I stand quietly, and take him in. I find myself assessing him, as if he’s a specimen, an example of a man. Without his winter coat, I see the outline of his body. He has effortlessly good posture, broad shoulders thrown back without any stiffness. The belt of his robe is cinched closely. His waist is slim, giving his upper body that perfect V-shape seen on models in GQ or Men’s Fitness. His legs are long, but a lot of his considerable height comes from his long torso. I imagine that line from his hipbone to his chest, and how long it would take to trace with my fingertip.
When Henry turns around, he’s holding an open book that he has selected from the shelf. I see he’s not wearing his glasses. Unveiled, his eyes are even bluer, if that’s possible. They’re as captivating as a wolf’s, or an Alaskan sled dog’s. His wavy, brown hair is damp, and combed back from his forehead, instead of laddishly gracing his forehead, as usual.
“Oh!” I breathe, involuntarily. “I mean, hi. Hello.”
“Hello,” he says, with a quizzical look on his face. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, waving a hand to indicate his outfit. “After a day of running round the city, a fresh change of clothing was welcome. This, it seems, is what your aunt had sent from Macy’s.”
“Of course not. You look really good. No! Well, you do, but what I’m trying to say is you’re usually so uptight, it’s like you have a stick up…”
His eyebrows fly heavenward.
“You’re just usually more serious. You know what I mean.”
He closes the book and shelves it. “Do I?” A smile twitches at the corner of his lips.
My mouth is dry. I head for the Champagne bottle, and start untwisting wire on the cage around the cork. “It’s like you’re always on the job.”
He frowns. “I’m working for your aunt, as you know. I don’t think it’s fair to criticize me for taking my career seriously.”
“I didn’t mean that,” I say, turning my head from the bottle. It’s hard to uncork Champagne with your eyes squinched shut. I’ve never liked popping balloons, or decanting sparkling wine. “It’s just between your ambition and your Englishness, you’re not exactly a barrel of laughs.”
He takes the bottle from my hands. “That’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black.” He expertly drapes a linen napkin over the cork, twists gently a few times, and I hear a faint ‘pop.’ He pours the Champagne down the sides of the two flutes very slowly. There’s not a hint of foamy head on either glass. I watch as an explosion of bubbles rises from the bottoms, sparkling to tiny pop pop pops on the surface.
“You don’t have the authority to comment, one way or the other. Shall we?” He carries the silver tray of strawberries to the low, intricately carved oak coffee table. I take a seat on the adjacent sofa, and Henry follows with the Champagne, and napkins, and sits down next to me.
“I think I have a pretty good handle on the situation. I’ve spent nearly every minute of today in your company.” He holds his glass up to clink, and lets me take the first drink. While I savor the taste of the luscious wine, I think about today and how much of it was spent with Henry. There’s no one I’ve spent this much time with, nonstop, in years. Except, of course, Hudson.
Not Aunt Miranda, not Beverly, and not James. When we were together, he spent most of his time schmoozing, courting investors, wangling invites to parties. It paid off, sure. He got the backing for his first restaurant in record time after we graduated from The Culinary Institute. That suited me. After a dose of his concentrated company, I found myself itching for alone time. He asked me to move in with him several times, but I just avoided the subject until one day, it no longer mattered.
“And you think you know me after one day?”
“I think that there’s more to know,” I say, measuring my words.
He bites into a strawberry. After a beat, he asks, “And do you want to know it? I got the sense from you that being in my company was a form of torture.”
I pluck a strawberry from the plate, and nibble it to buy time. It’s true that I felt that way at first. But I can’t deny he’s grown on me. How can I explain that being with anyone for too long makes me uncomfortable? I usually find a comfortable place in the periphery. I’m less a spotlight girl, than a shadows girl. I observe; I’m not observed. But today, the longer I’ve been with Henry, the more he’s really seen me. I can’t hide in the shadows any longer.
“Hello? You’re miles away, Charlotte.” He arranges a few of the overstuffed pillows, and lies back. “Did I put you on the spot?”
“You asked me a question…” I begin, when there’s a knocking on the door.
“Excuse me,” Henry says, getting up.
It’s the French porter from earlier. “Turndown service,” he says, blowing past Henry and heading for my room. He disappears, and Henry turns to me, confused. “Don’t the maids usually take care of that?”
After a moment, he emerges and heads for Henry’s room. We look at one another, bemused. When he comes out, he says, “If I can be of service, in any way, it would be my pleasure.”
“That will be all,” Henry tells him. He heads to the closet and takes out his wallet.
“Sincerely, if I can make the stay more pleasurable for either one of you, it would make me happy to do so.”
“Charlotte, I don’t seem to have any more small bills. Could you possibly?”
I run into my room, and grab my wallet. I pull out a five and press it on Henry.
“Or, possibly for both of you? At once?” the French guy says, leering, as Henry shoves the bill in his hand, and pushes him out the door.
“Euw!” I say, jumping up and down with a shiver, as Henry opens the door, checks to make sure the guy is gone, and hangs the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outer handle. “Was that what I think it was?”
“Only in New York,” Henry says. “Now sit down. There are a lot of strawberries to eat, and you, miss, are falling behind on the job.” I flick my eyes across the Champagne to check the level. Half a bottle left. I’m surprised that I’m looking forward to having another indulgent glass or two. I’m more surprised that I’m looking forward to having it with Henry.
“Let me just put my wallet back in my bag.” I cross into my room where the lights have been dimmed, my shopping has been neatly moved and arranged on the chair, by covers have been folded back into a neat triangle, and my pillows have been graced with a selection of dark chocolates flavored with passion fruit, ginger, and Tahitian vanilla. I pop one into my mouth, and rush out, saying, “Hey Henry, did you get chocolates, too?”
He doesn’t hear me. He’s leaning against the frame of his bedroom door, half-in and half-out, with his phone to his ear.
“…told you before, Mum, working for a lady like Miranda Nichols has me run ragged. I’m knackered and then some. Of course spending Christmas at home would be nice, but I’ve told you before that it’s our busiest season.”
I retreat back into the dimness of my own doorway, and perk up my ears. Henry sounds terse. Weirder still, his voice sounds less like Prince William’s and more like Daphne from the sitcom Frasier.
“Yes, they know what Christmas is in America, but the clock doesn’t stop for Christmas for Miranda Nichols…That’s what the job means, I’m on call day and night…Yes, but if I was home and working on the farm, I’d be there instead of here, now, wouldn’t I? I’m not trying to insult you, but this is my life…Then I suppose it’s better that I’m not coming home for Christmas. I wouldn’t want to spoil your holiday with my fancy ways! Sorry you took it that way, but I’m stressed to the hilt. I’ve been on a wild goose chase all day, trying to find a lost dog…I don’t have the time or energy to explain to you how that is a career, you’ll just have to trust me…Yes, I think we’d better end it too, before I say something I’ll regret. Tell Dad I’ll talk to him next time. Goodbye, Mum.”
I watch as he storms out, and slugs down the rest of his Champagne, and pours himself another. He’s breathing like he just ran sprints, and his f
ace is as closed as a liquor store on Sunday.
“Don’t stay up drinking Champagne on my account,” I tell him. “You must be exhausted after your ‘wild goose chase’.”
His face springs to life with irritation. “Were you listening to my private phone call?”
“Last time I checked, private phone calls were made behind closed doors.” I park my hands on my hips.
“Anyone with manners would have stepped away.”
“Anyone with manners wouldn’t yell at his elderly mother on Christmas.”
“She’s not elderly!” he sputters. “The woman gets up at 6 a.m. to milk goats. She hauls sacks of feed larger than you around the farm before breakfast, which she cooks, then she opens the shop for a full day’s trade.”
“She sounds like a hardworking, respectful woman who doesn’t whine and complain. Maybe you should take a page out of her book.”
“You have no idea how hard I’ve worked to get where I am. No idea.” He grows deathly quiet. “And you have no idea what it’ll cost me if I’m not up to your aunt’s standards.”
“If I were you, I’d forget about Aunt Miranda, and worry about being up to your parents’ standards.”
“Then it is a good thing you are not me because you’d find that impossible.”
My mouth falls open. “All your mum wants is to have her son come home for Christmas. It must be the middle of the night there.”
“All the more reason she shouldn’t be tracking me down.”
“How is calling her own son to check in and invite him for the holiday ‘tracking him down’? How hard would it be to make your parents happy? Just inform Aunt Miranda that you need a vacation.”
He snorts derisively. “One doesn’t inform Miranda Nichols. One stands at attention, preparing to take orders. And as far as my family are concerned, if I give them an inch, they want a mile. Every time I set foot on our land, it’s like they’ve ensnared me. I’m considered a traitor when I leave again. My mum cries, and my dad lectures me once again how he should never have let me go away to school.”
“They’re your family. You should grit your teeth and bear it if that’s what it takes to make them happy.” I think what I’d give to have a mother who would do anything just for a few days of my company. A hot feeling rises up from the pit of my stomach, and lodges in my throat. “You’re just a selfish snob,” I erupt.
He’s on his feet in a split second. “And you’re a spoiled brat!” He rounds the coffee table until we’re standing inches apart. “You live your little life in your perfectly arranged brownstone, resting on your family laurels. Your aunt told me that you keep to yourself, avoiding people and never dating.
My mouth falls open. I ball up my fists in anger.
“She said you stay in by yourself, writing your cookbooks and blogging so you never have to talk to anyone. It’s easy to think you’re perfect when you live in a vacuum. Your manners are never tested because you never have to deal with anyone. You just avoid people altogether and pretend to have a relationship with your dog!”
It’s like he fired a cannonball into the middle of my rib cage. I can hardly breathe for the dull pain. For a second, I think I might cry but blessedly anger takes over, radiating out to the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet. Then, I’m numb. I feel nothing but coldness.
“You jerk. You don’t know what it is to not to have people around who care about you. Do you know what I’d give to spend Christmas with a pair of doting parents who want nothing more than to lavish love and attention on me? All I have is an aunt who does a drive-by every month or so, and whose idea of support is throwing expensive things at me and hiring people to pretend to care about me.” I walk to my bedroom door. I’m about to close it but instead turn around at the last minute. “For half a second today, I thought you were nice. I thought you got it. That little dog is my family.”
I take a long last look at him. He looks back at me, barely blinking. He’s quiet and still.
“If having relationships with people means being grateful for little scraps of attention tossed to me by people like you, then I’ll take the dog every time.” I say, and I close the heavy door between us.
*****
I toy with the idea of ordering room service from my bed, with strict orders that my tray be brought into my room, but reconsider when I imagine that French guy showing up and offering to butter my muffins. The alluring aroma of coffee tickles my brain, and before I know it, I’m on my silk-slippered feet. My driving need for caffeine overtakes my angry desire to avoid Henry, and my body answers the compulsion to seek Java.
I plan to ignore Henry at all costs. I’ll make a beeline for the liquid heaven I crave, and bring it back to my room. Then I’ll make a plan for the day, one that doesn’t include a pompous, callous, workaholic. Chin stabbing upward, and bathrobe cinched tight, I open my door planning to snub an unfeeling Henry who’s likely on the phone brown nosing my aunt or charming some politician or TV personality in his race to the top.
When I walk in Henry is surrounded by piles of photos, flyers, and printouts featuring Hudson’s image. “Good morning,” he says dispassionately not bothering to look up. “No more amateur hour. Today, I intend to find your dog.”
He’s showered and dressed. On the table in front of him are three laptops, two phones, a scanner, a tangle of computer cords, a half-drunk cup of coffee, and the remnants of a continental breakfast.
His eyes are determined, and I can feel the energy coming off of him in waves.
Against my will, my heart softens. A surge of hope swells my chest. My head feels like a shaken snow globe. I cross to a sideboard where a breakfast spread has been laid out, and pour myself a cup of coffee, hoping to balance myself.
“I have a screenshot of Hudson with Santa on the Jumbotron. There’s no one on earth who won’t find that adorable. I’ve scanned the photos you brought from home, and we’ve been posting them to Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Tumblr and all the others. We’re doing a full-on social media blitz. We’re taking no prisoners. I have a good feeling about today.”
Who’s we? I wonder, pouring milk into my coffee and giving it a stir. The first swallow thrills my tongue and warms my throat. However, my moment of calm proves to be fleeting.
“Charlotte?” calls a distinctively feminine voice from behind me. “Do you have any photos of yourself and the dog in which you look more, hmm, I don’t know, youthful? I’m working on something for Vine and I want people to, you know, respond favorably. What I have was fine for Pinterest, so that’s already up and running.”
“Who are you?” I blurt. I censor myself before I add, “And why are you coming out of Henry’s bedroom at seven o’clock in the morning?”
“Oh hiiiiii,” she coos sympathetically, making a cartoon frowny face. “I didn’t introduce myself. First off, let me say I’m sorry for your loss.”
I stiffen. “Hudson’s not dead.”
“Yeah. I meant I’m sorry for your lost dog.” She tilts her head to the side, wrinkling her nose. She’s wearing some sort of jumpsuit. It reads as a combination of Japanese haute couture runway piece/hostess pajama/vintage costume. My gut tells me it’s the height of fashion, even though I know nothing about these things.
“I’m Landry,” she extends her hand. Her nails are shortish and perfectly manicured, polished in a deep royal blue hue with a touch of iridescence. Reluctantly, I take her hand. As predicted, she wiggles her cold hand weakly. Fish grip.
“Henry, I just took care of Tagged, and ask.fm. Oh, and Charlotte, I brought you a laptop in case you want to check your, you know,” she seems to be fishing for the right thing to say, “email…or maybe Facebook?” She scrunches her nose as if she’s smelled something bad.
“Henry,” she drawls, bending down to pick up one of the phones and exposing the landscape of her cleavage, “did you hear about everything I took care of? I did all that you asked, plus I took that scrap of video of the dog on the Ferris wheel, and made a GI
F. I also put it up on YouTube.” She’s beaming at him. I get the feeling she’s waiting to be petted, like a good cat.
His face is buried in his own phone, and he answers distractedly, “Great, sifting through responses now. Don’t forget to call the Daily News and The Observer.”
She stands back up, looking disappointed, and makes a note in her phone.
I select a cheese Danish the size of a pizza from the offerings, and take a huge bite. “Oh my holy yum,” I keen, “cheese Danish is my favorite.
Henry looks up, over his glasses. “I know.”
“How do you know?”
He buries his face back in his laptop, typing away. “I called Miranda.” As I sip my coffee, I imagine Aunt Miranda’s intense irritation at being interrupted in the middle of staging a pop-up restaurant complete with celebrity wedding to answer questions about what baked goods I prefer. She must have bitten Henry’s head off.
“News and Observer, done and done!” Landry brags enthusiastically to Henry.
“Thanks,” he answers, still typing.
“No need to thank me,” she says, “We all just want to help Charlotte, right?” She turns to me, face scrunched into a sympathetic countenance. “Try not to worry. Our team is going to find your little dog. Before you know it, you can go back to that apartment of yours, where you’re more comfortable, put this all behind you. And good for you! You should totally eat that huge pastry. Breaking a gluten fast is perfectly fine in a crisis. Whatever you need to get you through.”
“I’m not gluten-free,” I tell her through a mouthful of buttery flakes.
“Oh, well, at a time like this butter and carbs are fine. Really. You shouldn’t worry about your body.”
Before I can tell her that I wasn’t worrying and that I was simply having breakfast, she tosses a curtain of shiny black hair over one shoulder and puts on a grown-up, serious face. “Henry, I’m prepared to stay all day and into the night if you need me. Tell me what I can do for you, and I’m on it. Name it.”
A Miracle at Macy's Page 15
