Immediately he turns away and pulls out the phone. “Yes, hello,” he says urgently, holding up a finger to tell me to wait. He goes back to the coffee table, and starts typing very quickly. “No,” he says. “No, that will not work. Are you listening? I said no. Hang on.” Abruptly he stands up from the sofa, and crosses to his bedroom door. “Sorry, Charlotte, this is a real emergency, via Miranda. You’ll have to hang tight.”
Hang tight? I think. What am I, one of your buds? Some flunky from the office? Standing unmoored in the middle of the room wearing my come-hither negligee, I feel exposed and conspicuous. I cross my arms, and wait to see if he’s coming back.
He does, but it’s as a streak through the room. He hurtles out to the common area, picks up a stack of papers, and bullets right back to his bedroom, barking into the phone the entire time. He doesn’t even glance at me. Now I really feel ridiculous. If a red-blooded Englishman would rather advance his career than pay attention to me, I clearly didn’t have the enchanting effect I imagined I did. I try to catch his eye as he storms back through the room, holding up a hand to no avail.
“You must not have heard what I said,” he hollers into the phone. “Do you enjoy being employed?”
That does it. Whatever scales had formed over my eyes had now dropped. Maybe it was the wine, but I must have invented the man who held me in his arms earlier. Henry was nothing more than Miranda’s mini-me. Maybe he viewed me as a diversion while stuck on assignment here at ‘Hudson Central.’ Whatever the case, I wasn’t going to stand around looking the fool. I stomp back into my room, and pull my frilly nightie over my head, replacing it with my terrycloth bathrobe.
I run the water hot as I can, soak a thick white washcloth, and press it to my face. I welcome the burn. It jolts me awake. I use the cloth to scrub off my makeup, and rake a brush through my hair. Just as I’m about to hurl myself into bed and shut off the lights, I hear a knock at the door.
“What do you want?” I yell through the door. I don’t want Henry to see me.
“I want to talk to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re free to get back to work. Good night.”
“Charlotte, open the door.”
“No.” I say. I can hear his feet shuffling on the carpet. I lean my face against the wood. “Go away.”
“Charlotte, please.”
“Just go and do your work.” I close my eyes, feeling the coolness of the door on my hot cheek. “You wouldn’t want Miranda to be disappointed.”
The door jerks open, and I stumble forward, right into Henry’s arms. He sets me upright, and pulls me by the hand to the coffee table. “We have a situation.”
“I don’t think ‘we’ have anything, Henry. In fact, don’t stay here on my account. You should go to back to your office where you’re obviously needed.”
“Look!” he says sternly, pointing to the screen. Trending on Twitter is #HudsonStunt.
“I don’t understand.” I tell him, running my eyes over the various windows he has open on the two laptops sitting on the table. I can’t make immediate sense of it, but judging from Henry’s demeanor I can tell it’s not good. Henry flips through various windows on the computer to show me how the public is saying the plea to find Hudson has all been a stunt. The PetCorps pet food Facebook page is filled with nasty jabs about the company playing on people’s heartstrings during Christmas to make a buck.
Henry shows me a site called Where on Earth is Hudson? that has a moving circle, and a message board on which you can “share your adventures with Hudson.” I scan the page. The stories range from being taken about a spaceship in an alien abduction with Hudson, to a tale about Hudson partying in Fiji with Jay-Z and Beyoncé, complete with photoshopped pictures, to something so obscene, I scream and flap my hands.
Another website parodies the Bill Murray sighting website, done up in the same fonts and formats as the one about the famous comedic star. “It gets worse,” Henry tells me. He googles Hudson + Lost Dog + Christmas and shows me that YouTube features parody songs to the tunes of How Much Is that Doggy in the Window? and The Little Drummer Boy talking about what a scam the Hudson story has been. On Gawker, there’s a photo of a milk carton with Hudson’s picture on it, with a caption that says, Have you seen our scruples?
I click on a few other windows he has up, and there’s the photo of me sitting in Santa’s lap prominently featured on Yahoo’s landing page, under a headline that reads, Grieving or Thieving: You Be The Judge. I call up another story entitled, Beauty and the Busted: Supermodel Ruby in Cahoots with Santa Scheme?
“Ohmigosh! You have got to be kidding me.”
Henry pulls the laptop from my hands. His expression is dark. “Don’t read anymore. It will just upset you. Our hunt for Hudson has gone from a search and rescue mission, to a novelty reminiscent of Where’s Waldo to a huge backlash. I am going to take control of this thing if I have to stay up all night.” He turns his attention back to his phone, texting furiously.
I look at Henry with new eyes, feeling guilty. I should have been grateful, not judgmental. If there’s anything I need right now, it’s a Miranda clone. I feel sick at my stomach wondering if people will stop being charitable to Hudson now that these nasty rumors are spreading. My poor little dog. My hands start to shake.
“Henry, I’m scared.” Up till now, Hudson really had depended on the kindness of strangers. I take a moment to send a plea out to the universe that people will continue being kind.
“Everything will be fine,” he says, typing. He looks up, with an expression of pure conviction, “Believe me.”
I do.
“Ok,” I tell him. “What do I do next?”
He sighs, and puts his glasses back on. “To be honest, the very best thing you can do is leave me to it. I work better without distractions, and as diligent as I am, after seeing you in that nightie, you are proving to be the mother of all distractions.”
“You want me to go away?”
“Want isn’t the word, no.” For a moment, the driven expression he’s been wearing fades, and flashes a wistful smile in my direction. “But it’s for the best. The internet is a nasty neighborhood. You don’t want to go there at night. When people are anonymous, they’ll post all sorts of ugly lies and filthy language just to get a rise out of their victims. I don’t want you feeling bullied. I’ll have this sorted before morning. In the meantime, you should get some sleep and leave it to me.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Sometimes what’s right isn’t fair. I want to get Hudson back for you.” He rubs his eye under his glasses with his balled-up fist. “This really is the best solution.”
As much as part of me wishes this night had played out differently, I had to agree. My only port in this storm is seeing Henry in action. He looks so capable and confident, and fully engaged in work mode. I will myself to pull away. My being emotional in front of Henry right now would blur his focus.
“Thanks for what you’re doing. I’ll leave you to it.” Whatever I’d hoped might happen with Henry, however vague my plans might have been, at this moment Hudson’s safety trumped everything. He nods in affirmation, lips a tight line, and ducks back into the laptop.
Just as my door is closing, I hear, “Charlotte.”
I open the door a crack, and call, “Yes?”
“Tonight was a good night.”
“One of the best,” I reply.
*****
I wake up to the smell of coffee. The cracks of light around the curtains are dim. I check the clock on the bedside table. 6:49. I splash water on my face, drag a comb through my hair, and quickly brush my teeth. I pull on my hotel robe, and head out to check on Henry’s progress.
“What happened? Do we have him back?” I ask, bursting through the door. Henry stands at the buffet, pouring coffee from a silver pot. His hair is wet, and he’s wearing nothing but a white hotel towel around his waist. His face is serious. He doesn’t seem to have heard me. “Henry?�
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“Oh, good morning.” He barely glances my way. He looks preoccupied, and I’m immediately worried. Given Henry’s usual courtly manners, I’d have expected him to have dressed before coming into the common room, or barring that, to have pardoned himself for being half-naked. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. He appears to have bigger issues on his mind.
“We don’t have Hudson back, do we?”
“No, we don’t.” he says laconically. His phone buzzes on the table, and he darts to pick it up and check it. He takes a big slug of his coffee as he reads the screen.
“Were you up all night?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says, avoiding the question. He sets his coffee down, and types something into his phone.
Then I see it. On the service cart that must have brought the coffee in lies Hudson’s harness. “Henry? Where did this come from?”
He sighs and looks up. “Charlotte, why don’t you try to catch a few more hours of sleep?”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.” There’s a torn envelope and a note on the coffee table. Henry sees me notice it, and he lunges to grab it. I get there first.
“Don’t read that.”
Ignoring him, I unfold it.
“Give that to me,” he says, holding out his hand.
You Want Your Dog. I Want Your Money.
I’ll Call Tonight at 3 a.m. To Give You Instructions.
“Oh my God!”
“It’s more than likely a hoax,” he tells me, hand on his forehead, massaging his temples. “I didn’t want you to see that. I knew it would worry you. I had planned to be up and out before you woke up.”
“But Hudson’s been kidnapped! You weren’t going to tell me.” My blood is ice.
“I’ve been in touch with your policeman friend Craig since the middle of the night. The package showed up at the concierge desk not long after you went to sleep. He talked to his mates on the force who deal with this sort of thing. They all agree that it isn’t credible. Nevertheless, they have detectives following up on it. It pays to have friends in high places.”
I concentrate with all my might, trying to figure out what I should do next. Nothing comes to me. The panicky feeling comes back, the one from the beginning of all this, that makes my limbs go numb and my brain hum like a radio that can’t be tuned in.
“I feel so guilty, Henry. Like I haven’t taken this seriously enough. Like I’ve been playing a game.”
“Nonsense. You’ve done exactly the right thing every step of the way. It’s just different now.” He clenches his jaw, and shakes his head. “Something has shifted. I have to change tacks. I’ve got a new plan,” he says, eyes darting, “but I have to act quickly.”
“What is it?”
“It would take longer to explain than to act on it,” he says, taking the last drink of coffee from his cup, setting it down, and heading for his room. “I’m going to get dressed, then I have to go out. I think I know a way to get out in front of this thing.”
“Henry!”
“Just let me dress. Won’t be a minute,” he says, closing the door.
I race into my room, and rip open the Macy’s packages, looking for something to wear. I grab the first things I see that are suitable: A pair of dark-wash jeans, a long slim winter-white cashmere scoopneck, and a silver asymmetrical tunic sweater with a loose, lacy weave. I pull my hair up into a messy bun, and pull on some socks, and my red boots. I rip back the curtains. The sun is up, and snow is still coming down. There’s about two inches on the ground, and it’s still accumulating. Cars are moving, but cautiously. I wonder if Hudson is safe indoors. Oh, please let Hudson be safe.
By the time I hit the common room, Henry is already in suit trousers with a fresh shirt and demure tie, and he’s sitting on the sofa tying his brogues.
“Wherever you’re going, I’m going with you.”
“You can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go call in favors and work my charm.”
“To do what?”
He finishes tying his shoe, stands up, and pushes his arms through his jacket sleeves. He deftly buttons up with one hand, and shrugs on his overcoat.
“How do I look? And please don’t say like a desperate mad man with ghastly dark circles under his eyes?”
He looks good. Better than good. Whomever he’s going to charm doesn’t stand a chance, I think with a twinge of jealousy. “You look great. But you have to tell me what’s going on. Are you going to meet with Aunt Miranda?”
“No, this is bigger even than her. Listen Charlotte, I’m actually quite nervous. Would you please just trust me? Just for a few hours? Give me some space to do this.”
I huff in exasperation. “OK. Yes! Of course.” I know he has Hudson’s, and my, best interests at heart. “But what am I supposed to do with myself while I wait?”
He has one hand on the doorknob to leave the suite. My heart flutters in trepidation. We haven’t been apart for some time now. I don’t savor the thought of being alone. “Why don’t you make a round of calls to your friends?”
What friends, I think to myself. I don’t say it out loud because it sounds pathetic.
“Charlotte? Are you going to be all right?” Henry pauses in the doorway, looking concerned.
“Go,” I tell him, putting on what I hope is a brave face. “Everything will be fine.”
I wonder if that’s true as I watch the door close behind him.
Chapter 10
The bell to the shop tingalings as I push my way in the door. I realize I’ve tracked in a good deal of snow, and I stare down at my boots wondering if I should try brushing it back out onto the sidewalk.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Rabinowitz bellows, rushing toward me with her coat on. “A little snow, a little dirt…it’s a floor. Floors can be cleaned.” She barrels at me, arms open, and before I know it, my face is pressed against the mothball-scented shoulder of what I’m guessing is one of her best dress coats. She’s paired it with a feathered pillbox hat with a puff of net emanating from the top. She must be on her way somewhere.
“I’ve been worried sick. Sick, I tell you! That Henry of yours should have been in touch every hour on the hour.” She holds me at arm’s length, scanning my face. “How are you holding up, my darling?”
“To be honest, just barely.” It feels good to tell the truth. She clucks over me, “Of course you’re a wreck. I heard all about it. Sheldon, my delivery boy,” she says, tilting her head toward a tall young man with a long, skinny neck and choppy haircut, “is a computer genius. When he’s not helping manage the shop, he’s on the Apples and the Macs and all the rest. He told me what they’ve been saying about you on the FacePage and the Tweetings. Shame on them! Some people are born to spoil the world for others.” She pats my cheek. “But let’s not dwell. My people have persevered through the ages by keeping our eyes on our own papers, as the saying goes. What brings you here? Not that you’re not always welcome.”
“I’m not sure.” Heart in my throat, I tell her “I guess I just wanted to see you. Henry told me to check in with my friends. And, well, I got in a cab, and wound up here.”
“Good girl,” she says, filled with enthusiasm. “You did the right thing! I’m always here to help. But here’s the thing: I’m running out the door as we speak. I don’t like to boast, but I happen to be chairwoman of Upper West Side Together, an interfaith social justice organization. I started off working with the ladies’ Hadassah group at our synagogue, and the next thing you know, this! Who knew? It’s a great honor,” she tells me, puffing up her chest. “I’m on my way to a luncheon at Gracie Mansion, if you can imagine such a thing. We’re presenting the mayor with a plaque in recognition of her work to fight homelessness, and a check for the funds we’ve raised for the cause. It’s a real to-do. The local television stations are covering it, and National Public Radio, and the papers. The whole works.”
“Oh, don’t let me hold you up, then.” I feel shy about the fact that I’ve come looking f
or sympathy when she’s already done more than her part.
“What? You? Hold me up? For you and Hudson, I’d let the president of these United States wait. If you need something, I’m all ears. Forget the mayor,” Mrs. Rabinowitz says, “I have all the time in the world for you.”
An idea flashes through my head. But could I even ask for such a big favor.
“What? What is it, my dear? I can see you have something on your mind.”
I decide to go for it. What could happen? Would Mrs. Rabinowitz really shun me for asking for a favor? She’d already more than proven her devotion to me. I take a deep breath, and blurt it out. “Mrs. R, do you think you’d be able to tell the mayor about Hudson?”
She knits her brow, clearly giving it some thought. For a second, I’m worried she might scold me, but then a wide smile takes over her comforting face.
“Charlotte, you’ve got a wonderful keppy on your shoulders. That’s a stroke of genius! If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, this could be the thing that brings Hudson home to you. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her. “Go on.”
“You’ve seen pictures of our mayor at home, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she hasn’t yet been blessed with children, but who always shows up in her photos, besides her husband, the First Gentleman, of course?”
“Fritz and Freckles.”
“Boom! You didn’t even have to stop and think. Our mayor loves her dogs! We talked about it at the tea I was fortunate enough to attend after her inauguration. Such a smart girl you are.” Mrs. Rabinowitz runs back and unpins the photo of Hudson from her bulletin board. “Leave it to me. Those no-goodniks badmouthing you and Hudson all over the social media won’t hold a candle to the mayor of New York City singing your praises and asking for help.”
I’m overwhelmed. “Mrs. Rabinowitz, that’s a huge thing to ask of you.”
A Miracle at Macy's Page 23