Читать книгу A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas - Lynn Hulsman Marie - Страница 7

They say dogs are man’s best friend and that a woman’s not a woman until she’s a wife. Wrong! I’m here to tell you that the most natural match in the world is a girl and her dog…end of.

Take me and Hudson, for example. We couldn’t be happier. Ever since the magical day I found him wet and skinny, huddled in the back of a Macy’s shopping bag. You know the one. With the big red star on it? Since the day I saved him, we’ve been each other’s family. Well, that’s not the whole story. I mean, the family part is. But if I were to be honest, I’d have to admit that he saved me as much as I saved him. Maybe more.

“Harf! Harf, harf!”

“Quiet, Huddie,” I scold, as he comes tearing into the kitchen, claws skittering over the polished wood floor, launched from his cozy nest on the sofa. “It’s early. You’ll wake the whole building.”

“Worf!” Not only does my little mutt keep barking, he also has the nerve to start jumping against the kitchen island where I’m up to my elbows grating frozen beef fat (suet, to those in the know) so I can to test a recipe for traditional English mincemeat Christmas pies.

‘It’s a marshmallow world in the winter…when the snow comes to cover the grouuuund…’

“Oh, the phone! Of course. You are a wonder dog, aren’t you?” My December ringtone is the jaunty Dean Martin rendition of one of my favorite retro holiday songs. I should have guessed. Hudson has a knack for barking right before my phone rings. I chalk it up to being a version of that thing animals do when they sense earthquakes and tsunamis.

“Rowf!”

“Yes, the phone. I hear it, Huddie. I’m getting it. It’s not life and death,” I say wiping my hand on a freshly bleached, extra-large Williams-Sonoma kitchen towel. “I do have voicemail, you know.”

“Hello darling, I scarcely have a minute to breathe, never mind visiting the loo, but I promised I’d ring you this week. I’m told you’re in my diary, so here I am.”

It’s Aunt Miranda. If she were Native American, her name would be more “Bursts in Frantic,” than one of the more traditional, serene names like, “Walks with Nature” or “Drifts on Clouds.”

“Good morning, Aunt Miranda,” I say slipping Hudson a pinch of the suet. He’s considerate enough to nibble it gently out from between my fingers. I know that took disciplined restraint on his part. “I’ve missed you too.” Hudson finishes his morsel, and rubs against my leg to give me a hug.

“Now Charlotte, don’t be like that! You know I always miss you, it’s only my hair’s on fire with the Rockefeller Tree Lighting tonight. As you know, those early December blizzards really threw a spanner in the works. We had this planned for the week after Thanksgiving, the way it has been for years and years. But they’ve only just managed to resurface the skating rink after the weight of the snow caused that massive crack. The commissioner only just declared it safe to the public. Pulling off this huge event this close to Christmas Day will be the triumph of my career. Between you, me, and the lamppost, it’s going to be spectacular.”

It amazes me how Aunt Miranda can talk a mile a minute when she’s downloading information to me, but the second she’s in the presence of a client or celebrity, she’s as measured and gracious as The Queen. Her chameleon-like ability to adapt has catapulted her the top of her field. My Aunt Miranda is a party planner on steroids. She produces major events all over the globe, ranging from celebrity weddings, to movie openings, to charity marathons, to high-profile ribbon cuttings. Her company, Nichols Bespoke Events, is, as they say, a major player.

“Sounds awesome.”

“Awesome? Honestly Charlotte, one would imagine you were born in The States and educated on a Disney cruise ship, rather than born in England and educated in the finest public schools.”

“You mean the finest boarding schools where you could chuck me on the Northeastern coast. I’ve lived in America longer than in England. I moved here when I was 12.”

“I know very well when you moved here. I raised you, if you’ll remember.”

“Sort of,” I mumbled.

“What’s that?” Miranda shouts, not bothering to muffle the phone with her hand. “NO! Shandelle, the horse blankets belong in wardrobe! And tell craft services to track down those cases of NutriWater. If we don’t have Pomegranate-Acai, then we don’t have Miss Miranda Lambert in a fringed jacket and cowboy boots handing over a billboard-sized check to Toys for Tots in front of millions of television viewers! No. I said pomegranate! It’s the pink one. Do you enjoy being employed?!!”

I pick up a microplane grater and calmly begin shaving nutmeg seeds into a bowl. It’s been my experience that Aunt Miranda’s tirades can go on so long that she forgets about me and walks away from her phone. I shouldn’t have picked up. This call is throwing me off my schedule. I have a plan for the day, as usual. There is very little that makes me happier than a solid plan.

 Today’s agenda:

 1. Test the recipe for Mince Pies

 2. Update The Cozy Brownstone Kitchen, (Maybe a blog post on Potted Meat?) and respond to questions from my followers

 3. Go to the butcher to pick up the crown roast I ordered for my next recipe test

 4. Make lunch for myself and Huddie and eat it together while watching the end of You’ve Got Mail

 5. Research the origins of the preservation of Potted Prawns in the days before refrigeration

 6. Prepare said crown roast, with an array of winter vegetables

 7. Test a recipe for a Bakewell Tart,

 8. Watch some animal planet with Hudson, and maybe the first part of Love, Actually

 9. Early bedtime with my fat new Harlequin Superromance novel and Hudson (he never judges what I read)

Perfection!

“…and the baby for the crèche scene needs a laminate,” Aunt Miranda is still shouting. “Strangling hazard? So remove the cord and pin it onto his pyjamas, do I have to solve every problem? What? Then Velcro it! It’s not rocket science. Of COURSE the mother needs an all-access pass as well. Do you think the baby is going to climb up into the manger and swaddle himself? Why are you still standing here? GO!”

“Right then, sorry about the interruption,” she says smoothly transitioning back to me. “Charlotte, dear, I’m ringing to respond to your invitations to Christmas Eve brunch and Christmas dinner. I have some very big deals in the works, and I’m not at liberty to discuss them at this point, confidentiality agreements, meow meow, etcetera. At this point I’m afraid I still can’t commit.”

None of this comes a surprise, of course. Aunt Miranda may be my only family, apart from a few very distant cousins numerous-times removed who live in far-flung tiny villages dotting England and Wales, but she is first and foremost a businesswoman.

“Oh,” I respond, trying not to sound disappointed, “it’s just that I’ve already blogged that I might have a crowd here in the brownstone so I can serve the traditional English feasts I’ve been working on recently. I mean, this is a really good way to test the recipes for the cookbook I’m researching. I’m told by my agent, Beverly, it’s expected to sell big.” This latest cookbook, The English Manor Cookbook: Traditional Meals for Holidays, Shoot Lunches, and More, is due out next year.

Hudson takes advantage of my being distracted by climbing onto a kitchen chair and straining his pointy little muzzle toward the bowl of beef fat. I swat him away. “Hey you, you had your share.”

Sometimes I forget he’s a dog and treat him like a person, but his animal instincts come roaring to the forefront when there’s raw meat within smelling distance. “Huddie, shoo!” Disappointed, he hops down, and slinks to his basket in the corner of the kitchen.

Aunt Miranda sighs down the phone line. “Why can’t you just fly off to Saint Thomas like other sane, single young women and forget Christmas is even happening?”

I hear the subtext: Because that would be so much more convenient for me.

“That’s what I’d do…” she continues. “A few frozen cocktails, a chaise lounge, a bottle of tanning oil, a personal butler. Before you know it, Christmas will be done and dusted, and you’ll come home bronzed and more relaxed than you’ve been in years, if you catch my meaning.”

“Subtle, Aunt Miranda. Is that how you speak to the Dalai Lama when you’re overseeing his blessing ceremonies? Anyway, I don’t want to leave New York at Christmas time. I’m planning to put up my tree tomorrow.” I feel a frisson of pleasure buzz up the back of my neck. I love everything about having a real, living Christmas tree. I love choosing it, I love springing the branches free from the bundling, I love the herbal floral fragrance, and I just adore draping it in lights. “You should try it some year.”

“What’s the point? I’m never at home. Besides, if I wanted a sticky pine tree swathed in handmade ornaments and drugstore tinsel, I have people for that. You know, Charlotte, you could have people, too.”

“I don’t need people.” I lean over and give Hudson a little scratch on the belly. He twitches, and bicycles his stubby legs. He smiles a blissed-out smile.

“I’m saying that I have connections. I could give you a leg up to a real career.”

“I have a real career.” I pick up my nutmeg and begin grating with renewed determination.

“Pfft! When are you going to stop testing recipes for cookbook authors, and write a cookbook of your own? For heaven’s sake, how many awards did you walk away with when you graduated from The Culinary Institute of America? I’d never have sanctioned your turning your back on university in favor of The CIA had I known you’d toss out any chance of success and waste your time with that little blog.”

“This recipe testing and my ‘little blog,’ happen to pay my bills, thank you very much. I’m getting more and more paying sponsors every day. Since last month, 37 more members have signed up.”

“Ah, yes, your ‘Charlotte’s Chefs.’ Has it ever occurred to you, young lady, that you spend more time with the followers on your blog than you do with live humans?”

“Charlotte’s chefs are live humans.”

“Technically, yes, but you must see my point. A 26-year-old girl shouldn’t rely on online friendships and a stray dog as her entire social sphere. She should be out in the city, getting dirty and making mistakes. Speaking of dirty, have you heard from James?”

My back stiffens as I accidentally hack a large chunk of skin off of my knuckle. “Ouch,” I cry, chucking the microplane and the nutmeg into the sink. “No, I have not heard from James, and I’ve asked you repeatedly not to bring him up.” I crouch down on the floor, gather Hudson into a hug, and suck on my wounded finger.

“With your talent and his star-power, you could be someone by now. I know you blew your chance by turning James down way back when, but I’ve an idea he’d welcome you back with open arms. Team up with a real player like that firecracker, and you’d be a New York Times columnist and a leading restaurateur in short order. Your literary agent, the one who gets you all those testing jobs… what’s his name? Beverly Chestnut! That’s it. He’s said as much a number of times. What a character that man is! Ha! The bolo tie he wore to the World Literacy Fund Charity Ball slayed me. Genius! All I’m saying, darling, is that you could be someplace in this world.”

“I am someplace in this world.” I look around my cozy kitchen, decorated just the way I like it with a combination of French country touches, and mid-century appliances. “I’m where I want to be.” Hudson turns in a circle, and snuggles into my lap, burrowing with his little, pear-shaped head. I give him a scratch behind the ears. He fusses a little, then settles in the crook of my knee.

Aunt Miranda sighs. “I care about you, Charlotte, I truly do, but I’ll never understand you.”

I notice the clock, and see that the day is getting away from me. “So, is there a chance you’ll come to Christmas brunch or dinner, or is it an absolute ‘no?’”

“One moment Charlotte… I beg your pardon! Of course we cannot supply cocaine to the on-air talent. Who do you think I am? The concierge of the Chateau Marmont.”

I put the phone down on the counter. Maybe I can make some apple butter, I think to myself while Miranda rants on, with lots of clove. That’ll be so warm and yummy for the winter. Hmm…when will I be able to hit Fairway to see what they have in the way of decent New York State apples…?

“Charlotte, are you there, darling?”

“I’m here,” I say firing up my Nespresso machine to make a nice, steaming double-shot cappuccino.

“As I was saying Charlotte… Actually, hold the phone. You’d better tell that talent wrangler that if any pop star, politician, or for that matter, Muppet, is too high to sing in the final number, he’ll be looking for a job come New Year’s! Sorry darling, it’s a madhouse here. Tell you what, come down to the tree lighting tonight and we’ll discuss. I really can’t stay on the line.”

“No thanks,” I say, pulling my antique, hand-cranked food mill from under the sink. “I’m going to watch it on TV.”

“Darling, you must come. It’s the pinnacle of my event-planning career to date, and I’m not going to be very English about it and pretend it’s really nothing. Taking a leaf from the Americans’ books, I’ll simply say it. If I pull this off, I’ll frankly be one of the top global Production Directors, period. Hello Cannes! Hello coronation of Prince William! Say you’ll pop round.”

I glance over at Hudson snoring lightly in his warm bed. I don’t want to go out for walkies today, much less eject myself into one of the single-most crowded events on the island of Manhattan.

“I don’t know…”

“Super. The broadcast starts at 7, and the lights go on at 9. I’ll phone or text you later. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Before I can argue, she’s put down the phone. I’m on a schedule, too, you know. Maybe I’m not organizing the lighting of the tallest tree in the Northeastern U.S., but I have responsibilities. I stomp my foot and let out a scream of exasperation, waking Hudson.

He leaps out of his bed and runs from the kitchen to the hallway. I hear a ching ching and I don’t even have to turn my back to know that my determined little roommate is rattling his tags, leaping up against the wall under the little blue plastic IKEA hook shaped like a dog’s rear end. He’s trying to grab his leash.

“Seriously? I have a countertop covered in mincemeat and dough waiting to be made into tiny pies. You’d love a mincemeat pie, wouldn’t you, boy?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Besides, I haven’t had enough coffee yet. Do you really need to change the game plan?”

With one concerted leap, he snatches the loop of the leash in his muzzle. He stands there, staring.

“No, I won’t do it.” I cross my arms in defiance.

“Both you and Aunt Miranda need to learn to respect my boundaries.”

No response.

“I know you don’t need to do business. You always hold it until 11:30.”

More staring.

“The answer is no.” I turn my back on him. “Schedules are healthy. I read that all the best parents keep their children on schedules. I had no parameters when I was little, no rules. I read in Psychology Today that can make you feel unsafe.” I peek over my shoulder.

Hudson hasn’t moved a muscle. I wonder if he’s breathing. He doesn’t even blink.

“Hudson…”

Still as a statue.

“Oh, OK!” I heave myself out of my desk chair and pull my coat from the rack.

Hudson breaks his freeze, and begins a frenzy of circling, first one way, and then the other. I crack up. “Do you love me?” I ask him. He runs at me, and banks off my calf. He’s scratching frantically at my leg, as if to climb me. I know he wants to give me a kiss, so I bend down so we’re nose to nose. He gives me a bounty of face-licks, then stretches his neck out so it fits in the crook of my own. He rubs his cheek against mine, with a few upward jerks. “Aw … huggies!” I say. It’s a thing we do. “You do love me! Sweet boy. OK, we’re going out,” I explain, pulling on my knit hat, “but we’re not going to the dog park. This is just a quick relief break, then I’m coming back to make coffee, and get back to work. Got it?”

I click the ring of his leash onto his harness, and hold open the door.

“Did you hear me? Five minutes. That’s final.”

For a quick second, his eyes twinkle before he bounds onto the landing, and skitters down the stairs.

*****

Scratching to get in the park gate, Hudson pulls hard on his leash as I juggle my Starbucks flat white. It spills all over my mittens.

“Huddie, there’s a reason we make coffee at home. You talked me into leaving the house against my will, can you at least be patient?” I fumble with first one gate, then another. There are always two gates at dog runs: Opening them one at a time contains the “flight risks.” Once we’re inside, I squat down try to unfasten the ring on Hudson’s leash, while maintaining my balance. A man with sunny reddish-blonde, curly hair and warm, brown eyes smiles at me. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

“He’s a handful, all right,” I mumble. Hudson whines impatiently.

“Doesn’t the run look fantastic? The community board pitched in funds for all these twinkle lights and the decorations. I hardly recognize the place with all the Christmas trimmings.”

I take a minute to glance around. It’s breathtaking. The chain-link fence is festooned with glowing shapes made from strings of lights: A dog bone, the outline of a dog, a dog’s face, a dog dish that says “Spot,” on it. And there are various sizes of Christmas tree in every corner, decorated with strings of popcorn.

“Oh, wow,” I whisper involuntarily.

“I know, right? I heard they chose popcorn for the trees since it’s biodegradable. Peeing on them is encouraged. By the dogs, of course. Merry Christmas to them.”

Now I'm on my knees in the dirt and gravel, still struggling to free Hudson. I perch my coffee carefully on a large rock.

“Listen, Puppy Dog,” I say, “you have to stop pulling if you want me to undo this.” He’s spied some of his neighborhood dog friends and he’s eager to get into the mix.

“Hold still,” I tell him. “And before you run off, remember this: We’re only staying five minutes. Don’t look at me like that. I know I said that before, but I really do mean it. Pay attention to the time. I don’t want to have to embarrass you in front of your friends.”

He’s panting with expectation, and his curled tongue and open mouth form a goofy grin. I finally manage to free him from his restraint, and he races toward the clump of canines like a shot. He jumps up to nip the nape of a young Great Dane’s neck, and the oversized pup swings around playfully, nearly taking out a couple of Chihuahuas with his huge feet. The look of sheer joy on Hudson’s face as he throws himself into the throng of dogs makes me smile. The blonde guy catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. He thinks I was smiling at him!

“Oh, no,” I mumble, waving my hand as if to erase the moment. “I was… well, my dog…” I say pointing.

Embarrassed, I take a seat on one of the benches along the edge of the fence. The air is cold, but it’s warm in the midmorning winter sun. I loosen my scarf and take in the twinkly scene, trying to relax. I can’t help looking at my watch. I really wanted to start baking by now. I eat lunch at one and this unplanned trip is throwing off my schedule. There is no way I’m going to the tree lighting. Relax, I tell myself. Five minutes, I promise myself. Five minutes.

Not far away, groups of school children are filing off of yellow buses and up the path to the Natural History Museum. They’re nearly as frisky as the puppies in the park. I don’t imagine much schoolwork gets done in the run-up to Christmas.

On the corner of 81st, a group of musicians circle up and take out instruments, setting their cases in a bunch near a handler. A mom sits on the bench opposite me, and lifts her toddler out of a stroller. He’s wearing a knitted hat with reindeer antlers attached. The baby babbles and points at me. I can feel my cheeks start to turn pink.

“Yes, that’s a pretty lady,” the mom says. The baby squeals, delighted, and points again. I wish the baby would focus on someone else. I pretend to be concentrating on picking Hudson out of the pack. Four more minutes, I tell myself, picking at a thread on my sweater sleeve.

Hudson comes tearing toward me, running so fast that he’s scooping up gravel and flinging it behind himself with every bound. He comes to a stop and bangs into my knees. He shakes all over, and looks up at me, tongue still curled, goofy smile still in place.

“Hello, my baby,” I say, scratching his ears. “Are you having fun?” My shoulders drop. Maybe we can stay for 10 minutes. It makes him so happy.

“Who’s a good boy?” I bend down to let him lick my cheek and I nuzzle his whiskery snout. “You’re a good boy, right Hudson?”

“His name is Hudson? That’s my son’s name!” The guy with the curly blonde hair comes walking up to the bench. I straighten up, and look at his face. He’s handsome, and I cannot pull my eyes away. Seconds pass as I try to think of something to say that won’t sound weird.

C’mon Charlotte, I coach myself, he’s waiting. It’s been awhile since I’ve made conversation with a guy. Or anyone, really. I try to think of the last time I talked to someone face-to-face. Was it yesterday? The day before? I’m still staring. He’s still waiting. Just say something, I tell myself. Anything.

“I named him after the deli where I found him,” I finally blurt. “He’d been living in the trash.”

“Hey, that’s what happened with my son!”

I stiffen, and suck in some air. “Really? I’m so sorry…or I guess, I mean, that’s great…?”

He bursts out with a deep belly laugh. “I’m joking!” He sits down on the bench beside me. Hudson is my ex-wife’s surname, so we thought, you know, since he’d have my last name, that it was nice that he’d have something of hers. Do you have kids?”

“No,” I say simply. I don’t elaborate, but I feel like he’s waiting for more of an explanation. He probably thinks something’s wrong with me. I want to tell him that I’m not even married, but saying that might sound like I’m coming on to him. I try to think of something else to talk about. “No,” I say again. Good one, Charlotte! I notice that Hudson has jumped up onto the bench beside the man, and is nuzzling his snout into his armpit. “Just… no.”

“Well,” he says “this little Westie must keep you busy.” I don’t bother to mention that Hudson is a mutt. Everyone who meets him assigns him a breed. It’s like they see what’s familiar, and decide that’s what he is. The man leans back against the fence and stretches out his long legs. “Does your mommy spoil you, Hudson?” The way Hudson is pushing his head under the man’s arm makes it look like he’s nodding in agreement. “Yeah, thought so.”

My heart is beating fast. Aunt Miranda might be right. I think I’ve lost the art of having to hold up my end on of the conversation with a live human. When my agent Beverly or book editors take me out to lunch, they’re always happy enough to do the talking, filling the space with business details. And when I make an appearance at Aunt Miranda’s parties or opening-night events, I stick to the background. Anyone who’s had a drink or two generally relishes the chance to monologue, I’ve found. My strategy is to stand next to the Champagne guzzlers. No need to say a word.

Hudson is now fully seated in the guy’s lap. Should I scold him playfully? Is that the way dog people banter? I pull off my knit hat. My scalp is starting to sweat.

“That’s my girl over there,” he says, pointing.

He has a girlfriend and he’s flirting with me? It’s James all over again.

“The spotted one.”

I look at a klatch of dogs engaged in a ball game, and spy a Dalmatian.

“Oh, your dog,” I try. “She’s lovely.”

“Yeah, she’s a good girl,” he says. I exhale. I’m making this harder than it needs to be. Deep breath, Charlotte. OK, this isn’t bad. This is what I should want, right? To sit and chat with what anyone might call a good-looking man. He’s friendly. He’s not creepy. Look at me! I’m being normal.

“Your dog is gorgeous,” I tell him, stretching myself. She really is. She’s all legs and flapping ears, filled with energy. One thing I never mind talking about is dogs. Hudson jumps off of the guy’s lap, and heads off to the waste bin, sniffing around.

“Hudson,” I call, “leave that alone. Here, Hudson. Come!”

The brass band at the west side of the museum strikes up, and we’re treated to a loud, merry rendition of Let it Snow.

I check my watch again. It’s been over 20 minutes. I’m itchy to get home.

“Huddie! C’mon boy. We should get moving,” I call.

“Oh, are you leaving?” He looks disappointed. “I was hoping you’d stay for a while.”

“We should go soon,” I tell him and I risk stealing a glance. He smiles. Breathe, Charlotte. This is how people meet people. I don’t feel a particular spark with this guy, even though he’s nice, but maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. Maybe slow and steady wins the race. “Soon-ISH, anyway.” I lean my back against the fence. ‘Ten minutes won’t throw me off my schedule too badly.”

“People say Dalmatians aren’t the brightest bulbs on the tree, but that’s not true about Daphne.” There’s no rush in the man’s voice, no tension. It’s like he has no other plans for the day. He beams out at his dog. “She’s an angel, smart as a whip,” he says, his voice filled with affection.

He’s so relaxed, I think. Are other people born like that? I wonder. I sip my now-cold coffee, just to have something to do with my hands. Am I missing a gene?

“What do you do for a living?” he asks, scanning the playing field.

“I’m a food writer, and I test recipes on the side. I have a blog.”

“Do you have a card? With your website on it?”

“I do,” I say fumbling in my bag. I’m down to my last one, it’s a bit damp, and crumbs from the bottom of my purse are clinging to it. I brush it off, and wonder if he’ll think it’s too gross if I hand it to him.

“Cool. I’m an art director,” he says, taking the card and pocketing it. “My name is Ken by the way. My friends all call me a foodie. I hate that word, but it’s kind of true. I like cooking, and I really love eating out.”

“Food is… really great,” I say awkwardly. He smiles encouragingly. “Really. I eat it all the time.” I’m starting to sweat. Not pretty. I try to scratch surreptitiously under my arms. Beneath my coat, perspiration is making me feel all prickly.

“Glad to hear that. I was just thinking that I’d love to take you out to dinner some night. Do you like Ethiopian?”

Oh my God. He’s asking me on a date.

I see Hudson bounding up, holding something in his mouth.

“Hudson! Put that down. We don’t pick up trash in our mouths,” I say. I hear my rigid, school-marmish tone. Does this guy think I’m a stick-in-the-mud? “Hudson,” I try again, “bring that to me. That’s right. Come here. Good boy. I’ll take that.” I hope I sound less uptight. My peppy little angel is headed right toward me, so I bend over and hold out my hand.

At the last minute, Hudson veers and lasers in on the guy. He drops the magazine from his mouth, onto the guy’s feet, and sits down, looking very pleased with himself.

“I’ll get that,” I say quickly. I don’t want him to think my dog and I are litterbugs.

“Don’t worry.” He’s already reaching for it.

“No, really, I’ve got it.” I bend over to grab it and smack my skull into his.

“Ow!” I say, rubbing my head. “I’m so sorry!”

He’s got the magazine in his hand. “Don’t worry. He points to his head. “Hard as a rock,” he says with a laugh. “Hey, you didn’t answer. Would you go out to dinner with me?”

I reach for the magazine, but the guy is examining it. He turns it over, and to my horror, it’s American Bride.

Hudson’s on his feet, with his expressive tail high in the air, wagging like metronome on the verge of exploding, looking from one to the other of us.

The guy laughs out loud, and points to the magazine’s cover. “You have to go out with me now. Your dog obviously has big plans for us.”

I can feel my whole face go red. Could I go out with this guy? I wonder to myself. It’s been a long time. Why not? It’s crazy that I’m a food blogger and I haven’t eaten out at a nice place in… how long?

“I guess dinner would be OK,” I say, doubting that’s the truth, even as I say it. I’m talking slowly, turning the possibility over in my head, thinking through any potential pitfalls. What would we talk about for two hours?

“Great! Have you heard of that new place in Chelsea? The Fork?”

“No, I haven’t.” I’m embarrassed. The truth is, I don’t know what’s hot or new on the city restaurant scene. “Is it new?”

“Really new. It’s James Keyes’ latest. American comfort food. He’s the chef behind Four Chairs and East 4th. Do you know of him?”

I feel like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down my back. “Oh, I definitely know of him. In fact, I know him.”

“Cool!” How did you get to know someone so famous?”

“We went to culinary school together. You know what?” I say, scrambling to pull on my gloves and gather my belongings. “Thanks anyway, but I’m super busy. I really don’t think I can work in going out to dinner any time soon. I’m sorry, we have to go now,” I say, lunging toward Hudson, and snapping the leash onto the ring of his harness in one swift motion. I snatch the magazine from the guy’s hand, and zoom for the gate, dragging my unwilling canine behind me.

“Wait!” the man calls. “Your coffee!”

By the time he says it, I’m locking the second gate behind me. I chuck the copy of American Bride into a trashcan, and cut around the museum instead of taking the shortest route home. Hudson won’t stop tugging in the opposite direction.

“Huddie, no,” I pant. “We’re not going back.”

He sits down on his rump and gazes at me. It looks like he’s raising his one black eyebrow.

“It’s just a bad idea. I just want to keep things simple right now. Let’s go boy,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. When I hit the avenue, I’m just starting to slow from a jog to a normal gait. My phone buzzes on my coat pocket, and I pull over in front of the German bakery in the middle of the block. I can smell the butter and raspberry from the Linzer tarts and my stomach starts to rumble. I’ve missed breakfast, now I just want to get home, make myself lunch, and maybe, just maybe, slip into my PJs.

Pulling out my mobile I see a string of text messages waiting for me.

Can’t phone, so texting. Utterly mad on Rock Plaza. Our life-sized Elf On A Shelf developed sudden-onset agoraphobia and won’t leave her trailer + pranking flash mob dumped buckets of marbles onto skating rink

This just in: Xmas Eve at yours is no-go. *Big* celeb getting engaged onstage with the Rockettes. Say you’ll come to Radio City that night, and we’ll order in from Mangia. Still hoping to make it for Xmas dinner at yours. I don’t want you to be alone. x

OH, and don’t think you’re skiving off on me tonight. You can be my date. I expect to see you here by 7 sharp. If you behave, I’ll bow out and fix you up with Kermit the Frog. xo

I guess I’ve finally hit bottom. It’s come to my aunt accepting the fact that the only dates anyone can see me having are with a spinster or a puppet. Of course, I just threw away a chance with someone who seemed like a nice guy. Maybe I have become a crazy dog lady. But isn’t that OK? Is there a law that says I have to put on a coconut bra and dance on barroom tables every weekend? Why can’t I just be me, by myself, the way I want to be?

“Excuse me,” a man barks, pushing past me to get in the door to the bakery. “Nut job,” he mutters under his breath before pushing into the shop. I look at the phone in my hand, and realizing I’ve been staring at it for quite awhile now. I glance down to see Hudson doing a little dance, hopping from one foot to another to another.

“Sorry boy, are you getting cold? Let’s go.”

I turn downtown, the shortest route to my apartment, but Hudson won’t stop tugging in the opposite direction.

“Huddie, no,” I tell him. “We’re not going back.”

He sits down on his rump and gazes at me. Raising his eyebrow at me again.

“You’ll freeze your tail off.”

He jumps up and down, smiling, as if to say he’s fine.

“It’s just a bad idea, OK. I just want to keep things simple. Now come on,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. “Sorry, boy, I really want to be home right now. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. How does a snuggle in your blankies and a nice, big bone sound? I’ll even turn on the TV for you. Animal Planet.”

He doesn't look back at me. He seems resigned. He just pulls me to the crosswalk that he knows takes us home. I swear he sighs, before he steps off the curb. We walk home together in silence.

*****

My arm is going numb from being held high in the air, trying to beckon a cab on Central Park West at shift-change time.

Three yellow taxis have already slowed down, clocked that I have a smiling, be-sweatered little dog on the end of my leash, before speeding off. My high-heeled wedge boots are pinching my feet, and I feel constricted in my good wool dress coat. I had to haul myself into the shower, blow my hair dry, and put makeup on my face to leave my apartment. I wouldn’t dare show up to one of Aunt Miranda’s events without making an effort. It won’t be to her standards, but at least she can’t say I didn’t try.

Believe me when I tell you, I decided that I wasn’t going tonight no fewer than 50 times but I always circled back to the hard truth: Aunt Miranda’s haranguing would be harder to endure than an hour at Rockefeller Center. Like I told Hudson, we’re going late, showing our faces, staying for half an hour… an hour max… and then home to my jammies and Netflix. With any luck, we’d be burrowed into the couch with the TV on by the time they actually flicked the switch to light the 100-foot Norway Spruce.

Just as I can no longer feel my fingers, a taxi swoops up to the curb, and shouts out the window, “Where you going?”

“Rockefeller Center, 50th Street between 5th and 6th.”

“I know where the Rockefeller Center is. I’m a New Yorker. I’ve lived her for 20 years since I moved from Delhi as a kid.”

“Sorry.”

“Your dog, is he a good dog?”

Hudson lets out a little whine, culminating in an affirmative yelp.

“Yes, very good.”

“I like good dogs. I do not like bad dogs.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Yes or no?” I can no longer feel my left foot.

“OK, get in. I take you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Hudson and I pile into the cab. I spy myself in the rearview mirror. My nose is pink with cold.

“They make the tree lights tonight. Very big crowds, very crowded.”

“I know,” I say, voice filled with dread. “I have to go. My aunt is producing it.”

“She’s a movie producer? Like Steven Spielberg? I look very handsome on camera. Very handsome indeed.”

“No, she’s in charge of the tree lighting. Production Manager, that’s the title. She’s in charge of the guests, everything that happens onsite, coordinating with the television crew, just… everything.”

He whistles a low whistle. “Your dog is VIP. Or shall I say VID? Understand? Very Important Dog? That’s funny, I think! Very funny!”

I laugh. “Yes, it is.”

“I do stand-up comedy. Here,” he turns around, and shoves a card through the little tray that tunnels through the plastic between the front and back seats. “Vijay Singh, this Monday night, Broadway Comedy Club. Next week, Caroline’s Comedy Club.”

Impressed, I tuck the card in my handbag. “From what I hear, getting into Caroline’s is a big deal.”

It just goes to show if you take the time to speak to your taxi driver, you never know who you’re going to meet. Once I even met an opera singer though this guy was my first comedian.

“It is a very big deal! I’m hilarious. Very funny. Trust me when I say this to you.”

“I believe you.”

The sparkle of multiple flashbulbs going off catches my eye from the little TV screen affixed to the back of the seat in front of me. It’s a New York One live report from the tree lighting. Hudson tries to stand and sniff the screen, but Vijay is driving like a maniac, so my little dog looks like he’s surfing. “Sit, Hudson.” I scootch over and put my arm around him. “Look, here’s Aunt Miranda’s event. See the tree?”

A tiny country singer with long blonde hair and a powerful voice begins belting out O Holy Night.

Suddenly, the cab slams to a stop and Hudson goes careening into the footwell.

I fish him out from the floorboards, and kiss his little head. As the singer is reaching the crescendo of the song, the camera cuts to a woman holding a sleeping baby, and singing along, sincere and misty-eyed. My heart does a little jig. The impact of the soulful song, and the beauty of the swaying crowd among all of the festive decorations, send a frisson of holiday excitement through my body. Now I’m glad I made the effort to get out of the house.

A Christmas feeling from when I was a little girl washes over me. I feel the safety and joy of when our cook, Bridget, baked up a storm, and my parents stayed around the house instead of going out all the time. That was before the car accident. Before I moved to the states to live with Aunt Miranda. Hudson stands up, putting all the weight of his pointy little feet onto my thigh.

On the television, other musicians, sports stars, and the mayor of New York join the singer on the stage in front of the soon-to-be brilliantly illuminated tree. The camera pans the audience. People are holding up their phones and tablets to snap photos. Suddenly, I’m glad I’m en route. I can’t believe I almost passed up this opportunity.

When the camera pans to the very edge of the stage, I see Aunt Miranda.

“Look, Hudson, there she is!” I wave frantically, as if I’ll really get her attention. “Hiya, Aunt Miranda! Hi!” Hudson barks.

“No barking in the taxi,” Vijay says. “Look, there is your Radio City Music Hall.”

“I’m a New Yorker, I know where Radio City Music Hall is.”

“Touché,” he says.

Hudson pants and smiles, eyes on the TV. Can he see Aunt Miranda, I wonder? She looks impeccable in a classic winter white wool coat with a large golden brooch, reminiscent of the bronze Titan Prometheus statue that graces the lower plaza of Rockefeller Center. I’m sure it was no accident. Aunt Miranda is the very essence of style. Standing next to her, typing into an iPad is a young man I’ve never seen before, with wavy light-brown hair falling over the edge of his roundish tortoise-shell, horn-rimmed glasses. He has a neat, close-trimmed beard. He’s smiling, I think. Is he? I can’t be sure, since the shot isn’t a close-up. Maybe it’s just the way his heavy eyebrow arches. He looks like he’s thinking of an amusing story or a joke.

It’s usually Cerie who assists Aunt Miranda, but I recall that she’s on maternity leave. If her right-hand assistant is gone, no wonder my aunt is more tightly wound than usual.

“Look Hudson, look at that man with Aunt Miranda. Who do you think he is?”

The guy is wearing a deep oxblood-colored leather pea coat with a chunky forest-green scarf twined around his neck. It looks hand-made. I wonder if he chose his clothes, or if Miranda “styled” him. He looks up at the scene onstage and smiles a satisfied smile, unmistakable this time. It’s so unrestrained, it makes me smile too.

For half a second, I wish I were there, smelling the pine scent of the enormous tree, and enjoying the rumbling of the bass singers in my chest during the carols. I feel wide-awake, even though usually it would just about my bedtime.

The guys’ eyes twinkle behind his glasses for a moment before Miranda points to something up in the tree, and his eyebrows knit together. I can’t see his face anymore, because he’s furiously scrolling through his tablet. I wonder what’s wrong. All of the sudden, the man disappears and the screen is blue, demanding that I touch a button declaring whether I’d like to pay with cash, credit, or debit. I have the sensation of the film breaking in an old-time reel projector. I feel a bit robbed. I wanted to watch him longer; to know what changed his mood.

“Here we are, as close as I can drive,” says Vijay. “There are police barricades, so I’m very sorry, but you must walk the rest of the way.” Hudson stands up on his back legs, front paws against the window, eyes bright and expectant.

“That’s fine,” I say, tapping the touch screen and sliding my card into the machine. “We expected that.” I tip him 25%. He did, after all, rescue both me and my little dog from frost bite.

“Thank you, miss,” he says, pushing the receipt through the slot.

“Merry Christmas!” I tell him, opening the door to a crisp blast of wintry New York air.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas.” He waves a hand indicating his turban and dark skin. “The nativity story isn’t sweeping Punjab, if you hear what I’m saying.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, that was rude…”

He cuts me off, smiling. “No need to apologize. Many, many people confuse me with Brad Pitt!”

I open my mouth to respond, but my brain is working hard to catch up. He really doesn’t look anything like the Hollywood actor.

“Joking! Of course I don’t look like Brad Pitt.”

I laugh uncertainly. He should probably work on his routine.

Hudson leaps onto the sidewalk and is straining on his leash.

“Well, happy winter and good luck with the stand up,” I say, just before slamming the door hard to make sure he’s not heating the whole of the outdoors. I hear, “Don’t forget! Vijay Singh at Caroline’s. Very funny!”

I feel a smile spreading across my face as I walk across the sidewalk on 50th street toward the huge crowd. “This is fun, isn’t it Huddie?” I call above the din of the throngs and the amplified Muppet version of All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth that’s coming from the ceremony site. There are tourists everywhere, and to a person, they are all wide-eyed and beaming. As we approach, I spy the hundreds of flags surrounding the ice rink. Normally, the flagpoles fly the colors of every country in the United Nations, but this… I have to catch my breath. To herald Christmas, all of the flags have been replaced by red, green, and gold banners. Against the majestic gold flagpoles, and the myriad lights draped in the potted trees, shrubbery, and along the walls and fences, it makes my heart soar with the promise of what Christmas will bring. And that’s to say nothing of the lush, towering evergreen, standing at the ready to be set aglow. There’s no other word for it, I feel uplifted. Hudson scrapes ahead of me as if he’s trying to dig up the concrete; he’s clearly eager to get into the mix.

As we get closer to the tents from which stars, PAs, and Teamsters emerge, the crowds become thicker. I bend down to scoop Hudson up, and clutch him to my chest. “Ready boy?” His skinny tail thumps against the front of my coat, and I give him a big smooch on the muzzle.

People are clearly here to celebrate. The attendees range from bare-legged young women in filmy coats and cocktail dresses, who are so fashion-forward they wouldn’t dare don tights with their stilettos, even in this cold weather, to families wearing matching parkas and knit caps declaring, “Wheeler Family Reunion—Xmas NYC,” to young couples who have such eyes for one another it’s a wonder they can even see the skyscraper of an evergreen.

A door to what looks like the holding area catches my eye, and I set my sights on beelining through all the bodies to get there. The surprise at my enjoyment of being here is pumping adrenaline through my body, and making me feel like I’ve had a split of Champagne, though I’m stone-cold sober. I have to admit, I’m kind of loving it. Maybe I’ll become the kind of girl who goes to the Macy’s fireworks along the river, or dresses up and boards a Halloween float in the West Village.

One thing’s for sure: Hudson is in his element. Chest-to-chest, I can feel his little heart drumming rapidly, and his curled tongue is out and bobbing up and down with each step I take. I call that expression his “perma-smile.” I love that he’s happy, but I could do without the wet dog saliva on my already freezing ear. Note to self: Next year, wear earmuffs to tree lighting.

We shoulder our way through the revelers, and finally make it to the door of a white tent. I hear general buzzing inside, with the occasional shout. I’ve been on enough “sets” of Aunt Miranda’s events to know that tension will be high as the stage managers inside are ruled by the stopwatch, and the talent is marking time, waiting to be led to the stage. I approach a refrigerator of a man, wearing a black suede overcoat, dark glasses, and a formidable headset.

“Hello, sir,” I begin.

“You can’t be here, move to the right, miss,” he cuts me off.

“I’m supposed to be here, you see…”

“No entry without a laminate.”

I saw that I was going to have to pull the Aunt Miranda card. I hated myself for what I was about to say. “I’m on the list.”

“Name?” He barks.

“Charlotte Bell.”

He picks up a clipboard from the director’s chair beside him, and traces down the column of names with the wrong end of his pen.

“Nope. Move it to the right.”

The buoyant holiday bliss I’d recently experienced was fading rapidly. Without warning, the throbbing in my feet resumes.

“Can you check again, please,” I said, full of sweetness and light. Aunt Miranda wasn’t much in the way of motherly, but she had taught me a few essential life skills. Her top tip is never to piss off the gatekeeper, i.e., the receptionist, the secretary, the personal assistant, or the hotel clerk. That was a pure guarantee, she said, of being separated from what you hoped to gain or achieve. “My aunt works here. Maybe you know her?”

He gives me a hard once-over. At least I think he does. It’s hard to tell behind his menacing shades. At any rate, he’s standing still and facing me.

Hudson lets out a little whine, and bicycles his front legs. I give him a squeeze to warn him not to blow it. To my surprise and relief, a slow smile spreads over The Refrigerator’s face. “That’s a good-lookin’ Jack Russell,” he says. “Real cute dog.”

He presses a button near his chest, and says, “We need an escort at A4. Send a PA right away.”

He reaches out, and says, “May I?”

Bemused, I hand over Hudson, and the big teddy bear of a bouncer snuggles my dog, cooing, “Who’s a handsome dog? You are! That’s right. You’re a handsome dog!” Hudson wriggles gleefully, twitching and contorting his body into a near backbend, burrowing into the multiple chins of the big softie. I look on, smiling. I smell coffee coming from inside. My stomach rumbles. I can’t wait for Aunt Miranda to walk me in, show me where the craft services table is, and sit me down someplace with a view of the tree. I have to confess, I do love a craft services table. I hope they have pastry. Something sweet and fruity would hit the spot about now.

“Who did you say your aunt was?” the bouncer asks, setting Hudson down on the floor.

“Miranda Nichols,” I tell him.

We both squat down to play with Hudson.

“Aw, hell no. For real? You’re not messin’ around.” He presses the button near his chest a second time. “Escort to A4, pronto.” Hudson nuzzles the man’s huge, ham of a hand. “Heh, heh. Real cute dog.”

Huddie’s extra-frisky tonight. Maybe it’s the cold weather or the snow on the ground, but I suspect it’s from being out in the melee. Guilt nudges at the corners of my heart. I really should bring him out more often. I mean, I make sure he gets exercise, and he has plenty of opportunities to relieve himself and all, but he’s such a social butterfly. I wonder if he ever regrets being saddled with a homebody like me.

Even though he’s a dog, Hudson is a “people person.” He rolls over on his back, writhing like an alligator, flapping his paws above him. This elicits a big belly laugh from our formerly foreboding friend. We take turns pretending to nip at Hudson’s hindquarters with our forefingers and thumbs, and each time, he whips around pretending to snap at the offender. He couldn’t look happier if he tried.

Without preamble, two impeccable men’s Italian leather boots appear in my field of vision. Hudson romps over, and moves in to give them a sniff.

“Can I help?” demands a stern, disembodied English voice from above.

I struggle to rise from my position on all fours, but find that now, not only are my feet numb, my knees are stiff from the cold. My new friend, the bodyguard, has nimbly risen and is back at his post, stiff as a statue, staring straight ahead. Hudson thinks I’m still playing a game. He keeps leaping up, punching me in the legs with his two front paws. I teeter, trying to stand, but there’s nothing solid to grab onto. “I need to see Miranda Nichols,” I say, trying to push up with my hands from the ground. Hudson licks my face with glee.

“Miranda Nichols?” He barks out a short laugh before recovering. “She’s a bit busy at the moment.” There’s no sarcasm colder than an Englishman’s sarcasm.

“I’m sure, but could you, just, uh,” I stammer. “Could you please go and get her for me?” I’m hoping by the time she gets here to meet me, I won’t still be scrabbling around on the floor.

“That won’t be possible. She’s unreachable at the moment.”

I see his feet shifting impatiently. I’d better get up quickly. He’s grouchy, and obviously has better things to do. Like Aunt Miranda says, you don’t annoy the gatekeepers. The harder I try to get up, the more the pins and needles prick my feet, and the more Hudson bounces off of my hip like a circus poodle.

“Huddie, no! Down!”

If I could only push off from something… I grab at the man’s knee, but the physics of lifting are all wrong. I strain to re-position my arms. Maybe if I can just crab walk to the director’s chair, I think. Hudson notices my struggle and begins springing up and nipping at my ear.

“Huddie, cut it out,” I say, breathless from trying to maintain my yoga-like position. He barks playfully in response. I try to gain equilibrium, woefully aware that my backside is pointing skyward.

My dress coat, cut quite close through the shoulders, if effectively functioning as a strait jacket. Miranda convinced me that sleek was in last winter. I think I hear fabric ripping. I’m dizzy from hanging my head downward, and Hudson’s sharp barks so close to my ears are making them ring. In a valiant leap, he winds up on the flat of my back, and teeters there for a proud moment before we both tumble over in the snow. I land hard on my bum. It smarts a bit, but I can’t help laughing as Hudson flails like a bug on his back.

“For heaven’s sake,” the man says impatiently. He hooks his hands under my arms and, with seemingly little effort, pulls me up to standing. I’m face-to-chest with an oxblood leather coat, and green knit scarf.

“Oh! It’s you.” Behind his glasses, his eyes are a startling clear blue. I’ve never seen eyes that blue before. I look closer, trying to see if there’s a corona of gold, green, or even turquoise around his pupils. Nope, just bright Grecian blue.

“Have we met?” he asks, holding my gaze.

Oh god, I’ve been staring. “I know you. I mean, no. You’re one of the production assistants I saw on TV.”

I hear a high-pitched little gasp. I whip around to look at The Refrigerator, but he’s cool as a cucumber, arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. If the gasp came from him, he’s not letting on.

“I most certainly am not a production assistant,” he assures me in a Little Lord Fauntleroy voice. He stands up taller, which is a feat. I mean, he’s pretty tall in the first place. “I’m the Assistant Production Manager.” He looks at his watch. “And right about now, I’m responsible for seeing that the mayor of your fine city is briefed before she goes on live television. So, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, turning crisply to walk away.

“Wait!”

“I’m sorry, there’s no access through this door. You’ll have to queue by the barriers for autographs.” He turns again, and Olympic race-walks in the other direction, deftly dodging crates, printers, and myriad interns as he goes.

Hudson lets out a low, slow whine, ending in a bark. He wants the man to play! He’s bowing down with his rump in the air, shimmying. Clearly, he isn’t as offended by the man’s rudeness as I am.

“I’m not here for autographs, I’m going backstage.”

“No dogs allowed. Please exit through the front with your animal. This is a restricted area,” he says, still walking.”

No dogs allowed? I just saw the outlines of a camel and what appeared to be two fully grown sheep through the far tent wall. As if Hudson’s going to infect the place!

“Not for us!”

“Goodbye,” he calls not bothering to turn around. “Marlon, please escort the lady and her dog out to the public plaza.” His snootiness ignites a fire in me. Is that the way he talks to the minions in his fleet of servants back home on the manor in Jolly Olde England, I wonder. I think it’s time he was taught a little respect.

I hate to do it but he’s left me no choice.

“Miranda Nichols is my aunt,” I fire, just as he’s exiting through a flap door on the other side of the tent. All of the fresh-faced young people hunched over their laptops around a table littered with coffee cups, stacks of papers, and wires for days look up with interest.

The Assistant Production Manager freezes. Slowly, he turns back around, one eyebrow raised.

I scoop Hudson up in one arm, plant my other fist on my hip, and raise my eyebrow right back.

“I see. Very good, would you follow me, please?” he asks, in a clipped, efficient voice. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

I don’t make a move. Tilting my head toward Hudson, I dare Mr. Blue eyes to say he’s not welcome.

He walks back to meet me, and gently takes my elbow with an elegant protocol that would rival a Buckingham Palace butler’s. “I beg your pardon, Ms. Nichols. Would you both follow me, please?” Before I know it, all of the PAs have their eyes back on their computers, and I’m gliding through the tent with him like we’re Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

I have to give it to him. He’s good. But I’m not soon going to forget the spurn. Sure, he’s nice to me now he knows I’m connected. But where was his common decency before? It’s James’s world all over again — only the rich, titled, or famous count. And it goes without saying that any enemy of dogs is an enemy of mine.

“My name isn’t Nichols,” I declare crossly, and set Hudson down on the floor as if throwing down a gauntlet. I itch for this pompous ass to complain about Hudson’s muddy paws. He doesn’t say a word, but instead leans down to scratch Hudson’s ear, which infuriates me.

Ms. Nichols! How lazy of him. Didn’t his fancy boarding school or wherever he crawled out from teach him better than that? I’m just about to lecture him about the folly of making assumptions when we pass through a tent flap serving as a door. It’s like day and night. One moment we were in a grubby production office, and now suddenly we’re standing on a richly patterned, claret-colored Persian Rug, adorned with a full tapestry-covered living room suite dotted around with hundreds of votive candles. There’s nothing above our heads but the New York City skyline and a pinkish smear of stars gilding the remnants of the day’s clouds. From the bustling streets of Manhattan to this… It was like a genie had transported me to another land. I can’t help myself. “What is this place?” I breathe.

“VIP holding. It’s where we seat the talent right before they go on stage.” A warm smile spreads across his face. He looks at me for a long time, seeming to take me in for the first time.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, eyes sparkling.

His gaze makes me feel shy. “It is,” I agree, turning away and running my hand along the wood of one of the bookshelves along the wall.

“Welcome to the wonders of high-budget, network television,” he says. “May I offer you a glass of wine?” He gestures to a carafe surrounded by crystal glasses on a substantial mahogany sideboard. The magic of the scene is throwing me off-kilter. I surprise myself and nod.

“By the way,” he asks, the shadow of a smile turning up one corner of his mouth, “what is it?” He hands me a ruby-hued drink, which I accept. I don’t make a habit of drinking alone, so it’s been awhile since I’ve had wine. I take a tentative sip. His eyes are on my lips as I drink. The wine is very, very good as I suspected it would be.

“What is what?”

“Your name.” He takes a step closer to me. He doesn't seem as harried as before. If your name isn’t Nichols, what is it?”

“It’s Bell. Charlotte Bell.”

He tilts his head, considering me. “It suits you.” He pauses, and looks straight into my eyes. “Charlotte Bell.”

Ding-dong, ding -dong! Ding, ding, ding, ding-ding ding-a dong ding-ding ding-a-dong diiiiiiiing…

Hudson freezes and cocks his head at a high-pitched chiming noise. “What’s that?” I ask.

The man’s eyes widen. He looks down at his tablet and scrolls to wake it up. The harsh artificial light of the screen cuts through the glow of the candles. “That, Ms. Bell, is the Sonos Handbell Ensemble playing Sleigh Bells. Right on cue. And my signal to be on the alert.”

He’s halfway across the carpet, and nearing the door of the adjacent tent. “The, mayor is due on set in four minutes.” He stops to pull his phone from the pocket of his leather coat. “Send a PA to VIP holding to escort a young woman and an animal to Area J. It’s a canine. No, she’s ordinary. Thank you.”

Ordinary?

“My apologies,” he says curtly, “but I’ll have to ask you and your dog to clear the area.” His eyes keep flicking to an actual wooden door leading from a diaphanous tunnel coming from yet another tent. “Strictly for security reasons, you understand.”

He now has the palm of his hand on the small of my back, and he’s pushing me to a flap in a tent opposite the wooden door. I barely have time to set my half-full wineglass on a Chinese cabinet as we hurry past it. What does he think I’m going to do? Lunge at the mayor, and threaten to take her hostage? Sic my dog on her? Burn out her retinas with my ordinary-ness?

Within 5 seconds, a thickly bundled young woman with a knit toboggan emblazoned with the network’s logo under her headset slips through the flap door and grabs me by the arm. “You’ll need to come with me.”

I short-leash Huddie to make sure he doesn't get stepped on. Talk about having a bucket of cold water thrown on you.

I look behind me, and catch a glimpse of the man’s broad back, and call out, “Thanks a lot!”

“It was my pleasure,” he says, looking over his shoulder. Apparently he gives better than he gets in the old sarcasm department; he didn’t seem to clock my annoyance at all. I’m quivering with irritation. His face is all business but I detect a twinkle in his eyes, and the slightest bit of mischief around the eyebrow. Or do I? I can’t read him.

Four men in long, black coats stream through the door, and line up to form a tunnel. I didn’t know the mayor traveled with that kind of entourage, but to be honest, it had been years since I rubbed shoulders with anyone with more status than the check-out clerks at Whole Foods or the Nook support crew at Barnes & Noble.

“Connie, see that Ms. Bell gets my card,” he says just before turning around and stepping forward to receive not the mayor, but – oh my god – the president!

Connie pulls me through the flap, hard, and I tug Hudson behind me. In a shocking change of circumstances, we’re now standing in what appears to be a men’s dressing room for the lowest rung of extras. A couple of guys dressed as reindeer are playing poker on a milk crate. A skinny man wearing nothing but a snowman’s head and a pair of tighty-whiteys hollers, “Hey! You can’t be in here. I’ll call the union.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Frosty,” Connie says. “We’re just passing through.” She pulls me through another flap, and my nostrils are assaulted by the fertile smell of dung. All around me are stalls reminiscent of a fair, in which sheep, goats, a cow, and a small elephant loll and recline.

“There’s a bench. Have a seat. Someone will be with you in a minute. Oh right,” she says. She rifles through her breast pocket and fishes something out. “Here.” It’s an off-white card, engraved in black letters. There are only two words on it.

HENRY WENTWORTH

Underneath his name should also be written, Pretentious Jerk. I fling the card as hard as I can, and it lands in a puddle next to the hoof of a donkey. I watch as it soaks through and sinks.