“Yes, I agree that it can feel like souls are brought together for a reason. If I hadn’t met Will back at school, my whole life would be different.” The expression on his face is hard to read. Our table’s candle flickers and shadows play across Henry’s face. “And of course, there’s you.”
That hangs in the air. Before I have a chance to react, the waiter comes to take our orders. “Are you ready, sir?”
“Let me ask the lady,” Henry replies. “Are you quite sure you can tolerate my ordering for you? I know you requested it, but you’re a chef. Do you trust me?”
“I’m finding that there’s something to be said for surprises,” I raise my glass to Henry in a toast, and he nods his head in acknowledgement.
“To pleasant surprises,” he counters, raising his own glass.
“To start,” Henry begins with an air of complete ease, “The lady will have the Maine Diver Scallop Baked in its Shell, and I’ll have the Jersey Farm Beets with Goats’ Cheese and Cress.” He has to speak loudly to be heard over the orchestra’s swingy rendition of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. To a member, everyone in the band could be a concert soloist. It’s hard to believe the lily is about to be gilded with the addition of Michael Bublé. For me, he’s right up there with Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby in the Christmas album department.
“For dinner, she’ll have the Crisp Long Island Roast Duck with Orange-Braised Endive and Huckleberries, and I’d like the Maine Lobster Pot Pie with Black Truffle.” He hands the waiter our menus. “And may we have a bottle of the Billecart-Salmon, Brut Reserve?”
“Of course, sir. Very good,” the waiter says, backing away from the table.
“Thank you,” Henry says, smiling graciously. I sit back in my chair, admiring how polite he is with the wait staff. When I’d first encountered him at the tree lighting, I’d chalked him up to being another James — one who sniffed out the importance of the people around, and saved good manners only for those in a position to help advance him.
“Pardon the interruption,” Henry leans in to say. “We were talking about Hudson and his magic, weren’t we?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. I never said he was magic. You’re trying to paint me as a nutjob. I don’t believe in astrology, and I don’t think there’s a guardian angel on my shoulder interfering in mundane daily occurrences like my grocery orders and my electric bills.”
“I have never thought you were crazy.” He smiles flirtatiously, raising that one eyebrow. “Eccentric, maybe, but not crazy.”
“I’m not eccentric,” I insist. “I’m as normal as rain.”
“And in this day and age, in New York City, that makes you a standout, my dear.”
“Back to Hudson,” I say, staying the course. I really want him to understand me. “I don’t think he’s magic, like he’s a witch or anything.” I try hard to find the words. “But to me, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that he wanted to throw me off kilter. For my own good.” I shake my head. “He showed up in my life to make me comfortable when that’s what I needed. And when I got too comfortable, he rocked the boat. I doubt I can make you see what I see. Never mind.”
“No, go on. Please.” As we talk, the sommelier at Henry’s elbow goes through the elaborate ceremony of uncorking and presenting the wine.
“It’s like you lighting the candles. You have no proof that doing that makes a difference, but on some level you just believe. Anyway, let’s forget it for now.” I take the glass of bubbly I’m offered and sample it. It’s delicious. “Like we said, I’m in the middle of something I can’t control. I’ll just jump off the cliff and see where the wind blows me.
Take tonight for example. Will Hudson show up or won’t he? I don’t know.” I take a long drink of my wine. “And that’s going to have to be OK for now.”
“That’s the spirit,” Henry tells me. His head bobs to the music, and his leg won’t stay still. “I’ve informed the maître d’ that we’re here and waiting should the person show up with Hudson as promised.” Our starters are served, and as we’re enjoying them, the bandleader introduces Michael Bublé. Always inviting, he looks especially friendly tonight, and he treats the intimate crowd to a huge grin, and promises us a night we won’t forget. He looks especially sharp in a slim-cut navy tuxedo and thin silver-cobalt tie reminiscent of rat-pack style. When he launches into the first number, crooning like a champ, fingers snapping and heels tapping, I clap till my hands are sore.
I get lost in the music as my appetizer is cleared and replaced with my entrée. Henry can’t keep still, drumming the table with his fingertips, and jiving along to the bass. I watch the animation in his body. For someone I had classified as a stick-up-the-rear type, he looked surprisingly free and fluid.
A couple glides by our table, doing a slickly executed version of the dance I recognize as The Fox Trot, only because I saw it on Dancing with the Stars. They must be eighty if they’re a day, but they dance like their bodies have never known aches or pains. When the music slows down, giving center stage to the smoky sax, my eye lands on a young couple, dressed in homage to 1940s style. I imagine that they saved for this big night out, and that it is likely a once-in-a-lifetime splurge, or maybe the only Christmas present they’re giving one another this year.
Henry signals to the maître d’ who bends close to Henry’s ear. Henry asks the man something. He looks at me, then looks away quickly, shaking his head. I see Henry slip him a bill, and the man bows slightly, and heads off to attend to another table.
“Would you like dessert?” Henry asks, still bobbing to the rhythm.
“I would,” I tell him, “But I don’t think I have room for it. Listen, don’t let me stop you from dancing. There are plenty of ladies around here who’d probably love to take a spin around the floor with you.”
“Thank you, but I’m happy where I am.”
“Really, I wouldn’t mind. I’d actually like it if you did. As it is, I feel guilty of depriving you of a chance to dance to Michael Bublé at The Rainbow Room. I mean, honestly, how many people in this world have a chance to do something like this?”
“How many people, indeed?” He asks, devilishly, raising his rakish eyebrow. “Won’t you regret having passed up the chance yourself?”
I blush. “It’s just that I don’t dance. You promised you wouldn’t make me.”
“And I won’t,” he says gently. “So please return the favor. I’d rather stay at the table with you than dance with someone else.”
The rest of our wine is poured, and the bottle whisked away. As I soak in the smooth music and glittering atmosphere, it’s as though time has stopped. It would be hard to imagine that down on the streets of New York City people are rushing home from work, picking up their dry cleaning, and popping out to the deli for milk. I breathe in the magic and allow myself to simply be. This moment, I think to myself, this is a very, very good moment.
The music dies down, to only the bass player keeping a steady beat, accompanied by the drummer whispering on the snare with brushes, while Michael Bublé addresses the crowd. “This next song I’m about to do is a song near and dear to my heart, written by some amazing composers and lyricists. Tonight, I send this song out to everyone in the world who is hurting with a wish that they get what they need to heal. And I also send it out to the dreamers who dare to grab happiness where they can find it without worrying who might think it’s right or wrong. You look like you know what I’m talking about, am I right, young lady?” He’s holding out an arm, and pointing straight at me. The whole room turns to look, smiling with expectation. Eyes moistening, I give a small nod.
“That’s right, I know you do,” he says, giving me a megawatt smile that lets me know it’s true. “There’s goodness and right in this world, all we gotta do is believe…”
Smooth as cream, he segues into the lyrics of the lovely song as the orchestra swells to meet his voice. Couples drift onto the dance floor, in a slow sea of movement.
“Come on,
Henry,” I say, rising to my feet. I hold out my hand.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I want to.”
He takes my hand, and leads me onto the parquet floor, expertly slipping one hand around my waist and letting it come to rest on the small of my back. His hand is hot through the silk of my dress’s fitted bodice. He shows me how to hold his other hand, elegantly raised to ear level. And suddenly, I’m dancing.
Almost imperceptibly, he leads me with the palm of his upturned hand, and steers me with the flat of the hand on my body. I close my eyes, worried that if I think too hard, I’ll fall over my feet. Michael Bublé’s voice envelopes the dance floor like warm caramel around a marshmallow, and the smell of dessert wine and chocolate floats on the air. More couples join us on the floor, and Henry pulls me a little closer so that there’s barely any space between us.
“Is this all right?” Henry asks, his breath warm on my neck.
“It’s great,” I say. “Wonderful.” As the music swells to a crescendo, I lay my head on Henry’s shoulder. His neatly trimmed beard brushes my forehead.
“What’s your grown-up wish this Christmas?” he asks me. He hums along to the song, and I can feel his chest vibrating against mine.
“To be with you,” is the first thought that scrolls across my mind. Content and safe in Henry’s solid arms, this is how I want to feel. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, and swallow. I feel confused. Admitting I want Henry, even to myself, is terrifying. I hardly know him, and besides, he’s sworn off love. Add that he’s going back to London, and I’m already mourning the end of an affair that never happened. Then there’s the guilt.
“I want to find Hudson, of course,” I murmur.
“That goes without saying,” he responds, his rich voice making his chest rumble against mine. “But is there anything you want just for you?”
I hesitate. “Other than that, no.”
Up on the stage, Michael and the band are bringing it on home, wrapping the song up with technical prowess and huge amounts of emotion. I open my eyes, and sneak a peek at Henry. I’m startled to find him looking right at me.
“I have a wish for this Christmas.” He tells me, with no trace of teasing or flirting. “Would you like to hear what it is?”
“Yes,” I whisper. And his lips are on mine. I slide both my hands high, encircling his neck, and he gathers me to him. The band eases out of the song, drawing out a high, sweet, poignant chord, and the cymbals ring to a fade. Gently, he pulls back from the kiss and rests his chin on my shoulder, embracing me. For a moment, we just breathe, together. Until I break the silence.
“Me too.”
*****
“Please don’t be sad,” Henry says to me as he unlocks the door to our Waldorf suite. “I’m disappointed Hudson didn’t turn up and the lead was false as well, but on the bright side going out to dinner took your mind off of the waiting for a few hours.” He takes my coat, and hangs it in the hall closet.
I shake out my damp hair. The snow had really picked up, and we walked back from The Rainbow Room, holding hands the whole way. My mind had certainly been taken off of Hudson. I watch Henry as he takes off his overcoat, then his jacket. I take in the broadness of his back as he rolls up his sleeves, and the memory of my hands on his shoulders while we danced sends a jolt to my belly.
My conscience niggles me, so I urge my undisciplined mind to focus “Rather than distract myself, Henry, as much as I’d like to…”
He crosses the room and slides his arms around my waist. “Would you?” he murmurs.
Smiling, I lay both of my palms against his chest and push him gently away. The feel of his firm muscles under the crisp cotton shirt ignites memories in me that have lain dormant for years.
“We have to concentrate on Hudson,” I tell him, forcing myself to disengage from his embrace.
He takes a bottle of Evian from the fridge, and pours us each a tumbler. “Absolutely,” he assures, handing me a glass. “But it’s very late. Our irons are in the fire and the only thing to do at this stage is to wait for developments. But first things first. I’ll do a quick check of all our social media accounts, while you go dry your hair and take off those wet boots before you catch your death of cold. You won’t do your dog a bit of good lying in the consumption ward of the hospital.”
“Consumption! I’m not Camille, this is the 21st century. Further proof that you stay up late reading romantic novels.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. You can speak to my lawyers on the matter,” he says with a mock-arch air. Now, get yourself into a hot shower while I take a peek at our accounts. I doubt much, if anything, has happened in the few hours we’ve been gone.”
I hesitate.
“Go on, then,” he says, taking off his shoes and sitting on the divan. He looks so deliciously casual in his shirtsleeves and socks. “I know you’re worried about Hudson. But I’m not. So far, he’s been treated like a king everywhere he’s gone. It’s just a matter of time before he’s delivered back to your arms. Tomorrow is a new day, and we can tackle getting him back together after a good night’s rest.” He leans back on the couch, his long arm outstretched over the carved back. “Or after a good night, anyway,” he says in a sultry voice.
I feel myself blushing, so I squeak out, “Sounds good,” before turning on my heel and exiting into my room.
The combination of the hot shower with its soothing high water pressure and the effects of the cocktails and sparkling wine I enjoyed with dinner conspire to make me feel very languid indeed. Resting comfortably in the knowledge that capable Henry is on top of fielding all questions and communications regarding Hudson’s search effort, I take the time to give myself the full spa treatment. I scrub, condition, buff, smooth, and anoint. By the time I slide into the plush robe, and blow-dry my hair, I’m feeling a confidence that I’m not used to.
I dip into the cosmetics that Penelope had sent over from Macy’s, this time applying them with a surer hand after watching the in-store makeover artists. I go lightly on everything. I don’t want Henry to think I have big ideas.
My bathrobe is damp, so I rifle through my clothes to find something to wear. There’s my dirty sweat suit. Scratch that. After a day of wearing my fabulous new day wear and evening dress, it looks like an old skin I’ve shed, the way snakes do, because it doesn’t fit anymore. I may have to burn it.
I could get dressed in what I wore today, or in another of the urban-chic day outfits that they sent over, but my hand brushes over the peignoir, and I get a wild tingling in my belly. I hold it up, examining the lace and ribbons. I’ve never worn anything this alluring in all my life. I check the white organdy panels and scrutinize how see-through they are. All opaque. Suggestive, but opaque.
Really, Charlotte, I tell myself, this covers more than your evening dress. And if I cinch the sash properly, I can cover all of my cleavage. I give it a try. Well, most of my cleavage. It’s longer, that’s for sure. It’ll brush the tops of the slippers they sent. Oh, the slippers! I haven’t even looked. I open the shoebox, and inside is a pair of ivory, kitten-heeled, satin brocade slippers with… wait for it… marabou feathers along the peep-toe strap. I’ve only seen these in black and white films or on the Victoria’s Secret runway.
I slide my feet in, and am surprised at how comfortable they are given the wow factor. Maybe I’ll just try on the peignoir, I tell myself, and if it’s too much, I’ll just put my turtleneck back on. Of course, if I’m going to do that, I have to put on the appropriate undergarments. Just for laughs, I slip on the ménage of silky, lacy, shiny, creamy lingerie, and take a look at myself in the full-length mirror.
I’m stunned. I don’t recognize the woman I see as myself. She looks sophisticated, and self-assured. In an out-of-body way, I admit to myself that she’s beautiful. I feel a pang of something I can’t immediately identify. Is it sadness? Regret? It feels like a kind of a loss. I also see fear. What am I getting myself into? I look myself in my green eyes, and give
myself a pep talk.
“Like Henry said, tomorrow is a new day. Change is good.” In my own eyes, I see a slightly scared look, like I might bolt. I breathe in deeply, determined to take care of that girl in the mirror. I repeat my old mantra. “Everything will be fine. Believe.”
Like magic, my spirit feels buoyed up, and a balloon of happiness and hope rises up to my throat and escapes through my mouth as a laugh. What am I worried about? Stepping out in a pretty outfit doesn’t signify that I’m making a proposition. Henry is Henry. He won’t take it the wrong way.
In the glass, I’m surprised to see my head tilt, and my eyebrows raise. But what if he makes a proposition? What will you do then? Quickly, I push the thought from my mind. “Time to go check in on Hudson’s status,” I tell my mirror self. She smirks. “Well, that’s the first thing I plan to do, anyway,” I insist, playfully sticking my tongue out at her and turning on my heel.
*****
When I finally work up the nerve to emerge into the sitting room of the suite, I see Henry sitting on the divan staring intently into his laptop as he types. He’s taken a shower, too, by the looks of it. His hair is slicked back in dark waves, and he’d donned the signature Waldorf bathrobe. His glasses lay on the coffee table, and his electric blue eyes are like beacons in the dimmed light of the room. I consider saying something, but a cat has my tongue. He looks so handsome and inviting, that I’m afraid I’ll repel him with my yearning.
I swallow, and force myself to stand still. I’m a grown woman, for heaven’s sake, and he’s a man who knows his own mind. After all, he kissed me on the dance floor. The thought of it turns my insides to liquid fire. I wait.
When he looks up, his expression changes from concerned to what looks very much to me like enchanted. Suddenly, I feel shy, and I want to retreat to the safety and anonymity of my bedroom. Before my hand reaches the doorknob, Henry has crossed the room and is standing nose-to-nose with me. He takes both of my hands in his, looking deeply into my eyes. His eyes close, and he leans in. My breath catches as I tilt my chin upward, and…his phone rings in his bathrobe pocket.
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