A Miracle at Macy's

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “Hey, you all right there?” Scrivello calls. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m OK. Just a little lightheaded.”

  “I’ll bet you need something to eat,” Craig lectures. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone without stopping to eat a decent meal.” He turns to Henry. “What are you doin’ marching her all over the park in the cold with no food in her belly?”

  “I didn’t…Charlotte, are you hungry?” Henry stammers.

  “I could eat,” I say, realizing that I really was running on fumes.

  “Did you hear that?” Craig demand. “She’s hungry.

  “Yes, I heard.” Henry is ducking and weaving in an attempt to thwart the attentions of Flannel. “I’d be happy to take you for a meal, Charlotte.” Flannel’s flapping lips engulf Henry’s ear, and he emits a strangled, high-pitched noise. “In fact, I’m quite ready to go now.”

  “Well, then. Get the girl somethin’ to eat!”

  “Craig. It’s fine. I will get myself something to eat.”

  “Girl’s hungry, upset about her dog, traipsin’ her all over the damn park,” Craig mutters.

  “I will put her in a cab, and take her someplace to get lunch,” Henry says, hands up, trying to calm the police officer down.

  “Oh, you’ll get her lunch alright,” Craig tells him. “You’ll get her lunch, then you’ll find her dog. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Isn’t that right, Scrivello? Isn’t Hugh Grant over here gonna feed that girl, and then go find her dog?”

  “You heard the man,” Scrivello agrees good-naturedly. “If I were you, I’d get on the job. All right, Flannel. Enough playing. Time to get back to work. Speaking of lunch, we better head back to the station, Curtis.” Henry breathes a sigh of relief as Scrivello guides his horse to the side, to walk with his partner.

  “You take it easy, Charlotte, and don’t think we forgot about you. A friend of mine on the force in Edgewater’s got a soft heart when it comes to lost animals. He’s spreading the word around Jersey.”

  “Thanks, guys. You’ll be the first to know when we find Hudson.”

  “You have any trouble, you call me. You’ve got my cell.” He gives Henry a warning look. “Any kind of trouble. At all.”

  Henry looks affronted, but is smart enough to stay quiet.

  “Thanks, Craig,” I call as the two policemen head uptown.

  I start out across Sheep Meadow, but Henry sprints up and catches me by the elbow. “Where are you going?”

  “To look for my dog in the park.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. Now you’ve called your thugs on me, I have my orders. Come with me, young lady. I know neither how to carve a shiv from a bar of soap, nor how to make toilet wine. I’d venture to guess I wouldn’t last a day in prison.

  He frog marches me over to the 65th Street traverse and hollers, “Taxi!”

  Chapter 5

  “This is really over the top.”

  Perched high above the die-hard joggers and cyclists on the path along the road, in a horse-and-carriage, I’m embarrassed. “I’m not an invalid. I can walk, you know.”

  “There were no taxis to be had,” Henry replies, talking loudly over the steady pounding of hoof beats. “I’m in direct compliance with the New York City police department. I’ve been told to take care of you, and I’m obeying the law.” He unfurls the lap blanket and drapes it over my knees.

  “I’m not a 90-year-old grandma.”

  He looks at me enigmatically. “Yes, I can see that.” A faint smile plays on his lips. “Neverthe-less, it’s cold. It must be near the freezing mark. Can you take us to the edge of the park, driver?”

  “And why not? We’re licensed to go as far as 5th Avenue and Central Park South,” the driver says in a Dublin brogue. “Aren’t we, Whiskey-girl?” Whiskey the pony trots on, head high, and tail flicking.

  I had never, not even once, been in a horse-drawn carriage. I look around to see if anyone is staring. People might think I consider myself a princess. Or that Henry was a doting suitor who’d bundled me up here to pop the question.

  “If you’re cold, you should take the blanket,” I say, shifting it over to Henry’s lap. A few fat snowflakes are starting to fall. One sticks in my eyelash, and I blink it away.

  “No, I insist.” He shifts it back.

  We wrestle like that for a moment, till our driver calls out, “Don’t be daft. Share the shawl. No sense in catching your death. Sure, don’t I wear thermals under me own kit? I’ll wager you’re wearing no such thing.”

  “The man has a point.” Henry says. “May I?”

  I have to admit, the warmth of the wool blanket does warm me up. A sandwich and a hot, caffeinated drink would probably do me a world of good too.

  I stop fussing and Henry smoothes the cheery red, black, and gold plaid blanket across the tops of our thighs. I jump when he tucks it around my waist.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “’S’ok,” I mumble. I can’t remember when a man had touched me with more than a handshake.

  Riding in a horse-and-carriage is preferable to walking, given how out of steam I am at the moment, but no one could accuse this mode of transportation as being high-speed. At this rate, it’s going to be awhile before we reach any midtown diner. I lean back against the quilted leather banquette, and relax. Another carriage approaches going in the opposite direction, that one with a sleek, black horse and a purple interior. The family of four inside wear matching expressions of wonder. As they pass, the young girl, ruddy cheeked and wide-eyed looks like she might burst with joy. She waves at us with ferocity. “Hello, hello! Hey look, it’s snowing!”

  Her excitement is contagious. I can’t help waving back.

  “Good day, young lady,” Henry says, doffing an imaginary hat. “I hope you have a very, merry Christmas.”

  “Mom, he’s English!” The mother nods, impressed. They must be from some small town in the middle of America. I put myself in their shoes. Riding in a Central Park buggy, seeing the pretty tinseled decorations on the lampposts, and being greeted by a man who seems Dickensian to them must be very exciting. I’m happy for them. That little girl will never forget this day. “Merry Christmas,” I shout, getting in the spirit.

  “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” She calls as the carriage disappears behind our backs. Once again, Henry has nailed it with the ladies. He really knows how to read a crowd.

  “Have you ever taken a carriage through Central Park?” I ask.

  He takes a minute to answer. “Yes, once.”

  “Tell me the story.” He dons an expression of protest, but I insist. “You owe me.”

  “How do I owe you?”

  “I want to be on foot right now, looking for my dog, but somehow I’ve ended up on a holiday excursion. But I agree,” I tell him, waving a hand to keep him quiet, “we need to eat. I’ll agree to take a time out before we get back on the hunt. So for now, it’s your job to distract me.”

  “And how shall I do that?”

  “Tell me a story. Take my mind off my troubles. Give my brain a rest. Help me think about something else for now. If I can’t calm down, you’re going to have to detour this buggy to the nearest psychiatrist to get me a big, fat bottle of Valium. So, go.” I close my eyes, and rest my head. I can feel the increase in the number of snowflakes drifting down; they tickle my face.

  “All right, then.” He clears his throat. “Once upon a time there lived a mighty king…”

  “Stop. I mean tell me a story about you. Tell me about the first time you took a buggy ride.”

  “I never have. This one with you is my first.”

  “Hey, come to think of it,” I say, stopping to take a big breath of the crisp, snowy air, “you never told me about The Nutcracker.”

  He doesn’t speak right away. I wait, listening to Whiskey’s hooves, lulled by the motion of the carriage.

  “I was first in New York seven years ago,” he begins slowly. “For work.”

  �
��Go on?” I encourage.

  “This part is difficult to put into words, but even then I knew I had to come back. I felt at home, like I had wound up where I was supposed to be.”

  I open one eye to look at him. He’s not looking at me. He stares ahead into the middle distance. “I was here on my own for nearly two weeks. You see, I’d just been through a bad break-up, so I jumped at the chance for a change of scenery. New York City represented the polar opposite of where I’d come from. Where I’d been trying to get away from, I suppose. In the end, Patricia made it clear that my pedigree wasn’t quite up to her or her family’s standard.” He laughs a mirthless laugh. “She wasn’t the first to point it out, however, and I’d venture to guess that she won’t be the last.”

  I concentrate on keeping my face placid, but I’m listening intently. I’d have laid money on the fact that he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I brush aside the little drift of snow that has piled up on my cheeks.

  “During that first project, my employer provided me with a furnished apartment. I was earning more than I ever had up to that point, and feeling very confident and strong. That being said, I was working long hours that first week, and barely saw daylight.

  Out of the blue, Patricia got in touch via Facebook, and asked if we could be friends again. I had my doubts, but I said yes, and before you know it we were Skyping constantly. I surprised her with very, very expensive last-minute plane tickets, and she joined me here for a wintry week of Manhattan magic. In retrospect, I’d have done better to spend my time sightseeing instead of bedded down behind closed doors. I gave up seats at the ballet, a chance to see a Broadway show. I never even made it to the Empire State Building. I still resent not having seen the city when I had that chance.”

  I peek at him from beneath half-closed lids. His mouth is twisted into a wry knot. “She told me she was in paradise, and never wanted it to end. By the time I returned to England in mid-December, we were back together.”

  “That sounds nice,” I respond cautiously.

  “It was, for a time.”

  Henry stopped talking, and I don’t push it this time. I lie back, savoring the rocking motion of the carriage and pull my half of the blanket up to my chin. It’s nice to just close my eyes and rest.

  “Was it the edge of the park you were wanting?” The driver calls to Henry.

  “That’s right, but there’s nowhere for us to get a bite to eat here. Can you drive on to 5th Avenue?”

  “Of course. On Whiskey-girl!”

  I wait for Henry to continue the story, but he doesn’t. Hoofbeats rhythmically clip-clop, and the air smells like snow. I don’t feel the need to speak. I’m surprised how companionable being around Henry is starting to feel. Or maybe I’m just very tired.

  “This all right?” The driver asks Henry. “I can’t take you farther, but it’s only steps to 57th Street. You’ll find diners and cafes along there.”

  “This is fine. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” Henry gently pulls back the blanket and the shock of the cold rouses me. I take the hand he offers, and step down from the carriage. We’re in front of The Plaza Hotel.

  While Henry pays the driver, I move in close to the side of the building, and flip up the fingers of my gloves so I can text Aunt Miranda.

  Still no sign of Huddie. I’m feeling really down. :(

  I look up to see Henry gesturing with animation while conversing with the driver. He takes a flyer from Henry, and nods solemnly.

  Sorry to hear, Charlotte. Couldn’t be busier! Tell Henry to hurry up and find that dog of yours. Need him back at the office ASAP. Big love to you xo

  That’s about what I expected. Not much of anything in the way of sympathy. I slide my phone into my pocket, and start walking toward Henry. He’s right; we probably should get something to eat very soon. I’m definitely feeing kind of dizzy, now. There’s a little newsstand on the corner. I wave to Henry to hurry, but he doesn’t see me. He’s shaking the driver’s hand, and both of them have smiles on their faces. In the meantime, I pull a flyer out, and head for the guy in the little corner booth. It couldn’t hurt to ask if he’s seen Hudson. We’re not far at all from where the Elfie booth was set up. The proprietor is making change for a customer who seems to have one of each of the papers the guy has on sale. As I wait my turn, I squeeze my eyes together to shake off this dizziness.

  “Yes, miss? What would you like?”

  “Hi,” I say, handing him a flyer. My vision is starting to darken. I concentrate hard, and manage to ask, “I was wondering, have you seen this dog?”

  “Charlotte!” Henry calls, catching up to me. There’s a look of concern on his face, and he bursts into a sprint.

  The newspaper man looks at the flyer, and then picks up the New York Post. He knits his eyebrows together, and holds up a copy of the late edition.

  The headline shouts,

  Times Square Fashion Shoot Goes to the Dogs!

  Underneath is a photo of a jubilant Hudson, his one black eyebrow raised. He’s wearing a heavy gold chain encrusted with emeralds and rubies, and cuddling in the arms of one of the world’s most recognizable supermodels.

  “You mean this dog?” he asks.

  Reeling, I stumble backward off the curb.

  “Lady!” The newspaper man’s eyebrows shoot up and he shoots out from the door of his newsstand. A cacophony of voices with accents from all over the world begin shouting, “Watch out,” and “Get out of the way,” and “Move!” People on the sidewalk wave their arms and point west.

  I look to my right just in time to see the panicked expression of a man piloting an out-of-control pretzel cart zooming down the hilly section of 57th Street.

  And suddenly, everything goes black.

  *****

  I try to open my eyes, but there’s too much glare. Finally, I force open my leaden lids and am blinded by a million tiny lights. I have to close them again.

  “There she is,” a strange voice says from far away. “Welcome back.”

  I feel a cool hand brush the hair back from my face. “Charlotte.” This voice I know. “Henry,” I manage to say. My mouth is so dry. “I saw Hudson.”

  “I know,” he says. “I think we’ve found him.

  “Do I smell mustard?” I ask.

  “Shh, try to rest,” Henry urges.

  I try to sit up, but a pair of firm hands lays me back on the, on the what? I feel the surface with my hands. I’m on a divan, or chaise, and the silk under my skin is cool and fine. I’m not wearing my coat. I look up to see the top of a lush Douglas fir tree, bedecked all in white lights of varying shapes and sizes. Gossamer fabric drapes the branches like a ballgown, and delicate crystal snowflakes dot the surface.

  A good-looking young man of about twenty-five picks up my wrist and squeezes it firmly. He keeps his eyes on his watch, as his partner, a baby-faced older guy writes something on a clipboard. “Pulse steady?” he asks.

  The good-looking one stands up, and gently tucks my arm back into my side. He smiles a dazzlingly white smile inches from my face. He’s still holding my hand when he pronounces, “She’s perfect.”

  I like him, I think. I try to sit up, but my head throbs. He seems nice. I’m aware that I’m smiling back, and I’m also aware that it’s likely I look dopey. He doesn’t seem to be the judgey type, though. I keep staring. We stay that way until Henry interrupts.

  “Very good, then.” He takes my hand from the medic, lays it down, and pats it, maiden aunt-style. I take stock of the room. The tree is the centerpiece, surrounded by a multitude of shiny golden boxes festooned with splendid gilded lace ribbon. The tree is cordoned off with velvet rope, and all around us in the spacious hall are perfectly round live wreaths, taller than men, accented by antique blown-glass ornaments.

  “It’s really something, isn’t it?” The gorgeous guy asks me, face alight with wonder like a little kid’s. “The Plaza Hotel ain’t messin’ around when it comes to Christmas.” I nod in agreement with him. It’s
magnificent.

  “Back to the welfare of the patient,” Henry says, redirecting us. “You’re sure she won’t need to visit the hospital?”

  “No, her vitals are stable, and there’s no sign of heavy trauma from the crash,” the less dashing of the pair says straightforwardly. “Let’s sit her up. If she feels well, we can sign off on leaving her in your care.”

  The handsome EMT slides his arm around my back to pull me to a sitting position. Henry swiftly jumps in on the other side, scowling. “Allow me,” he says.

  “I got this, brah,” he tells Henry, expertly righting me. “It’s my job.” I have to admit, that was pretty smooth.

  Henry ignores him, and speaks directly to the other technician. “Once again, you think the fainting could have been caused by an anxiety attack or possibly dehydration? Or do you think it was a blow to the head with a stale, oversized pretzel?”

  “Please, Mr. Wentworth,” a pulled-together man in a very crisp suit says, taking a glass of water from a tray held by a waiter in a tux. “Here’s a glass of water for the young lady. If she needs medical care, The Plaza will happily accept the bill. On behalf of this establishment, I’d be pleased to offer the two of you a room so she can rest. Let us know how we can make both of you more comfortable.”

  “Should we book a room, Charlotte?” Henry asks me. My mouth falls open. I’m still one step behind. “So you can lie down, of course,” Henry says. “By yourself. I’d be delighted to come with you if you want me. To attend to you. In a medical way.” He clears his throat. “Should I call Miranda?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  Mr. Hermes Tie with Matching Pocket Square sighs dramatically. “Well, thank goodness for that.”

  The efficient EMT tears off a sheet of paper, and hands it to Henry. “Get her hydrated, and make sure she eats. If there are any signs of blurred vision, dizziness, or nausea, get her to a hospital or call 911 immediately. Let’s go, Leo.”