A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  While we’re eating our dinner, evening falls. They dim the overheads in the restaurant, making the strings of vintage lights along the arches seem even more like stars. The volume is turned up on the music, and jazzy versions of slow, wistful holiday favorites such as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm waft at the edges of the din of conversation and clinking of glasses.

  The beer loosens Henry’s tongue, and he tells me that he and his dad don’t really talk. “When I phone home, he’ll say hello, and then immediately it’s, ‘Hold the phone, I’ll get your Mum.’” His features look soft in the subtle light. “Mr. Cooper, the headmaster of my school, was my champion. He saw something in me, and refused to stand by and watch me leave school at sixteen to work on the family farm.”

  “What would you have done on the farm?”

  “Same as I had done, even as a child, but with more responsibility. Make cheese from the goats’ milk, help out at the sewing-machine repair and fabric shop Mum runs on the edge of the property, that sort of thing.”

  “Working with your parents doesn’t sound like a bad life to me.”

  He sips his beer. The buzz of conversation all around us soothes me, like the hum of a fan on a hot summer’s day. “It wouldn’t have been. But I wanted more. Mr. Cooper saw that. He made sure I was admitted to the best schools, in the best places, and that there would be funding to pay for it. My father saw it as well, but he didn’t like it. He felt like my wanting more was a judgment on him and my mum.”

  “Everyone judged my mother,” I laugh, pushing back my bowl. “But it didn’t bother her. She had a thick skin.”

  He leans over and plucks a piece of fuzz from the collar of my sweater. “Not like you.”

  “I do fine,” I say, tracing the condensation on my glass with a fingertip. “I’m just not ‘out there’ in the way she was. That’s just not me. I’m happier at home with Hudson.” I smile thinking about the way Hudson sighs when he curls up in his nest in the crook of my legs on the sofa, happy to be there whether I’m crabby, happy, dressed-up, sick, peaceful, or worried. He just wants to be with me, because I’m me. “With people, I do much better one-on-one than with groups and crowds.”

  “How is this?” He rolls his sleeves to his elbows as he talks. The restaurant is full; the extra bodies have warmed the place up. “Being here with me?”

  I think about it, looking him over to do a self-check. He looks expectant, his aquamarine eyes filled with light. I look away. “OK.”

  He bursts out in a guffaw. “Just OK? I generally get higher marks than that.”

  “Of course you do, you’re a gadfly. You play crowds like some play a violin.”

  I watch as his eyes darken, and his laughter dies down. “I’m very good with crowds. I have spent the majority of my life learning manners and proper behavior. My mate Will from school, he took me on as a special project. He was born to everything an Englishman could dream of. A title, land, money, reputation. We were true friends, though, still are. Over the years, he and his sister Cas really put me through the paces. They gave me the full Eliza Doolittle treatment. Their parents were quite happy to have me around; I was polite, kept my nose in my books, never got into trouble or caused a scene. They took me skiing in the Alps, taught me how to dress for the hunt and bought me the clothes to do it, showed me how to order wine, and on and on. I learned a lot from the experience, part of which was how to sing for my supper. As a consequence, I’m the perfect dinner guest and I’m rising up the ladder in my career by leaps and bounds, but inside…Inside, I never quite feel I fit in. Not at home, and not out in the world.”

  I raise my almost-empty glass. “Here’s to not fitting in.”

  He clinks my glass, tilting his head. “Are we celebrating that?”

  “No,” I say, “just acknowledging.”

  Relaxed, I go on to tell him how I ran wild in our grand house when I was little, born of privilege just like his friends Reggie and Cas, and about how I never felt there was ground beneath my feet, apart from when I was in the kitchen with Bridget. She had a little television on the counter, and together we’d watch that British TV soap Eastenders and bake. Twice a week, she let me choose what we were having for dinner. She’d make whatever I suggested, I told Henry, be it Sausage Rolls or Chateaubriand with Béarnaise sauce. Searching for new dishes taught me to use cookbooks for reference. “One time, we even made Lobster Thermidor, and neither of us liked it. We went out into the cold that night, and threw it over the fence for the neighbor’s cat.”

  “Bridget sounds like a wonderful lady,” he tells me. “But losing your mum must have been very, very hard.” He picks my hand up off of my knee, and squeezes it before laying it gently back down, and giving it one final long stroke.

  As we talk on, I surprise myself by answering all of his questions about the car crash.

  He surprises me by simply listening. “Thanks for not trying to make it better,” I tell him. “Most people want to ‘fix’ it, somehow. Some things just are what they are.” He gives my hand another squeeze.

  I’m just about to suggest ordering another beer, when his phone pings. He checks the screen and says, “It’s nearly the witching hour. I’d better see you home.”

  Before I can argue, he’s laid down his credit card, and is holding up my coat. He’s quiet as we make our way up the stairs, and into the main concourse. “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “Nothing. Nothing for you to worry about. Your aunt’s not pleased that I haven’t found your dog, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s not your responsibility,” I say, defending him to my absent relative. He starts to speak, then decides better of it.

  We reach the revolving door at the southwest corner, and Henry motions me forward with an “After you.”

  The nip of the air opens my eyes, and I’m suddenly aware of the hugeness of the city. Cars whizz by, and there’s a Salvation Army bell ringer clanging her bell and calling, “Merry Christmas, please help,” over and over again. I’m nearly knocked over by a group of twenty-or-so drunk college kids, all dressed, in some form, like Santa Claus. Stragglers from Santa Con, a Christmas-themed bar crawl around midtown, they must be heading to catch last trains out to bridge-and-tunnel suburban towns.

  Henry takes me by the arm, and steps forward to the curb to hail a cab.

  “Henry, wait.” I step back from him. The insidious tentacles of panic that I’d managed to stave off for the last few hours were beginning to wend their way around my heart once again. “I don’t think I can go home without Hudson. It’s too hard. I’m going to keep on looking.”

  He turns to face me. “I don’t understand. I thought you were feeling better.”

  I try to organize my racing thoughts so I can explain. I pull on my mittens, and tell him, “Going home alone to my apartment last night was really hard. Luckily, I passed out cold I was so tired with worry. But tonight…I was sure I’d have found him by now. The sight of his dishes on the mat in the kitchen, and the empty tangle of blankets…No, I’d rather just stay on the move.”

  He nods. “I understand. But you cannot keep circling the city in the cold and the dark until you collapse. Let me think.” He stares into the middle distance as he considers something. “I’m calling Miranda. You need someone. I don’t care how busy she is. Don’t stand in the cold, come with me.” He leads me back to the door, and gently pushes me inside. Through the glass, I see him punch in a number, then come alive. He paces as he talks, and at one point it looks like he’s getting very terse. Is he yelling at Aunt Miranda? Finally, he nods, looking resigned if not entirely satisfied. He catches my eye, and waves for me to join him on the sidewalk.

  “Come with me, please. I have a new plan.”

  Chapter 7

  The French-accented steward throws open the door to the suite and says, “Welcome Sir and Madame, to the Waldorf-Astoria Towers Penthouse Suite. I’ll bring up your luggage the very minute it arrives.”

>   “We don’t have any luggage,” Henry informs him, as I take off my coat and drape it over one of the three silk damask divans.

  He runs his eyes up and down my body, and throws a sly look Henry’s way. “But of course, Sir.”

  “Oh stop it,” I tell the bellhop, “he’s being paid to be here.”

  “Très cosmopolite,” he says, raising his eyebrows suggestively and nodding his head. “Chapeau,” he says sideways to Henry, tipping an imaginary hat and giving a surreptitious thumbs-up.

  “OK, thanks,” I say, standing up. Dear lord, the Oriental rug must be three inches thick. I practically sink into it as I cross the room to open the door. “You can go now.”

  “I’m sure you’re anxious for your privacy, so I will leave you love birds.” He proceeds to then stand in one spot, not moving a muscle.

  Henry fishes his wallet out of his coat, and hands him a bill. “That will be all.”

  The second the door closes, I say, “Now will you finally tell me what we’re doing here? And why we came in through the private 50th Street entrance that I didn’t even know existed. ”

  He presses his lips together, deep in thought. He begins slowly. “Your aunt wanted to be supportive.” He’s choosing his words carefully. “It was mentioned that she might invite you to stay at hers, so you wouldn’t have to be alone in your time of need. It just so happens, however, that she is very busy. Hardly home at all, she explained to me.” He has a look of deep concentration on his face as he surveys the room. He fiddles with a small, antique globe sitting on one of the fine, wooden desks.

  “And…”

  “Naturally, someone should be with you for support.” He opens what appears to be a Chinese cabinet. “Oh, look! Minibar.” He holds up two small bottles. “Red or white?”

  “White. Go on.”

  “Seems to be a Fume Blanc. Will that do?”

  “Yes! So…”

  “So I asked your aunt if there was a friend I could call, or maybe another relative. Well, to make a long story short, it was decided that, naturally, I should spend the night with you. In a two-bedroom suite, of course!” He pops the corks, and pours. “It’s a very good thing your aunt has both deep pockets and connections in high places,” he mumbles. “You must know the rich rarely pay for their luxuries.”

  “Again, Henry, we are here because?”

  “First thing tomorrow morning, this room will be Hudson Central. This will be the headquarters for Operation Find Hudson. I’m having my laptop sent over from the office, and we’re going to step up this game.”

  He hands me a glass of wine. I take a sip. I like the sound of this. Just as I’m beginning to unclench, there’s a knock at the door. “Room service.”

  A waiter wheels in a cart with an ice bucket and a bottle of Champagne, and lifts a silver dome to reveal a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries. There’s an ornate silver bowl filled with grapes, mandarin oranges, plums, and bananas, and a chilled bottle of Evian, beaded with water droplets.

  Right behind him comes a porter with several oversized Macy’s red-star shopping bags and hanging garment bags in each hand. “Excuse me please, delivery for Henry and Charlotte.” He pronounces the ‘Ch’ in Charlotte as if it were ‘chair.’

  “I’m Henry Wentworth.” The man then hands Henry an array of bags. In all the flap of Henry tipping, and the bottle being put on ice, I spy a card next to the tray.

  Dearest Charlotte,

  So sorry I couldn’t invite you to stay tonight. Am barely managing with the two events I’m running. You know, of course, about the Radio City Music Hall engagement on Christmas Eve. What you don’t know is that there’s a pop-up restaurant launching in Macy’s Cellar where the Bar & Grill used to be. On Christmas Day, when the store is closed, the mayor’s daughter is getting married! Guess which genius suggested the venue and pulled it all together at the 11th hour. That’s right, moi.

  Not a word about the pop-up! It won’t be open to the public until after the wedding.

  So sorry, pet, but Christmas dinner is off this year, too.

  To make up for it, I’m having the hotel deliver some yummies. Also, we’re here at Macy’s staging. They’re so grateful for the publicity with the mayor and all, they’re eating out of the palm of my hand. They’re all over the surprise launch of the pop-up to follow the wedding. The publicity team is working round the clock.

  I figured you could use some pajamas and whatnot since you aren’t going home tonight. I sent some for Henry as well! And some clothes for tomorrow. And probably the next day. And perhaps the evening. The store manager was apparently feeling very generous. Forgive if sizes are all wrong!

  Mwah mwah, back to work!

  Oh, P.S! I didn’t tell you who’s in charge of the pop-up… drumroll please… James Keyes! He’s hoping to wow the bigwigs at Macy’s and reopen the restaurant under his brand. Drop by, darling! Once you’re both in the same room, maybe bygones will be bygones.

  Mwah again,

  Auntie Miranda

  The last thing I needed was to hear about James right now. Was the woman born without a sensitivity gene? I’m gripped with the sudden urge to scrub away the very mention of his name. Steam is coming out of my ears. “Would you excuse me? I need to call my aunt.”

  “No,” he says loudly. “Don’t do that. I mean, why bother doing that right now? It would be better if you simply relaxed and tried to put the day behind you.”

  “Good point,” I acknowledge. If I call right now, I’m likely to say something I’ll regret. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m going to jump in the shower. To clear my head.”

  “But what about all this?” he asks, waving a hand over the room-service cart. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

  It does look tempting. And I need a drink after getting blindsided by The Miranda Treatment.

  “Tell you what. Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll meet you back here to tackle that Champagne.” I tip back the dregs of my Fume Blanc.

  “That sounds like an excellent idea. I’ll do the same.” He picks up his shopping bags, loops the hangers of the garment bags between his fingers, and disappears through one of the doors, closing it behind him.

  I gather my spoils and head through the other door. The luxury of this room must be in direct proportion to Miranda’s guilt. It’s stunning. Done up in rich ruby and gold, it looks like it belongs in a palace. The heavy brocade drapes drip with cords and tassels, there’s an overstuffed double chair with a cunning antique reading lamp, and the bed might have been designed for the eponymous star of The Princess and the Pea.

  In the cavernous bathroom, I strip off my funky sweatsuit, and slip under the powerful spray. Between that first glass of wine and the hot water, I’m starting to relax. Tomorrow will be a fresh start, I think, breathing in the divine scent of the Salvatore Ferragamo shampoo I’m massaging into my hair. A good night’s sleep will set me right, and if Henry doesn’t convince me that his way is the best way, I’ll cut bait and set out on my own. After a nice scrub, and a conditioning treatment for my hair, I towel off and slip on the designer robe and slippers that are waiting at the ready. I’m not normally fussy with my beauty regimen, but there’s a full range of Ferragamo toiletries that are far too good to waste. I slick on some lip balm, moisturize my face, dab on eye cream, spritz my face with facial mist, and cap it all off by dabbing some eau de toilette behind my ears and on my wrists.

  Hoping for a clean pair of underwear, I dump out the bags Miranda had sent onto the bed. I’m speechless. There’s not a pair of Jockey-for-Her high-rise cotton briefs to be found. The selection of undergarments seem to all be made by Agent Provocateur and are of the decidedly non-granny panty variety. I check the labels. They do all seem to be my size, in theory, but I’m finding it hard to believe the little wisps of fabric will do the job of covering my average-girl booty.

  I somehow knew I wouldn’t be unearthing fleece pajamas from the pile. Instead, I find a satin chemise and a white
silk nightgown/lace negligee set that looks like it came from a 1930s film star’s wedding trousseau. What on earth had Aunt Miranda said about me when the Macy’s manager offered to pluck overnight essentials from the shelves and racks for me? Certainly not that I just need to catch a few hours of shut-eye before pounding the pavement in search of my lost dog.

  I consider my choices. 1) Put my grubby sweatsuit back on, 2) Stay in my room and forego eating the yummy dessert and tasting that top-shelf bubbly, or 3) as Tim Gunn would say, “Make it Work!”

  Determined to get my hands on those strawberries, I select a pair of cream-colored stretch lace and organza silk undies, and am shocked to find that they not only make it past my knees, but cling nicely to my hips in a flattering way. I’m surprised that they’re comfortable. I gasp when I pull off the dangling price tag. I guess you really do get what you pay for.

  My only foray into the world of naughty panties thus far had been a present from James marked ‘Fredrick’s of Hollywood,’ given to me on our first Valentine’s Day together. I’d been hoping for a red, heart-shaped Le Creuset casserole dish. One whose picture I had cut out of a high-end kitchenware catalogue and left on his computer keyboard. But, it was so like James to make my Valentine’s present his Valentine’s present. What he’d picked out was a cheap, lurid lavender bustier and thong set, as scratchy as it was trashy. I wore it once, reluctantly. It felt like a costume made for someone else. But James never really saw me for who I was.

  I pull the chemise over my head, and top it with my bathrobe, for modesty’s sake. It’s not like I can sashay out in company wearing Betty Davis’s honeymoon set. Stepping into my cloud-soft hotel slippers, I open the door to the main sitting room of the suite. Henry stands with his back to me. He’s wearing what can only be described as a dressing gown, even though that sounds old-fashioned and stuffy even in my head. It’s a heavy silk, with a burgundy and gold paisley patter. It’s paired with navy blue pajama bottoms, and deep brown leather slippers. The personal shopper clearly has a penchant for high drama. Maybe she should transition from Macy’s to Broadway.