say.
“I honestly cannot wait,” Henry says. I’m suspicious. Does he mean that he wants to meet Huddie, or that he wants to get this whole thing over and done with? And why do I care? I turn my attention back to the lovely morsels in front of me, and let the harp music dance over my mind. It could be the Champagne, or it could be the fact that I’ll be reunited with Hudson momentarily, but I feel happier than I have in years. Of course, it could be the company. Nah, it’s probably just the high ceilings and skylights, and this bellyful of sublime food making me feel so uplifted.
Henry smiles at me over the rim of his glass. His eyes really are the most unusual color blue. I look away, and concentrate on the visual splendor of the myriad tabletop trees peppering The Palm Court.
No, it’s definitely the atmosphere.
Chapter 6
By the time we step out of the cab, there’s a light dusting of snow covering the streets. Flurries still fall, and Time’s Square’s multicolored lights sparkle and bounce off the flakes. Crystal droplets magnify the glare of the headlights and taillights of whizzing cars, trucks, and cabs. Henry takes my arm to hurry me out of traffic, whisking me across to Duffy Square. It feels like we’re inside a life-sized snow globe.
The red bleachers backing up to the half-price Broadway theater ticket booth on the north side of Times Square, TKTS, have been wrapped up like an enormous holiday package, and roped off from the public.
Huge crowds of tourists surround the scene. Many take selfies with the iconic setting in the background. Others jockey for space in line to get an inexpensive seat for a hot-ticket show. Off to one side are The Naked Cowboy, and his myriad imitators, playing electric guitar in their Y-fronts and ten-gallon hats despite the freezing temperatures.
Astride the mammoth present is Ruby, the single-named, androgynous beauty usually seen gracing the covers of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. She balances a giant bow on her toned shoulders and outstretched arms. The fashion designer has crafted a gold shawl with the simultaneous effect of both wings and an elaborate holiday ribbon. Beneath it, the model wears a slim green bodice that looks like nothing more than a skein of velvet ribbon wound around her flattened chest, and a pair of billowing, triangular palazzo pants. A lanky photographer whom I’ve seen profiled in Vanity Fair slithers around the bleachers like a lizard, stretching and retreating, and snapping shots with a vintage flashbulb that blinds with every pop.
“Wait here,” Henry says, and strides purposefully up to the rope guard. All around me are workers associated with the shoot. There are trailers that serve as dressing rooms, and craft services trucks producing full, hot meals that are handed out to everyone on the crew, from the model down. I see that Henry is still talking to the bouncer in the headset, so I wander up to a heavyset man holding a Marie Antoinette wig on a wooden head. My hands fly to my own head. I realize I’ve left my hat at The Plaza. No time to stop and think about it, I think to myself, now’s the time to track down Hudson.
“Excuse me,” I say, “Have you by any chance seen this dog?” I hold up the front page of the Post.
“Ha!” he cackles, “Ruby’s going to plotz! She loves that dog. She said if we don’t find the owner, she’ll start working on the papers to bring it back to Australia when she goes home.” He uses the rapier-sharp point of a rat comb to coax on errant wig hair back into its respective curl. “How’d they get that picture in the paper so fast? The sheer wonder of modern technology, don’t you know? Never fails to astonish.”
“I’m the owner,” I say, excitedly. “I’m here to pick him up. I’ll have to thank her for looking after him. Do you know where he is?”
“Well, Ruby’s back on set, as you can see. Last I heard, someone took him to craft services to get him something to eat.” He touches his index and pointer fingers to the radio in his ear. “What’s that? You need me? I’m on my way.”
He takes off in the direction of the bleachers, and says over his shoulder, “Craft services is over by Toys R Us. Ask Zahava where your dog went.”
I rub my hands together to stave off the chill, and I look around for Henry. I can’t see him anywhere. He’s disappeared into the bustling crowd. I realized I don’t even have his phone number. What if I can’t find him after I pick up Hudson? Part of the fun was going to be introducing them and I can’t deny feeling a little disappointed at the thought that might not happen.
As I approach the craft services table, a cornucopia of mouthwatering smells wafts my way. Standing at the service line is a tall, striking woman with corkscrewed, reddish-blonde hair twisted in a high knot and secured with two chopsticks. I hope she’s the person I’m looking for.
I get in line, and wait for the various crew people to get their plates, coffees, and hot chocolates.
“Next!” she shouts, even though she’s only six inches from my face.
“Hi, are you Zahava?”
She gives a curt nod in affirmation. “Great! I was wondering if you have my dog.” I hold up the photo.
“He was here a few hours ago,” she tells me. “I made him a grilled steak, no salt, cut into small pieces. Salt is not good for dogs. I know. I have two at home. I cook all their food. Meat and vegetables only. Fresh, every day. That dog,” she points at the picture, and her harshness melts, “he wolfed his meal like he had never eaten before. I made him a second fillet. I only hope Francesco, the photographer, is in the mood for chicken today.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“The last I saw, Ruby’s little brothers took him to the toy store to try buy him a coat. Wait, I have a text.” She scrolls through her phone. “Ah, here it is.”
She shows me a photo from her iPhone screen. It’s of two very cute teenaged boys flanking Hudson in the My Little Pony-themed car of the Times Square Toys R Us 60-foot indoor Ferris wheel. The boys are giving the thumbs up sign, and Hudson’s tongue is out and flapping like he’s in the co-pilot seat of a big rig truck.
“Where are they now?” I’m starting to feel the slightest edge of the old panic creeping in. I thought we’d be home on the couch by now.
“Hang on, I’ll text.”
Just then, Henry comes rushing up. “Did you find him?” He asks me. “Apparently Ruby hasn’t seen him since this morning. Her assistant was supposed to babysit Hudson until after the shoot, but she fell off the bleachers and twisted her ankle, so she handed the job to someone else.”
Zahava interrupts, “the boys say that they haven’t seen the dog in maybe forty-five minutes. Teenagers! You can’t rely on them for anything. Hang on, another text. They say they might have seen him heading downtown.”
“He’s gone again?” I moan.
“Don’t worry,” Henry says, obviously trying to maintain an air of
calm. “He can’t have gone far on foot.”
“Hang on,” Zahava cuts in. “Look up there.” She points to the giant Times Square Jumbotron, the massive TV screen that dominates the landmark every New Year’s Eve when it’s used to televise the ball drop. “Look.”
We do as we’re told, and we’re treated to an image of Hudson wearing a tiny red cap with a white pom-pom on the top, sitting on Santa’s lap beneath a sign that says, ‘Winter Village, Bryant Park.’
“That’s it,” I say, slitting my eyes. “I’m going to kill the little devil.”
*****
It’s late afternoon by the time we step out of the cab, and into the brisk air at the corner of 42nd and 6th Avenue. It’s nearly dusk, as East coast cities’ days are short at Solstice time. I practically gasp at how this relatively small plot of city land has been transformed for the winter holidays. Bryant Park is a gem at any time of the year, but this season it dazzles me.
“Gosh, that’s gorgeous,” Henry says, eyes alight.
“I thought you didn’t like Christmas,” I accuse.
He’s quiet for a second, almost reflective. “In the face of this, it’s somewhat harder to hold my position.”
All around the periphery of the park are rows and rows of small, seasonal shops. The clever way the designers have conceived the roofs, and lit the plastic drapery from inside makes the rows of uniform structures appear as glowing ice palaces. Lit from within by white lights, the fountain looks more striking than usual dressed up in the purple beams illuminating it from above. Decorated this way, the fountain serves as a perfect complement to the Christmas tree across the park, standing in front of the elegant Bryant Park Grill building that backs up to the world-famous New York Public Library. The tree is bedecked in deep amethyst and rich sapphire lights and ornaments, so thick one can hardly see the branches. At its pinnacle sits a modern, multi-faceted crystal star.
Even with all of those spectacles for the eyes to drink in, the real showstopper is the combination of the Ice Rink and the Celsius Bar. Blindingly white, the two-story temporary restaurant towers above the rink, clean and sleek. Fashionable tourists and the New York after-work crowds gather to be seen while listening to the smooth holiday music, and watch skaters both glide and fall on the ice.
A Miracle at Macy's Page 12
