A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  I choose a coconut chunk from among the torn-open bags on the table between us. Henry hasn’t picked up so much as a peanut. It makes me sad. I was so looking forward to his reaction.

  “Did she just say the word no? Just like that?” I tried to visualize what it would be like to be on the receiving end of a proposal.

  “If only. The horror went deeper than that. She burst into tears. My aunt and uncle, and my parents, and the neighbors from down the road…”

  I groan.

  “Oh, yes. And the teacher who set me on the road to boarding school, and even the vicar, all took that as a sign of joy, and began clapping me on the back, and trying to clasp her hands. She looked panicked, like a caged animal. And then, things turned. She got angry.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, it gets worse. Fasten your safety belt. She roared at me, wet-faced and snot-nosed, ‘Henry, you have embarrassed me. Did you think my parents would just stand by and watch me marry you? I thought we both knew we were just having a bit of fun.’”

  My stomach felt sick just hearing about it. “I’m sorry.”

  “You cannot fathom how bad it was. The vicar turned purple. It appeared that my teacher Mr. Cooper, was going to, as we English say, have very strong words with her. My dad practically had to push him into the next room. My mother still talks about how she wishes she’d never popped that cork.” He shakes his head, looking pained and confused as if this were happening now, and not years ago. “The hour after that was excruciating. My mother had set Patricia up in the guest bedroom, and she’d unpacked, planning to stay through the end of the week. It was Christmas morning. There were no buses running. Everyone in England was hunkered down in his family home celebrating the joy of the season. Nearly everyone had started the morning with an Irish coffee or two, and the mulled wine had been passed around, so the only one sober enough to drive, apart from myself, was Mr. Cooper, who’s teetotal. In order to get her out of our house, the poor man had to give up his Christmas and drive her the all the way across the country to the North coast to deposit her back into her parents’ waiting arms. No one was sure he wouldn’t stop his truck and leave her on the side of the road.”

  “What happened after she left?” I felt awful for Henry. To take a risk and put your heart out there, only to have it stomped on. No, thank you. I think back to James. Did I really ever put my heart out there with him?

  “As I recall,” Henry continues, interrupting my thought, “my mother asked to be excused every fifteen minutes, and would reappear with a tense smile and red, watery eyes. My father polished off the Champagne because no one else would go near it. He spent the better part of the day muttering about water not rising above its own level. As for me, I went on automatic pilot. One might say that I executed Christmas. I felt I owed it to the poor people around me to put on a brave face and go about the business of eating the joint and roast potatoes, and playing the piano so we could all sing carols.”

  “You play the piano?” I sat up straight, impressed. I loved it when people played instruments. He really is full of surprises.

  “Yes, I play the piano. That’s your takeaway from this story?”

  “Sorry! I’m paying attention. I really am.”

  “I cut my holiday short, and made my way to London on St Stephen’s Day. I flew straight to California to work in the trenches for Miranda, who was in charge of the Tournament of Roses parade for the New Year’s Day Rose Bowl football game.”

  “How did you manage to focus on your work after that?” I push the opened wax-paper bags of sugar-wrapped treats in his direction.

  “You see,” he says, shaking his candy at me. “That’s just it.” His eyes are bright, and he looks like at me, alive with fervor, as if he’s giving me the secrets of the Masonic order. “I only focused on work. I forgot all about Patricia and threw myself into my career. That was really the turning point. During that job, Miranda took notice of me. After that, I was no longer a PA or a lackey. I became an assistant.” He pops the nugget of candy into his mouth. “It won’t be long,” he says, filled with fervor and enunciating through his chewing, “till I’ll be in charge. This may be my last first and last Christmas in New York. I plan to become the Miranda Nichols of London.”

  In the passion of his speech, he has taken off his glasses, and tucked them into the breast pocket of his French blue shirt. I stare at him, trying to figure out if he looks more like a sexy professor, or a sexy car mechanic in a 1950s uniform. I can’t tear my eyes away as I ask myself, why is he a ‘sexy’ anything?

  “Henry,” I say. It comes out far huskier than I imagined it would. I clear my throat and try again, “Henry.”

  As if hit with a blow dart, he leans back in the chair, and closes his eyes. “Oooh,” he moans. “God, woman.” He sits up, and looks at me with intensity. “What have you done to me?”

  What have I done? I wonder.

  He lunges for a piece of the coconut, and holds it aloft. “Why would you set something so delicious and utterly addictive right in front of me?”

  “You mean…?”

  “The coconut is even better than the almonds. You’re like a drug dealer. I don’t dare try the cashews,” he rants, “oh, who am I kidding? Of course I’m trying them. I’ll probably finish them as well,” he says choosing a handful of the nuts and piling them on the napkin next to his hot drink. Nearby, his phone vibrates, dancing sideways on the table.

  “Right, I forgot to turn the ringer back on after the security guard gave me that filthy look back in the Ellis Island museum.” Stuffing more almonds into his mouth, he picks up his phone, and checks it.

  “What is it?”

  His eyebrows spike as he turns it around for me to view. “And so it begins,” he says, with the smug look of a winner on his face.

  On the screen is a photo of Hudson, held up and surrounded by a group of high school cheerleaders on the top of the Empire State Building.

  *****

  “Look up,” I tell Henry, as we stand in line to talk to the guard at the desk.

  “Incredible,” he says, staring upward, mouth agape. The lobby’s ceiling features a 24-karat gold rendering of the planets and stars arranged in an assembly line of gears in a 1930s homage to the mechanical age. “Art Deco is easily my favorite movement. I doubt I’d have noticed that had you not pointed it out.”

  “Different than seeing New York from your office, isn’t it? Stick with me, kid,” I say in a black-and-white film voice, “I’ll show you things you’ve never seen.”

  He turns his clear blue eyes to mine, holding my gaze. “I believe you.”

  I clear my throat. “Almost as soon as I landed in New York City, Aunt Miranda taught me to look up. There are so many wonders that aren’t right in front of your face, you know?”

  “Good advice. But there’s something to be said for appreciating what is.”

  I take him in. In the crowded lobby, we’re pushed close enough that I can smell his now-familiar scent, freshly mown lawn and rain, with a touch of earthiness, and I feel the warmth coming off of his skin. Pretending to look ahead for the end of the line, I’m still aware of Henry. His height, the rhythm of his breathing, the confident stillness with which he stands. Could he have been talking about me?

  “Look, we’re next. Perhaps the guard knows where Hudson is.”

  “Yes, Hudson.” I reply. Eye on the prize, Charlotte, I tell myself. This is no time for fantasies and what-ifs? I ask myself, WWAMD? What would Aunt Miranda do? She’d take charge and demand access. I gird my loins, and approach the desk.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the bald, square-necked, uniformed guard. “My dog was up on the top deck earlier. I wonder if you know where he is now?”

  He eyes me suspiciously. “Is your dog a service animal?”

  “No, just a mutt.”

  “Only service animals are allowed into the building. Next!”

  “But he was in the building.”

  “No he wasn�
��t,” the guard says, craning what on anyone else would have been his neck to look behind me. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Henry, show him the photo!” The guard glances.

  “Doesn’t prove anything. There is no way a dog could get past our security.

  “But he did,” I say loudly. Henry puts a hand on my shoulder. “My dog is in this building and I want you to find him.”

  His answer is drowned out by a chorus of shrill, happy voices. Coming down the escalator to the lobby is a gaggle of teenaged girls, all wearing maroon and white short pleated skirts and leather-sleeved jackets with huge letter “B”s on the front. The guard throws them an irritated look when they start chanting, “New York, New York, what a town, The Bronx is up, but The Battery’s down!”

  I abandon the guard, and head for the group of cheerleaders. “Girls! That dog you tweeted about. That’s my dog! Where is he?”

  “Oh, you mean Patches?” drawls one of the chaperones, wearing the same jacket as the girls, but with “Coach” embroidered on the chest. “We asked everyone up there if he was their dog, and everyone said no. We were fixin’ to take him back to Texas with us, if no one spoke up for him. We have our own tour bus,” she said proudly. “The Beaumont Bears Cheerleading Squad and Drill Team marched in Newark, New Jersey’s Santa Day Parade yesterday, didn’t we girls?” She beams with pride. “We were thinking Patches could be the squad’s mascot. Kiley Anne!” She calls authoritatively. The girls’ hush at the sound of her voice. “Where’s Patches? You had him last.”

  “Oh my word,” says a girl wearing blue eyeliner and bubblegum-colored lipstick. She’s holding a shopping bag printed with an Empire State Building logo in each hand, and a caught-out look on her face. “I set him down when we were in the gift shop. I told him to stay.” Tears well behind her spidery eyelashes. “I was picking out a sweatshirt for Billy. You know how wide his shoulders are. I couldn’t decide between the large and the extra-large. I meant to get Patches. I’m so sorry.” She bursts into tears and ten girls surround her in a mobile huddle, moving its way toward the front doors. Like ducks, the other girls and chaperones join the maroon-and-white wave.

  The coach rolls her eyes heavenward. “Billy’s the quarterback for the football team. He broke up with her before Thanksgiving, but that dizzy girl won’t take no for an answer.” She shakes her head and tuts. “Can’t keep her mind on the routines to save her life. Nearly lost a leg under Santa’s float after she got whacked in the head with Connie’s baton.”

  Henry cuts through the fluff. “To confirm, the last time you saw the dog was in the gift shop?”

  “Near as I can tell,” she says. “Sorry, they’re moving out, and I’m gonna lose track of them.” Henry hands her a flyer, asking her to call if she has any other information. “I hope you find your dog, miss. He’s somethin’ else. I’d have taken him home in a heartbeat.”

  We run up the moving escalator to catch an elevator to the 80th-floor gift shop. “You know,” Henry says, slightly out of breath from the chase, “at first I thought you were crazy. But now I wish I had Hudson’s power. He gets into more restricted places than even your aunt.” We catch the elevator and bolt to be the last two in before the cut-off. Packed in like proverbial sardines with breathless tourists from around the globe, Henry and I are pressed chest-to-chest. With my new boots on, my chin nearly reaches his shoulder. I have no place to put my arms. I’m forced to draw my elbows in tightly to my sides, and hold onto Henry’s upper arms. He hooks his hands under my elbows, to brace himself against the jostling.

  I look away, politely, pretending to watch the floor numbers rise, but I can’t help noticing the feel of Henry’s flexed biceps under my fingers. My mind wanders, puzzling out how he stays fit when he seems to do nothing but work.

  We are siphoned out the elevator doors and down the short hall to where the gift shop is. Henry talks to the cashiers while I look around. I check behind displays holding key chains and tiny telescopes printed with the trademark ESB logo. I push aside shirts and hoodies hanging on a round rack, and call Hudson’s name. I see a door that’s cracked, and look around furtively before opening it. It’s a broom closet, and on the floor is the tiny hat Hudson wore when posing with Bryant Park’s bad Santa. I pick it up, and put it in my pocket.

  Dogless, and on my way to join Henry, I pass a display of pet accessories. There are water dishes with the building painted on, leashes with a repeating pattern of yellow cab, Empire State Building, yellow cab, Empire State Building. A tiny sweater catches my eye. It’s knit with a map of the island across the top, where a dog’s back would be. There are blue areas on either side of the slim island signifying the rivers. In large, plain letters, one side says “East” and the other says “Hudson.” I think about how sweet my baby would look wearing this, and my heart constricts.

  “This lady, and the other cashiers tell me it’s been a madhouse in here today. No one even had the time to glance up, so unfortunately the trail is cold. What’s that?”

  He reaches for the sweater, and examines it. He hands it to the cashier, “We’ll have this, please.” He pays for it and hands it to me. “Put this in your bag. It’s my Christmas present to Hudson.”

  I tilt my head, and narrow my eyes. “I thought you didn’t buy Christmas presents.”

  His eyes twinkle with mischief, but he doesn’t answer. “Come on, let’s go to the top floor and see if we can catch your furry rapscallion.”

  I laugh. “OK, but only if you say ‘rapscallion’ again.”

  “Rapscallion.”

  “You really do think you’re a gentleman from a Harlequin Historical novel, don’t you?”

  “I’ve never heard of Harlequin,” he says, pushing me gently forward in the line to the elevator. “Rapscallion, rapscallion.”

  “You lie! Everyone’s heard of them. I’ll bet that’s what you do for fun. You probably ride the London tube with a copy of the Financial Times in front of a paperback called ‘The Duke’s Dark Desire,’ is that it?” I poke him in the side and he grabs my finger like a ninja, holding it very still and looking me in the eyes. “That,” he says, “I will neither confirm nor deny.” He smirks, and gives my finger a final squeeze before letting it go.

  We ride the elevator to the top, smashed in with the crowds, and the whole trip, Henry sings very softly, in my ear, the word “rapscallion” to the tune of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. I can’t stop laughing. My heart is filled with helium. We’re so close to finding Hudson, I can feel it.

  After half an hour of inspecting corners and crevices, and a brief pause so Henry can gaze out over Manhattan from our bird’s-eye vantage point, Henry checks his phone. We pull over to one side to avoid getting trampled.

  “Ho, ho, Charlotte. It’s all happening.”

  “What?” I ask breathless. “What’s happening?”

  “Hudson’s breaking the internet, that’s what. Messages are pouring in on every platform.”

  He flips and scrolls, occasionally holding out the phone for me to read something. Some of the Twitter messages are pure support. “I hope you find your dog!” and “Sending prayers to you and Hudson.”

  Some of the Facebook messages are suggestions, with maps and links to places a dog might wind up in the city. “Have you checked the ‘Bark the Herald Angel’s Sing’ Santa-and-Pet photography event in Prospect Park, Brooklyn? It’s at The Picnic House, sponsored by Love Thy Pet. They donate all proceeds to animal shelters.”

  Some of the Instagram messages seem to include genuine photos of Hudson with various people from around town. There’s one of RuPaul, the drag queen and some of her cohorts in full, dramatic make-up, holding a dog that may or may not be Hudson in front of the makeover counter at the Mac Cosmetics store near the flatiron building. “This could be Hudson,” I tell Henry. “It’s not far from here. It’s just hard to tell with that feather boa and the tiara obscuring his face.”

  Still another on Tumblr shows a man in dark clothing carrying a patch
work-colored dog under his arm as he boards a plane. “Oh, Henry, you don’t think…”

  “Breathe deep, Charlotte. This dog is the right size and colors, I’ll give you that, but he has a full tail, see? Not a stubby one.” I heave a sigh of relief.

  “From here on out, we’re going to have to treat this forensically. Information is pouring in, and we’ll have to sort the wheat from the chaff.”

  I feel a twinge of regret as I say, “We should probably head back to the hotel and sift through some of this.” This morning has been really fun, I think to myself. Fun. When is the last time I had fun, I wonder. Of course I enjoy being with Huddie, and he makes me laugh. I’m content, and peaceful. But fun with another person?

  “New plan,” Henry says, interrupting my thoughts. “Miranda wants me onsite ASAP.”

  I feel a letdown in my gut. Next on my agenda was a trip up 5th Avenue to see the window displays in the department stores like Saks and Lord & Taylor, and maybe even Barney’s. He’s typing furiously into his phone as he speaks, thumbs flying. “I’m texting Shanna at the office to send Landry and one or two of the other interns to The Waldorf to manage the social media accounts to figure out what’s useful intel and what’s noise.”

  In a split second, Henry’s demeanor has changed from jolly partnerin-crime to ace coordinator. This must be what he’s like at work. I can’t help noticing that he hasn’t assigned me a role. I’m indignant. Hudson is, after all, my dog. I don’t have to sit around and wait to be told what I’m allowed to do.

  “And where do you see me fitting in to all of this?” I ask.

  He stops typing and looks up from his phone. “You’re with me,” he says, eyes searching my face. “Don’t you know that? We’re a team.”

  Chapter 8

  “Do you think today will be the day we find Hudson, Henry?”

  We’re crossing west to 34th Street and 6th Avenue, and our eyes are pulled like magnets to the exterior of the world’s most famous department store.

  Henry points to the word ‘Believe’ written in expansive, dreamy script and lit up like white fire. It arches above a decorated Christmas tree that proudly stands atop the iconic awning above the entrance that features the original Macy’s sign, and the graceful old-fashioned clock. “Looks like someone is trying to tell you something.”