A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  Henry heads for the entrance, but I take him by the arm. “Before you have to go to work, just one more touristy thing.” He glances at his phone. “Please?”

  A relaxed smile blooms across his face, and he squints to keep the glare of the waning December sun out of his eyes. “All right. Lead on.”

  I walk him around the whole building and back to see the store windows. Every year, Macy’s decorates four windows on the 34th Street side of the store with scenes from the classic film Miracle on 34th Street to pay homage to the store’s role in the timeless story. But it also elects a theme and the top designers in the business deck out the windows with fanciful scenes weaving the conceit into a Christmas fantasy. Over the years, the themes have been inspired, running the gamut from traditional to au courant. 1963 gave the world ‘Santa’s Enchanted Forest.’ 1971 got with the times, offering ‘Santa’s TV Studio.’ Sometimes popular characters from books and movies are showcased, as with Dr. Seuss’s ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas’ in 1977 and ‘Harry Potter’ in the year 2000. This year’s confections revolve around the theme ‘Planets in Space.’

  The first window we view shows an animatronic puppet boy with wavy hair and glasses perched on his bed wearing moons and stars pajamas, lifting a telescope to his eye.

  “Oh, look,” Henry says, jumping and pointing, “I had that exact telescope.” He beams, waiting for me to nod. I do.

  “And I had glow in the dark stars on my ceiling, too.” For a moment, it’s easy to see what Henry must have been like as a child. A bright, engaged boy who knew, even at a young age, that worlds existed far beyond his little village. Cool as a cucumber in most situations, he must have unlearned that natural enthusiasm in order to succeed in business. Imagining it, I felt a little burn in my heart, as though I missed that boy whom I’d never met.

  We circle the outside of Macy’s, looking at each window from every angle. There’s a scene of Santa and the boy’s dog floating happily in space, wearing fishbowls on their heads. Another scene depicts sweet-faced aliens opening wrapped packages, ostensibly left by the retreating Santa and his reindeer. We peruse all of the windows, bopping to the upbeat jingle-bell music, until we come to the last one, depicting the dark and vast universe, with a tiny replica of Santa’s sleigh circling the earth.

  Gazing in at the scene where the little girl pulls Santa’s beard in the movie, I ask Henry, “Do you watch that film over and over too?”

  “I’ll be honest. I’ve never seen it.”

  “Oh, you have to watch it. It’s my favorite of all the Christmas movies. It’s about a man who says he’s Santa Claus, but no one believes him. They just think he’s crazy.”

  “Like you with your magic dog?” Henry smiles devilishly.

  I punch him in the arm. “Turns out, the guy actually is Santa Claus, so there.”

  “And maybe that dog of yours will give us the secret to world peace.”

  I stick out my tongue at him, and he laughs. When we finally exit the bracing cold, and enter the store, I feel all of my senses light up. On top of its usual visual delights, the store has been heightened with touches of Christmas everywhere. Red and green lights are projected into pools on the floor, swags of silver tinsel drape down from the atelier level, and along the bannisters to the Visitor’s Center, and even the employees are spiffed up in seasonal neckties and silk scarves. I inhale the new-car smell of the luxury leather handbags before it gets trumped by the rich tapestry of aromas emanating from the fragrance counters.

  As we move from section to section, the music changes along with the mood of what’s on offer. From jazzy, to classical, to pop, to hip hop, but every refrain is holiday-themed.

  Before leading Henry to the original wooden tongue-and-groove escalators that were built at the turn of the 20th century, I pull him on a detour to the 34th Street Memorial Entrance where I show him a century-old bronze plaque affixed to a marble wall. The tribute had been purchased by grieving employees in honor of the deaths of store owners Ida and Isidor Straus caused by the sinking of RMS Titanic.

  “They say Isidor encouraged Ida to get aboard one of the lifeboats, but she wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t let him die without her.”

  He takes in the plaque with a faraway look in his eyes. Abruptly, he turns away. “I’m not sure I can imagine such a thing.”

  “Me either,” I tell him, feeling a little hollow inside. “Why would she stick by him when she could save herself? It’s not logical.” I set out toward the down escalator, and he follows fast on my heels.

  “Hey,” he calls, shouting to be heard above the clinking and whooshing of the store, and the excited chatter of the shoppers. “You’re moving at quite a clip. Everything all right?”

  Before I have to answer, Aunt Miranda spies Henry from the bottom of the moving staircase. She points to him, and then crooks her finger, beckoning him over. When we’re delivered down into The Cellar, she gives me a quizzical look. “Charlotte? What are you doing here?”

  Henry steps in. “She could hardly be left on her own, wouldn’t you agree, Miranda?”

  Aunt Miranda doesn’t look like she agrees, but she puts on her public smile. “Certainly, though, you could have asked Landry or one of the others from the office, to sit with her. I spared you yesterday, but things are heating up here, as you can see,” she says between clenched teeth. Aunt Miranda pulls Henry to the side. “Are you here to tell me that the dog is still missing? You’ve had a whole day! What have you been doing?” I can see the muscles in Henry’s jaw set. Knowing him the way I do by now, I know he’s barely keeping himself under control.

  Miranda steps back and points to a tented-off area into and out of which armies of workers are carrying everything from chairs, to trash bins, to pots and pans, to gallons of olive oil. “I need Henry here, Charlotte. Restaurants don’t build themselves. Take a look! Things are happening! It’s all hands on deck.”

  Henry and I both look as James, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, steps out from behind one of the canvas walls. I’m not sure I can say he smiles, but his eyes light up and he throws back his shoulders as he crosses the room to greet me. “Charlotte,” he says, holding his arms open for me to walk into. “You look gorgeous. Better than I think I’ve ever seen you look.” He makes a throaty sound that I think is supposed to indicate desire. I recoil. “Whatever you’re doing these days, you should do it more often.” I certainly didn’t expect this. I’m mute.

  Henry steps in, bellowing “Henry Wentworth” by way of introduction. It’s very ‘American Guy’, in a way I’ve never seen Henry behave. “And I know you from the media.” Henry throws an inscrutable look my way, before turning away from me to shake one of James’s outstretched hands. “I wasn’t aware you knew Charlotte, though. She’s full of surprises, isn’t she? Good to meet you Mr. Keyes.”

  “James needs rush approvals from fire safety, so get on that, Henry, plus you’d better work your magic with the food safety and the alcoholic beverage people if that’s going to be an issue. James’s assistant, Mila, has been on the phone all morning to no avail, but I told her to leave it to you, Henry. You can do this sort of thing in your sleep.” Standing behind James is an almond-eyed beauty in chef’s whites with her heavy black hair wound into a bun that covers the entire top of her head. She stares at me through narrowed eyes.

  James runs his eyes over Henry, and I watch as my ex sizes him up, then dismisses him as nothing, and moves on. I’ve seen him do it a hundred times at parties. Instead, he focuses every ion of his charisma on me. “Charlotte, since you’ll be flying solo, why don’t you come back with me and see how the kitchen is shaping up?”

  “Ah, I’m afraid we can’t spare her just now, Mr. Keyes. Jane!” Henry calls to one of the nervous underlings circling Aunt Miranda waiting to pick up a dropped pen or fetch a cup of coffee. Jane has very big hair, and a very short skirt, hinting that she might be a native of Staten Island. Her makeup is just a tad too bright, and her earrings just a bit too dangly
. I silently will her to stay as far away from Aunt Miranda as possible. That bright plastic jewelry-slash-extra-hold hairspray look has been known to draw Miranda’s derision like fresh blood draws a lion to the kill.

  “Jane, I’ll need you to take Miss Bell with you, I’m afraid,” Henry continues, “I’m going to need a photo of her for social media. A publicity shot, of course. You understand, don’t you Mr. Keyes? I’m sure you can spare her.”

  James looks confused. I can see the wheels turning as he tries to work out why I’d need PR. Henry turns to Jane and says, “It’ll need to be on Santa’s lap.”

  “What?” I demand. “Why?”

  Henry ignores me and speaks to Jane instead. “Darling, would you please find one of our Macy’s partners and see that Miss Bell gets escorted to the front of the line up on the 8th floor? Is there someone who can help with that?” Henry has turned the full power of his seaglass eyes on the poor, aspirational Jane, and she is done for. “Can I count on you?” he asks meaningfully.

  “Yeah, Henry, sure,” she stammers. Staten Island accent confirmed. “That girl Penelope, the one who did all that personal shopping when Miss Nichols asked the other day. We’re, like, buds now. She’ll do me a solid.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that, Jane. Thank you.” She basks in the light of his praise. No doubt she’s never heard words like that from my aunt.

  “Henry,” Miranda cuts in, “Charlotte should stay with James. It’ll give them a chance to catch up.” She gives me a not-subtle-at-all eyebrow waggle. “They’re old friends, you know.”

  Henry looks like he’s just tasted lemon. “I didn’t know.”

  I shrug, and turn away, pretending to be engrossed in an array of hand-painted ceramic and hammered tin Christmas ornaments with New York City and Macy’s themes. There is very little on earth I loathe more than posing for pictures, but the alternative here seems to be a personal tour of my ex’s hot new restaurant endeavor, given by said ex. I steal a glance at him. I can only see his back. He has his hands on Mila’s shoulders in a placating gesture, and she’s shooting him the look of death. Yes, sitting on the knee of Father Christmas and saying ‘cheese’ for the camera sounds like a breath of fresh air compared with standing the heat that’s likely to be in the pop-up kitchen.

  “Miranda, may I have a word,” Henry asks in an upbeat, polite tone, pulling her to the side. He says, sotto voce, “You’re missing the big picture.”

  I strain to hear. I can, but just barely. “The sooner we find your niece’s dog, the sooner you can tick it off of your to-do list. Then, I’ll be back here giving the job my full attention. I’d turn the job over to someone else, but it would take me longer to hand off the intel than to wrap this thing myself. I’m nearly there.” She seems about to veto his plan, but he presses, “I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a resolution by end of day, today.”

  She huffs and nods, waving him off with a flicking gesture. “Fine. Might as well. When else will I ever get a decent picture of the girl? The last time she agreed to sit for a portrait was when she graduated from high school, and that was only because I told her if she did, I’d stop badgering her about Barnard and let her enroll in The Culinary Institute.”

  Turning to the crowd awaiting her orders, she shouts, “Back to work people! Why are you standing about gawking? Do you think the mayor of the capitol of the world wants her daughter to get married in a stripped-down, low-rent beach cabana? I don’t think so! Start hauling Steuben ornaments and Swarovski crystal before you all get pink slips in your Christmas stockings!” Back in work mode she must have forgotten I was there because she clicks off and boards an elevator without bothering to say goodbye.

  Henry glances at me over his shoulder and smiles, as he smoothly slides a congenial arm around James, guiding him through the tent flap leading to the as-yet-in-progress restaurant. The exotic Mira follows the men, pouting. She also throws a glance back at me before crossing the canvas divide, but there’s no trace of a smile this time, only daggers.

  I jump when Jane entwines her arm through mine. My whole body had been coiled like a spring, completely on the defensive. “Sorry,” I say to the brash, gum-popping girl as she leads me to the ascending escalator.

  “Don’t be afraid, hon,” she says conspiratorially, giving my arm a friendly squeeze. “You’re in good hands. No one here at Macy’s is going to stand by and watch you go into that photo session when you’re not looking your best.” She pulls out a radio, and says into the mouthpiece, “Penelope, come in Penelope. Meet me at the Benefit counter. One word: unibrow. We have a situation.”

  Situation? Five minutes ago, I would have told anyone who’d listen that I was looking pretty darn good. Now, shoppers on both the up and down escalators were scrutinizing my face like they were an army of eagle-eyed Eileen Fords from the Ford Modeling Agency.

  “Copy.”

  “FYI, I’m escorting Miranda Nichols’s niece.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the walkie-talkie as we get off the escalator and walk onto the first level of the World’s Largest Department Store along with tourists and other holiday shoppers.

  “Jane, come in Jane,” says the voice through the radio.

  We walk through brightly lit areas featuring cosmetics and perfumes, each brand’s crew of salespeople glamorous and beautiful in their own way.

  “Go for Jane.”

  “I’m at The Brow Bar. Claude-Marie is standing by. Out.”

  We turn toward the southern wall of windows, and I see a petite young girl with clear, creamy skin wearing a cashmere twinset and a neat, matching headband. It’s Penelope, the girl with the exquisite taste who chose all the clothes that got delivered to me. Next to her, in a lab coat, stands a Diana Ross lookalike with skin so rich and dark it’s nearly a shade of midnight blue.

  Jane points to the striking beauty with the glossy red lips and doe eyes. “That’s Claude-Marie. She’s the best, you’re lucky.” She leans in and whispers, “Emma Watson’s look? Claude-Marie. Rihanna’s first shaping? Claude-Marie.”

  “I’ve really only ever trimmed my eyebrows with nail scissors,” I explain. Jane laughs, and I see Penelope the personal shopper and fashion plate furrow her brows, and mark something down in the Moleskine notebook she’s carrying.

  Before I can argue, I’m seated on a high stool and the girl with the wild, glossy hair is dabbing warm wax above my eyes. She lays on strips of linen and riiiiip.

  “What the HELL!” I scream, sitting bolt upright. Several women, and one man, seated in stools around me glance over.

  “One more to go, so sit back and breathe,” Marie-Claude advises, “unless you want to go around looking like you question everything anyone’s saying.”

  I submit, clenching my fists around the seat of the stool. When she tears the second strip, I manage to contain myself with a subdued, “OWCHIE Mama!”

  The three girls analyze my skin and discuss my coloring while Marie-Claude finishes the exquisite torture of my brow shaping by using a precise and pointy pair of tweezers to pluck and pull. From time to time, she dabs at the corner of my eye with a tissue to stave off fat tears.

  She shows me how to use several different light and dark sticks, powders, and pencils to correct my brow, highlight it, and accent the brow bone. She lines my eyes with a bluish-white stick that she declares is “like a nap in a tube.”

  When I look in the mirror, I’m astonished. I look confident, rested, and bright-eyed. “Now she needs color,” Marie-Claude counsels. “I have a client due, so you’ll have to walk her over to one of the other counters.”

  “Oh, I know!” exclaims Jane, “Let’s do Urban Decay!”

  Penelope closes her eyes, and shakes her head patiently. “Baby steps, Jane. We don’t want to throw Charlotte here into the deep end of the pool. Clinique it is.”

  After seeing Jane’s bold and bright makeup, and Marie-Claude’s theatrical visage, I’m worried that my makeover will leave me looking
like I’m going to the West Village Halloween Parade. Luckily, Penelope steers the ship and I leave Clinique with a flawless complexion, accented in creams, pale pinks, and sheer corals. I should have trusted her. After all, she’s responsible for the classic outfit I’m wearing. I make a mental note to ask her about the meringue of a nightie, but she’s on a mission and she’s not wasting time with chit chat. Jane, on the other hand, talks nonstop.

  “You look like a bride,” Jane fawns, as I’m frog-marched over to Blow, The Drybar for a touchup on my hair. “I see your finger’s bare. Hold out for a big solitaire. Your man looks like he can afford it.”

  “What man?” I ask. Penelope plunks me down in a hydraulic chair, and a veritable pit crew of hairdressers rushes at me, throwing a cape around my shoulders, spritzing my hair with water, and combing it out with a wide-toothed comb.

  “That sexy Henry! God, I’d give my right boob if a guy like that would look at me the way he looks at you.”

  That’s plain silly, I think. Before I can protest, a loud dryer blasts on cancelling out all conversation. He’s just one of Aunt Miranda’s ‘people’ who’s helping me find my beloved baby. Or maybe these past couple have days have taken us a step further. He’s a friend, a good friend, who’s helping me out in my hour of need. That’s as far as it goes, though.

  I’m nudged forward until my head is between my knees. Should I tell the stylist that all the blood is rushing to my head, I wonder? How long could this really take, I ask myself, and decide to just go with the flow. I’m feeling very zen at the moment. I keep replaying Henry’s pledge that he’ll find Hudson back on a continuous loop in my head. The repetitious and rhythmic pull of the round brush, the warmth of the air, and the need to close my eyes all conspire to lull me into a dreamy state.