“I’ll try.”
“You can’t just try, Charlotte. You have to do it, with your whole heart. Will you do that, my angel?”
I nodded my head. “Believe,” I told her.
I remember waiting with her in the foyer by the front door, for the car that would bring me to the airport. Surrounded by suitcases, and we sat scrunched together on a narrow steamer, holding hands. Her worn, crocheted sweater felt soft on my wet cheek, and it smelled like nutmeg and wood smoke. Up to that point, I’d held it together, going through the motions of the funeral, the goodbyes from my teachers and headmistress, the awkward visits from my mother’s adult friends whom I’d wound up reassuring, without crying.
When I heard the machine-gun fire of the cattle grid as the car shot up our long drive, the tears had finally come. Bridget rubbed the back of my hand fervently, the strokes growing deeper and firmer as the sound of the tires came closer. I don’t think she realized she was hurting me. I welcomed the burn as a distraction from the real pain I was feeling; the pain of knowing I’d be separated from her. When the car stopped, so did my heart. The uniformed driver stepped out to stretch his legs, and a social worker I didn’t recognize climbed the stairs. I could see her ringing the doorbell through the glass pane, and without thinking I ran up the stairs and hid behind my bed.
What happened next is still a blur in my mind, but I know I begged Bridget to keep me. I swore I wouldn’t be any trouble. She told me that I’d never been a bit of trouble, and that she wished she could take me home. She broke down crying until we were both hugging, rocking, and crying, her in a low-pitched moan and me in a high-pitched wail.
“Be a big girl, Charlotte. Time to go,” the social worker had said, looking annoyed. “You don’t want to upset Nanny.” She gave Bridget a sharp look, as she pried my arm away, and led me back down the stairs. She opened the car door, and handed me a tissue without so much as a pat on the back. The driver wouldn’t meet my eyes, he just busied himself with the luggage, coughing nervously between trips up and down the stairs.
Of course I didn’t want to upset Bridget. The thought of it twisted my stomach in knots. I felt ashamed. I sensed I’d gotten her in trouble. And in the end, showing how I really felt hadn’t gotten me what I wanted. Bridget still stood on the porch, crying and waving, and the new lady just stared out the window until I wiped my face and put on a smile.
I bow my head against the falling snow, and walk faster. I cross Madison at 50th Street, without stopping to look both ways, and Henry races up to stand between me and oncoming traffic. Between the snow, and the volume of cars, people are rolling along slowly, so he manages to hustle me to the other curb without incident.
“Hey,” he says as we walk on toward 5th Avenue. “I got carried away. Of course you don’t have to dance.” The snow continues falling at a pace faster than flurrying without ramping up into a storm. We traverse the long avenue block in silence, until Henry finally says, “I wonder if we’ll have a white Christmas this year.”
“Maybe.”
We keep walking past delis, and dollar stores, and hotel entrances. A door to a barbeque restaurant is open, and the sound of booming laughter and honky-tonk music spills out, along with a rush of warm air carrying the aroma of roasting meat. I feel Henry looking at the side of my face. I don’t meet his stare. “Do you think Hudson will turn up tonight?” he finally asks.
“Hope so.”
We keep walking, moving to the side to walk single file for a length of sidewalk to allow a group of business people to pass. I spot a lucky penny struggling to shine through the snow, and quickly bend to pick it up. When the crowd is gone, Henry and I fall back into pace, shoulder-to-shoulder. We walk like that till we near the end of the block.
“I haven’t been with a girl since Patricia.”
My heavy heart swells like a helium balloon and rises into my throat. “Why would you tell me that?” I ask, making an effort to keep my voice dispassionate. It’s incomprehensible to me how happy that piece of news makes me feel.
We keep moving forward, crunching through the half-inch of snow. “To make us even.”
I get it. If I’m exposed, he’s exposed. I feel supported, the way people who lose their hair from illness must feel when loved ones shave their own heads in solidarity. A liquid warmth flows through my veins, as we round the corner to where St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Roman Catholic neo-Gothic church stands formidable and solemn, across from the Art Deco-influenced buildings around the Rockefeller Center.
“That,” Henry says, eyes drawn heavenward by the arches toward the lofty spires, “is impressive.”
“You’ve never been inside?” I ask. I’d been on field trips to the city from school in which we’d sketched various statues for art class, and studied the history and architecture of the landmark. In addition to being a New York City attraction and a standout example of its architectural movement, it’s a fully functioning parish, with neighborhood members whose life-cycle events are celebrated there.
“I haven’t, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to go in now.”
We file through the majestic bronze doors along with tourists, worshippers, and congregants, into the back of the grand house with its Tuckahoe marble carvings, and enormous stained-glass windows, some of which were designed and executed by Tiffany & Company. The floor is slippery from the tracked-in snow, and I take Henry’s arm to make sure I don’t fall down in the shuffle.
In the front of the church, at the tallest and most ornate of the altars, a richly dressed Cardinal officiates a wedding mass. I look up and around to see where the sweet and haunting music emanates from. One of two huge pipe organs, the one in the choir gallery is being played by a skilled musician, and accompanying her are the voices of the choir and the celebrants. I don’t know the hymn. Mother never set foot in a church again after having been dressed down by an ancient, horrible vicar who all but excommunicated her when she announced she had no plans to marry my father.
Unused to being in churches, during services, I stay to the back in an effort not to be disruptive. A plaque stating, All Are Welcome, sets me at ease. I take a seat on a red leather cushion in an antique carved wooden pew, and take in a breath, noting how calming it is to be in a space with such sprawling overhead spaces. The smell of the incense transports me. I feel a sense of otherworldliness.
There is a spray of bridesmaids wearing tea-length, cranberry colored satin dresses, and in lieu of flowers are carrying puffy white furry muffs. To balance them out, there stands an opposite row of men in black tuxedos, accented with gold and green tartan cummerbunds and bow ties.
I’m transfixed by the backs of the heads of the bride and groom. It’s clear from their posture that they understand that this is a solemn and formal occasion. They kneel, side-by-side as the priest says prayers over them, and makes declarations about the sacred state of marriage. But they can’t help themselves. They keep turning to one another, smiling. It looks to me as if they are about to die laughing, though the words of the sermon speak about sickness, burdens, and loyalty till death. They can’t help acting goofy. They’re obviously in love, and they’re making it look like a lot of fun.
I turn to point this out to Henry, but he’s gone. I search the crowd frantically. Finally I spy him, kneeling at one of the small side altars. He leans over and stuffs a bill through the slot of a simple and very old metal box. He takes a long stick in hand, lights it with the flame of a flickering votive candle, and transfers the fire to an unlit one.
I know I shouldn’t spy on his private moment, but I can’t help watching him. He crosses himself, and bows his head. Forehead to fists, he stays bent serenely in that position for a very long time. Around me, the music swells. The Cardinal descends, and leads a processional of what I assume to be other priests, some swinging smoking incense burners, and still others showering acolytes with holy water from a golden bucket. When the clergy are gone, the bride and groom stand, turn and follow, marching down the center aisle toward th
e double doors. I stand up and watch them leave, along with everyone else, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. Henry puts his arm around me, and gently guides me to the side exit, where he flings open the door.
The snow is falling faster and thicker now, and the shine of it is blinding after the subtle, dim lighting of the cathedral. The streets are loud and vibrant in contrast to the serene atmosphere from which we emerge, and I’m filled with an air of promise, like something is about to happen. Even after this many years of living here, Manhattan still does that to me.
I check my watch. “We have time before our reservation. Are you up for walking down to see the windows at Saks?”
“Your servant, M’lady,” Henry says, helping me down the snowy steps.
I give him the fish-eye. “See, I knew you spent your nights at school under the covers with a flashlight and a Harlequin romance novel!”
He looks affronted. “And why, pray tell, do you not think I speak in the tone of the immortal Bard, Shakespeare himself?”
“Because you’re goofball, that’s why,” I say scooping up a little snow and tossing it at him.
“Why, Miss Bell, I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. It certainly is a far cry from snobby asshat.”
I feel color rise in my face like the mercury in a vintage thermometer, remembering back to when I first him. “Sorry about that.” We cross the street, still arm in arm, dodging the urgent holiday traffic.
“Yes, well, you owe me one for that. And don’t think I won’t cash in when you least expect it.”
“Oh look,” I say, shouldering in among the crowds standing in front of the renowned Fifth Avenue Department Store. “Cinderella!” According to the signs, the theme this year is Fairy Tales in the City: An Enchanted Experience. I hold onto Henry’s arm as I drink in the opulence of the window. In it, a Manhattan skyscraper festooned with jewel-toned decorations and garlands dominates the background, expertly lit with a fantasy of sparkling, flashing, and dotted points of gel-covered lights. Down in front, a Mardi Gras-worthy Cinderella with hair half her own height, decorated with feathers and baubles, extends a pretty foot from where she’s seated in a carriage crowded with life-sized wrapped packages and metallic, reflective Christmas-tree balls. Kneeling on a slanted, velvet-covered bench is her bearded prince, eyes filled with hope, presenting a glass slipper.
“Poor chap,” Henry says. “Careful Charming,” he warns, “things don’t always go according to plan.”
“This one’s a happy ending, Henry. I’ve read the book.”
“It’s not over till it’s over, isn’t that what they say?”
Henry stands slightly behind me, so I don’t have to meet his eyes. “I noticed you lit a candle,” I say.
“I lit two, actually,” he says. One was for my parents.”
I don’t ask about the second one. “If I were Catholic,” I say, continuing to gaze forward at the captivating scene in the window, “I’d light a candle for your poor broken heart.”
“You sound just like my mother.”
I wiggle out from the crowd, and head uptown, and Henry follows.
“Good. She sounds like a smart woman.”
“Don’t waste your prayers. Gruesome as it was, my heart and I dodged a bullet. We’ve survived on our own for a good long while. We’re fine as we are, thanks.”
The bells from St. Patrick’s start to peal, and Henry looks down at his watch. “We’re going to be late.”
“Don’t worry. It’s right around the corner. We’ll make it before the clock stops.” I pick up my pace, dodging tourists, and walking like a real New Yorker. Henry is lagging behind, so I reach backward through the crowd and he takes my hand. We jaywalk across the white blanket of Fifth Avenue, weaving through cabs, limos, and trucks. We are in the front door of the building, and make it through the elevator doors standing open at the ready. Before we know it, we’re hurtling up to the sixty-fifth floor before the bells stop chiming. Quickly, I shuck off my red boots, and replace them with delicate silver high-heeled sandals with crystals along the straps.
Standing up, I take off my coat and fold it over my arm, and fluff my hair in the mirrored surface of the car.
“Well hello, Cinderella,” Henry says, eyeing me appreciatively.
“I don’t want to be her. You said her story wouldn’t have a happy ending.”
“No, I didn’t say that. I said it’s not over till it’s over.” The elevator door opens, and we’re thrust into the middle of the most beautifully decorated room I have ever seen, enveloped in the sounds of a big-band orchestra. “That second candle I lit? It was for you. My wish was for your ending to be happy.”
*****
“You said Rita owed you a favor. It must have been a big one,” I say as I clink my Perfect Manhattan with Henry’s 1915 G&T. He insisted we do old-school cocktails, the kind Bogey and Bacall would drink to complement the retro traditional American menu made with local ingredients. I didn’t think I could be happier with our drinks, until the charismatic maître d’ sets down a poppy seed-flecked amuse bouche in front of each of us. When I pop it into my mouth, it immediately releases a detonation of smoked salmon and tangy, soft cheese. I watch Henry savor, and I’m not lying when I say his eyes roll back in his head.
“Mmm…” he moans. “Dear God in heaven.”
“Our table couldn’t be any better. If Rita aimed to impress, she truly hit the mark,” I say. We’re seated at the edge of the dance floor, with the perfect view of the orchestra, and have a southern view of the city. It looks like I could leap out the window and grab onto the frilly top of the Chrysler Building.
My Manhattan must be going straight to my head, because the next thing I blurt is, “I’m glad you told me you hadn’t been with anyone, or I’d suspect you and Rita had been an item.”
“And what if we had?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Would that have been too big a price to pay for this ringside table to Mr. Michael Bublé?” Circles of light rain down onto our crisp tablecloth from the jumble of crystal chandeliers adorning the ceiling. The affect adds to the otherworldliness of the experience.
I sip my cocktail, and look him straight in the eye. “If that were the cost, I would have just as soon cooked at home, thrown on a CD, and taken in the view on 77th Street.”
I can see that the G&T isn’t doing him a bit of harm, as he smiles recklessly and says, “Jealousy becomes you.”
“I’m not jealous. Just concerned about your honor, that’s all.”
“What if pimping me out to Rita meant getting Hudson back?” he teased, signaling the waiter.
“Then I’d tell you when she says jump, you’d better ask how high, mister!”
“You’re funnier than I imagined you would be,” he says, giving me an appreciative look. “By the way, that shade of deep purple becomes you. I didn’t say it before, but you look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you.” I find myself twisting my napkin in my lap. Compliments embarrass me. Aunt Miranda tells me to throw my shoulders back and own it, but I’m not like that. Still, I feel warmth spreading over me. I can’t tease apart whether it’s from Henry’s words or the cocktail.
“Do you know what you’d like to have this evening?” he asks, gazing at me with those impossibly clear cornflower blue eyes. I bite my drunken tongue before I answer with something flirty that goes one step too far.
The waiter shows up at our table. “I beg your pardon,” he says to me, “but didn’t I see a picture of you on the news? Sitting in Santa’s lap? You’re looking for your dog, right?”
“That’s me.”
“My name is Manuel. I want you to know you have my best wishes and prayers. I don’t know what I’d do if Popcorn ran away. Especially at this time of year. Yes, you certainly have my best wishes,” he says, shaking his head with a faraway look in his eyes. “Are you ready to order this evening?”
“We haven’t had a chance to decide,” Henry tells him. “Could we please h
ave another round, and let you know in a few minutes?”
“Absolutely, sir. I’ll be back momentarily with your cocktails.”
Henry’s eyes flick over the menu. “Have you decided?”
“I’d like you to order for me.”
He cocks his head. “That,” he declares, “Is the last thing I expected to hear.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You, Charlotte Bell, are not one to willingly relinquish control.”
“I haven’t been in control of anything since Hudson took off. Believe me, I’m used to knowing exactly what’s going to happen next. I knew what I was going to eat, and when. I knew what time I’d be going to bed at night. When the cable guy would show up, within a four-hour window. I knew what coat I’d be putting on before I left my door. Nothing, and I mean nothing, in the last few days has gone as I expected.”
“How has that been?”
“Uncomfortable. Nerve-wracking.” I take in his crystal-blue eyes from across the table. “Thrilling.”
“I’ll toast to that,” Henry says, raising his glass. “It’s funny how life conspires to throw you off track, for better or for worse.”
“Oh, I don’t know if it was life that conspired,” I tell him, helping myself to a lighter-than-air yeast roll from the breadbasket.
“Surely you don’t mean that Hudson could be turning the gears that brought you here, to this moment.”
I butter my roll, taking the time to make up my mind about whether I should bother trying to explain. “You don’t know Hudson,” I say, proceeding with caution. “Anything I say is going to sound really out there. I don’t have any concrete, scientific evidence that Hudson, my dog, had a master plan. Of course I don’t. But maybe the way Hudson has affected my life could be part of something immense and mysterious, part of a grand universal scheme.” I check in with Henry to see if I’ve lost him. He’s listening. Encouraged, I forge on. “In my heart, I know it that finding him that day…” I have to pause, and swallow. I don’t want to cry in The Rainbow Room. “I know that finding him that day, when I really needed someone, was no accident. It was like he was waiting in at the back of that shopping bag, waiting for me. Are you with me at all on this?”
A Miracle at Macy's Page 21
