Читать книгу A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas - Lynn Hulsman Marie - Страница 9

I wake up with a start in the half-light of the early Manhattan morning, facedown on my sofa in a puddle of drool. Panic electrifies my body as I re-remember Hudson is gone. My eyes feel like they’ve been doused in a combination of lemon juice and glue. They sting, but I can’t quite pull them open. I’d spent the early part of the night alternately laying down, feeling like a freight train was racing through my brain, then leaping up and pacing the apartment. I wonder how many hours of sleep I’d I’ve had. Two or three? I had been sure the police would call, or that someone at the shelter would get in touch to say that Hudson had shown up. My cell phone never left my hand.

As I moved from room to room, filled with an energy to act, but having nothing to do, I’d stop and pick up a squeaky toy here, or a morsel of kibble there, each time calling, “Huddie!” before realizing again and again, like Groundhog Day, that he wasn’t there. Everywhere I looked was another reminder of our life together. The framed photo of us at The Chelsea Piers Mixed-Breed Dog Show, the prescription bottle of antiseptic the vet had given us when he stepped on that nail on Amsterdam Avenue, the fluffy donut bed I’d splurged on from Orvis with his name embroidered on the front.

Awake now, and at the end of my tether I punch Aunt Miranda’s number in via “Favorites.” Actually, it should be “favorite,” since she’s the only one. Despite the pre-dawn hour, she picks up before the second ring.

“Oh hello, darling,” she launches in immediately. “I only have a split second, but I’ve rung to say I’m mortified I haven’t gotten in touch since the fiasco at the tree lighting.”

“You didn’t call me, I called you.”

“Be that as it may, I’m standing in The Russian Tea Room overseeing the set-up for an informal meeting of the G8 leaders, but you didn’t hear that from me. Would you believe the Prime Minister of Canada flat out refuses to sit at a table where smoked sable is being eaten? Claims it makes him gag. Usually Canadians are the least of my worries, always so polite.”

“I don’t care about the tree lighting,” I interrupt her, stripping off my sweaty clothes from the night before, and pulling on sweat pants and a sweatshirt.

“That’s the attitude!” she bursts in. “Shake it off and move forward. Let it go, or get revenge. No point dwelling. By the by, I’m still not up to speed with what happened, but rest assured when I find out, heads will roll. Say you aren’t cross with me.”

“I’m not, but…”

“Well, I should think not,” she cuts me off. “Doubtless you got some underling’s back up, and in the short term that can only lead to a dead end. Until you’re prepared to shoot through the heart, never show your gun. Have you still not read that copy of the “Art of War” that I had Cerie ship to you?”

“You are not listening to me. I’m trying to tell you that Huddie is missing.”

“He’s quite small…have you checked under the bed? You know, at one time Cerie was a warrior. I once watched her bring Joan Rivers to tears! I loved Joanie, God rest her soul, but Cerie was right. The Gucci bootlets were too youthful.”

I sense that she’s in the middle of a monologue, and not about to come up for air any time soon. I take the time to run into the kitchen and pop a capsule into my Nespresso machine. I’m going to need coffee today, and lots of it if I’m going to find my little needle in the haystack that is New York City.

“Aunt Miranda, do you even care that my dog is missing? Do you?”

“Of course, darling, but I’m in the middle of a story. Just let me finish my thought. Losing Cerie was like losing my right arm, let me tell you. I will never, as long as I live, understand how she could have chosen to take leave just as I was on the brink of locking down the curation of Caitlyn Jenner’s world debut.”

“Didn’t you say she was in labor?” I demand in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Aunt Miranda.” I slam down my coffee cup.

“We all make our choices, don’t we? Any old hoo, I’m calling to break the news that Christmas Day lunch at yours is defo a no-go. I’m sorry, darling, it’s just the event planner for the Vatican Christmas Dinner quit in a huff. It seems the new pontiff is a good deal more humble than previous ones, and he’s insisting on keeping it simple.”

“Aunt Miranda! I called to talk about Hudson. I don’t have time to talk about Christmas.”

“Several cardinals are in an uproar, and Jacques Desmaisson refuses to work with such a low budget, “low” being in heavy inverted quotes, you understand.” While she rattles on, I pour milk in the frother, and watch it swirl and foam.

“Aunt Miranda,” I say, cutting in where there’s a breath, “I need you to focus. On me, for a change.”

“Oh, but don’t you want to hear my genius plan to make this disaster an opportunity by introducing a shabby-chic element? Picture it: The Vatican meets Pottery Barn meets Summer in Provence! It goes without saying that all of the gold staffs and mitres could distract from the theme, but my new assistant has some ideas that could tie it all together.”

“You are seriously not going to listen to me, are you?”

“Hold the phone, darling. You cannot put silver spoons in the Beluga caviar, you nitwit! That’s why we special-ordered an entire crate of mother of pearl ones! Sorry about that, as I was saying, Henry did a short stint in Connecticut last summer for Martha Stewart, you know. During the Post-Prison Renaissance. I stole him from under her nose. She’s furious. Suffice it to say, I won’t be shucking clams at her beach house any time soon. Still, it was worth it. Henry is a hungry young thing who works like a machine. I have him here through to New Year’s when he’s promised himself to Nigella Lawson for some launch or another. I’ll be sorry to see him go, even though he’s in the doghouse with me at the moment for the way he treated you at the tree lighting.”

I feel a stab of guilt. “Don’t punish him on my account. Even if he is a puffed-up jerk.”

“Don’t try and defend him! I’ll think of a little lesson to teach him. If you give the brilliant ones too much rope early on, they don’t learn discipline. If I check his ego, he’ll respect me for it and take it like a man. He’s the closest thing to a mini-me I have. No offense, darling.”

“None taken. Believe me.”

I slurp down my second coffee in one hot gulp, the bitter burn no match for the hole in my heart left by the fact that Aunt Miranda is continuing to ignore me. It’s no secret she has always been disappointed that I don’t click around behind her in high heels and a form-fitting pencil skirt barking orders at catering staffs around the globe. But you’d think she’d be on deck for me in a time of crisis. As if I’d want to be a robot like that stick-up-his ass Englishman she had toadying for her. I wish I didn’t need her. It would feel so good to just hang up on her. But today I do.

I can hear crystal tinging, and people shouting in Russian.

“Aunt Miranda! Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Why won’t she just pay attention to me and let her little shadow handle whatever is going on at The Russian Tea Room. He’s probably lording his power above PAs and waiters as we speak.

I’m not sure if my heart is pounding from the two shots of espresso I just chugged, or from abject fear of never seeing my dog again.

I check my circa 1955 red Bakelite kitchen clock, and see that morning is now fully upon us. “All right. No more monkeying around. It’s go time. You have to listen to me, now. Hudson is gone, Aunt Miranda. As in not here. As in lost!”

There’s a beat of silence on her end of the phone. “Well, surely if he were dead you’d have heard by now, wouldn’t you?”

I burst into tears with the force of someone turning on a jet-powered spa shower. Grabbing a kitchen towel to contain what has unexpectedly come forth from my nostrils, I consider what I hadn’t even allowed myself to think last night. That Hudson might be dead.

“There, there, darling, I’m just trying to be practical. I didn’t mean to be insensitive, but it seems to me that this is an awful lot of fuss to make over a dog.”

“He’s not just a dog,” I cough out, still sobbing. “I know you don’t like him, Aunt Miranda, but I can’t believe you’d say that. He’s my family.”

“Oh, there, there Charlotte,” she says awkwardly. Aunt Miranda doesn’t do tears. “It’s not that I don’t like him, exactly. I’m just not a dog person, as they say. Cheer up. If you don’t find him, I’ll order you another.”

The heaving sobs threaten to squeeze my heart till it stops. I’m gasping for a full breath. In the background, I hear someone calling, “Ms. Nichols, you’re needed in the staging area. The vendor sent 30 pounds of cheesecake instead of cream cheese.”

“I hear that you’re upset, Charlotte. And truly, I am sorry, it’s just… hang on, I’m so sorry, one more mo… Then get your arse down to Food Emporium and buy every block of Philadelphia’ s finest in the dairy case! In 20 minutes, we’ll have the heads of the most powerful countries on the planet sitting on those rococo chairs to inhale their breakfasts while they solve world war! Are you going to be the one to tell them they’re going to have to eat naked bagels??? I thought not!”

I put the phone on speaker, set it on the counter, and splash cold water on my face. A glimpse of my kitchen calendar tells me I’m falling behind on the recipes for The English Manor Cookbook and I haven’t responded to Charlotte’s Chefs on the blog in two days. My regular fans, like Martha26 and GrillDadNJ will be worried. I’m meticulous about responding to my blog followers. I consider them friends. But I can’t think about that right now. It’ll keep till Hudson is back safe and sound. I dry my face on my dishtowel and steel myself to move forward. All by myself.

“Hello? Hello, darling? Are you there?”

I consider just hanging up, and pretending the connection was lost but I take a breath, and answer. “Yes, I’m here.”

“As you can tell, sweetheart, I’m swamped, but I’ve put you on my list. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll check in after the last chancellors and presidents are out the door and on their way to see The Book of Mormon. You cannot imagine how I had to move heaven and earth to get them orchestra seats for the matinee. Hottest ticket in town!”

“You know, Aunt Miranda, I’ve learned not to expect much from you but this time I’m truly disappointed.”

“Charlotte, please don’t say that. Really, I am trying to think of a way to solve your little problem.”

“I thought talking to you might help. I feel worse than I did before I called.”

“Darling!”

“Maybe if I were a country star or the Prime Minister or something, you’d give me the time of day.”

“Not another word, Charlotte. I promise you, the minute I’ve put the butts of the most powerful leaders in the world in their seats, I will solve your little dog problem. You have my word.” There’s a little pause. “Please. I want to help.”

“Fine.” I doubt she’ll remember to call back, but it doesn’t matter. A lightbulb has gone off in my head, and I don’t want to waste another minute. “I have to go now.”

“That’s better, then. Keep your pecker up. As I said, I will find a solution… Not Clamato! Are you out of your gourd? Two words. Shellfish allergies. Do you want to kill off a leader of the free world…” Aunt Miranda trails off and I hang up the phone.

I pad in to the bathroom to quickly brush my teeth and twist my dirty-blonde hair up into a clip. I don’t dwell for a minute on my blotchy skin and swollen eyes. In my heather gray sweat suit, I’ll be nothing but invisible today. That’s just how I want it. Then I won’t have to slow down and explain myself to anyone. After the car accident, people always wanted me to talk. I hated that. I like being a grown-up. No one can make me share how I’m feeling if I don’t want to. ‘If you want help, look to the end of your own arm,’ isn’t that what they say?

“Everything will be fine,” I tell myself in the mirror, just as I have nearly every day since I was 12, “Believe.” It’s been my mantra ever since Bridget, our cook and my nanny, packed me up from the old house in England, and waved goodbye. I look myself straight in the eye.

“You will find Hudson.” I get ready to go.

*****

“Geek Squad!” answered the cheerful tech support girl on the other end of the phone line. “What’s your problem?”

What’s my problem? My problem is that my tiny dog is lost out in the freezing cold in one of the world’s biggest cities.

“I can’t make my computer talk to my printer. I need to be able to scan and print. It’s urgent,” I reply. For over an hour I’d been trying to make flyers from the cardboard-framed Elfie that the young man from Takasaki had pressed into my hand. Time was ticking. I can just about manage my blog, and Microsoft Word, but no one could accuse me of being tech-savvy.

“We can help you with that. Can you explain exactly what’s going on? Let’s, uh, start with the computer part.”

Sighing with relief, I recount the frustrations of trying to make my ‘Lost Dog’ flyer with the planet Mercury taunting me from its position in retrograde, making all of my electronics and technology go pear-shaped.

“Please hold.” She clicks off, leaving me to listen to the Geek Squad’s hold music. It’s a syrupy Muzak version of The Carpenters’ Close to You. I would have expected someone cooler from the Geek Squad. I sit at my writing desk, in the little maid’s room off the kitchen, and drum my nails on the desk. For something to occupy my mind, I click on to my blog while I wait. Yes, I said maid’s room. Yes, my brownstone is Pre-War. Yes, I know how lucky I am. I managed to buy it with what was left of Mum’s money after all the debts were paid. I needed a place with a big kitchen, and this one came kitted out with a Chambers stove and an industrial, French-doored refrigerator. It was a match made in heaven, so I splurged. I haven’t regretted it for one single day.

I can’t stop looking at the photo of Hudson in his holiday garb. It’s clear that he had liked the elf who was snapping the photo. The goofy smile on his scruffy little face is evidence of that. His one black eyebrow is sky high, and he appears about as happy as he’s ever been. He looks so vital, like he’s just about to burst out of the picture and land in my lap.

Tears prick at the backs of my eyelids. My arms ache from the emptiness of not having him to squeeze. Wow, I have been on hold a long time.

My phone beeps and I grab it quickly, in turn putting the Geek Squad on hold. If I can wait, they can wait. Maybe it’s Officer Curtis with some news from the police department?

“Hello?” I say breathlessly. “This is Charlotte.”

“Ms. Bell. This is Henry Wentworth ringing from Nichols Bespoke Events, on behalf of Miranda Nichols.”

I feel my shoulders rise to ear level. “Did she make you call to apologize? Because I don’t have time for this. My dog is missing.” I stab at various keys on my computer, hoping that a technological miracle occurs so I can skip the whole Geek Squad appointment, and take action.

“Erm, no. The nature of my phone call is to offer my services, not to apologize.” Then, with a slightly prickly tone, he says, “I wasn’t aware that I had anything to apologize for.”

“You wouldn’t, would you?” My patience is wire-thin. “Listen, I have another call on hold, so goodbye…”

“Wait! Ms. Bell, please,” he says.

“It’s MISS Bell.” I’m aware that my mouth is a tight line. If I didn’t like this man before, I really didn’t like him now. “I have a call on the other line.”

“Your Aunt, that is, Miranda asked me to ring you to see how I might help you find your dog. To start, I think we should report the animal missing.”

“We? Since when are we ‘we?’ I’ve already reported him missing. Thanks for the inventive suggestion.” Great, this was her “machine”? Her right arm? Her mini-me? I’d do better hiring a tween with a smartphone and a bookshelf full of Nancy Drew Mysteries. “I’ve even filed police reports, if you can imagine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the middle of an important phone call!”

I click over to the Geek Squad.

The girl is gone, and they’re playing a wordless jazz version of Close to You. I didn’t think it was possible for that song to get any sappier or more maudlin, but they made it happen. I drum my fingers on the desk. Geez, how long are they going to leave me hanging? I try to hang up so I can call back, but the other line is still engaged. I wind up clicking back to Henry, and he’s in midsentence. He is just like Miranda! She never listens when I speak on the phone either.

“…given your fragility due to your parents early deaths, may I express my condolences, she felt that you might be a danger to yourself if your dog were to be found, pardon me, deceased and you were left alone.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. I’d had enough pity back when I was twelve years old. Nonstop pity from everyone, starting with the police lady who gave me the news, to the social worker who was assigned to get me through the school term, to the air hostesses who watched me on the flight to America, to the head mistress of the boarding school where Aunt Miranda dropped me off that fall. It’s exhausting to be pitied. People want you to make it OK so they don’t have to feel worried for you, so they don’t have to consider that life is fragile and that terrible things could happen to them, too. It’s hard work being the object of pity. I had to nip this right in the bud.

“Don’t worry about me,” I told him breezily. “I’m fine. Tell Aunt Miranda that she’s absolved. I am noting that she did something to help. She sent an assistant. Box checked. I’m officially releasing you from duty. She’s off the hook, and so are you. Have a nice day!” I hang up the phone, for real this time. If I didn’t need Aunt Miranda, I certainly didn’t need some random lackey who was being paid to be my fake friend.

I switch back over to the hold music. They’re now playing a peppy Latin-inspired version of Toni Braxton’s Unbreak My Heart.

“Geek Squad. Thank you for holding,” a voice says, breaking through the knock-off pop song. “We’ve considered your case, and we think the best course of action is to deploy remote crisis intervention.”

“Wow.” I realize I’m no Steve Jobs, but that sounds intense. “Yes! I want that. Does that mean you’re coming here?”

“Yes ma’am. We can launch a vehicle within the hour.”

Launch? That’s taking their branding a bit too seriously, if you ask me. Unless they really are going to launch something.

“Fine!” I concede. “Launch away.” I don’t even ask what this personalized service is going to cost me. It simply doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting Hudson back. I give the Geek Squad rep all my details, and hang up.

I can’t shake the itching feeling of needing to do something other than wait. I consider calling Craig to check on the police department’s progress, but I don’t want to slow him and Scrivello down. I know they’ll get in touch if they have news. Calling the shelters this early in the morning could backfire. If I interrupt while they’re getting to their desks and setting up for the day, they’re more likely to blow me off. I’ll call after the lunch hour, when people are in a good mood and more willing to go the extra mile. I can’t make flyers until my printer is fixed. I can’t go search on foot since I have to wait for tech support. There’s nothing to do but distract myself.

I head to the kitchen and pull out the homemade pie-crust dough that’s been chilling since my Christmas Mince Pie operation got thwarted.

Out of habit, I turn my vintage chrome-and-laquered radio’s dial to “on” to listen WNYC to listen to National Public Radio. Maybe it’ll take my mind off things.

“…And if you’re just joining us today here on ‘Last Chance Foods,’ we’re talking with frequent guest food writer, blogger, and chef Melissa Clark. Today on the show, we’re discussing one-dish meals and holiday tables. Welcome, Melissa.”

“Glad to be here, Amy.”

Even though she’s decades her junior, Melissa Clark reminds me of Bridget, my parents’ cook. They both delight in all aspects of food: The sensual feel of it in the hands during preparation, the libertine delight of allowing something delicious to melt in the mouth, and the warmth and pride of sharing good food made well with delighted guests. When I was in cooking school, my favorite teacher said that I must have cooking in my blood. I remember nodding, unable to answer because of the knot in my throat. Bridget may not have been blood, but she was more family than my own kin in many ways.

For a while, I’m able to push away the fear of never seeing Hudson again, and get lost in the rolling and pinching of my pie dough. Melissa Clark shares her secrets for simple, crowd-pleasing holiday hors d’oeuvres while I scoop spoonsful of the now-integrated mincemeat mixture into tiny, prepared tins.

“Don’t be afraid to offer simple crudité,” Melissa encourages. “During the holidays, people are overwhelmed with rich, complicated meals. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy them, too. I’m just advising you to let yourself off the hook so you’ll have time and energy to enjoy your guests.”

“So not every dish has to come from the Cordon Bleu cookbook, am I right, Melissa?”

“Absolutely.”

While I listen, I’m soothed by the familiar actions of baking. A kind of zen rolls over me. When thoughts of Hudson push their way into my brain, I feel positive. I’ll have him back soon, I’m sure of it. This Christmas, I’ll make him a special savory pie made with chopped steak. He goes nuts for steak.

I check the clock; there’s half an hour left until The Geek Squad is due.

Since I have pie crust at the ready (Insider tip: I make and freeze enormous batches, storing the dough in patties suitable for single-crust and double-crust pies. When it comes to pie crust, very cold butter is the secret to flakiness.), and leftover roasted vegetables from testing a Sunday Lunch recipe from the cookbook, I roll out what I need to make a Deep Dish Winter Veggie-and-Egg Pie. My stomach is starting to growl, and this delicious recipe is the closest thing to ‘slow’ fast food that I can think of, apart from an omelet.

I spend a chunk of time listening to Melissa Clark’s take on canapés and skewered meats while I assemble the pie and pop it into the oven along with the tartlets.

The voice of the radio presenter interrupts my zen.

“Cuisine innovator and owner of highly rated restaurants such as Four Chairs and East Fourth, James Keyes, is here today to share his recipe for Sweet Green Pea Guacamole. Welcome, James.”

“Thank you, Amy. Happy to be here.”

I dive to turn off the damned radio. And just as I was starting to feel calmer.

I’d managed not to hear his voice for nearly four years now, the last time being when he left that voicemail before I’d gotten my number changed. Now, the last thing on earth I needed today of all days was to be transported back to James-land. No thank you. Feel free to live your celebrity life, but do it far from me. Besides, putting peas in guacamole is just stupid. It’s just like James to do something over-the-top just to get attention. Sure, it’s nutritious, but they’re peas! In guacamole! It’s the most unholy union I can think aside from James and me. I wipe my hands, and set a timer. No time like the present to move on.

I check the clock again. Where was the Geek Squad, anyway? What did they launch? A skateboard?

I survey my mutinous computer and realize I never actually looked in on my blog. According to my schedule, I always post and reply to comments three times daily, and often once more before bed. Firing up the site, I can see that my negligence has caused a backlog. Charlotte’s Chefs are in a tizzy wondering where I’ve been. Martha26 writes, Dear Charlotte. I’m still waiting for your answer about substituting mint for rosemary in my Christmas Compote. It’s a bit worrying that you’ve disappeared. I hope you’re off on a grand adventure, or better yet, a romantic weekend ;)

There must be twenty or more inquiries about where I’ve been and whether I’m all right. I debate telling my online friends how horrible the situation is, but they all know Hudson. There will be an outpouring of concern and pity. While I ponder my next move, blog-wise, I check the mince pies to see if they’re done. As I open the oven door, I’m wrapped in a blanket of steaming, fragrant winter spices. The tops of the tartlets are a perfect golden brown, so I hustle to de-pan them to cooling racks.

No, I think, heading back to my desk. I’m going to keep the whole Hudson situation to myself for the time being. I can’t handle reassuring everyone when I’m on shaky ground myself. I’ll just act as though everything is hunky-dory. Where on earth was the Geek Squad?

Dear Martha,’ I answer. Either seasoning will do! Fruit loves herbs, and doesn’t differentiate. Keep on baking, and please post a photo when you’ve made the recipe. Cheers! Charlotte.

I’m just about to dig into GrillDadNJ’s question about marinades, when the buzzer goes. Oh, thank God! I run to press the button by the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s BrrRR-UUUUumph.” I hear nothing but the Doppler effect of a motorcycle speeding across what is supposed to be my quiet Upper West Side street. I push the button, and it emits the sizzling-sounding electric noise that opens the outer safety door down at the top of the stoop. I rush over to tidy up my desk in preparation. First, I want to get my printer rolling so I can make flyers. Then, I’ll ask them to help me hook up the scanner I bought last month, and promptly chucked back in the box. Sure, the Geek Squad guy might think I’m an idiot, but I deal with food, not electronics.

Ding-dong.

I race across the room, my chunky knitted socks skidding on the bare parts of the floor as I go, and fling open the door.

“Oh! It’s you.” Standing in front of me is not a uniformed Geek Squad representative, as I’d expected. It’s Henry Wentworth, all six-foot-three of him, dressed casually in jeans and a Sherpa-lined suede peacoat. His face is like thunder.

“You say that a lot. Now, please step aside so I can come in and help you find your dog.”

*****

I’ll be honest with you. I’m a peaceful person, but I can get ugly when I’m backed into a corner. Ask Penelope Granger. If Lulu Wong hadn’t stepped in when she did, not only would Penelope’s art final have been ripped to shreds, she’d have had a fat lip as well. I’ll bet it’s the last time she ever tried to extort money from an underclassman at boarding school.

It’s only by the grace of God, and Henry Wentworth’s lucky stars, that the sweet-faced, mild-mannered Geek Squad guy arrives at precisely that moment. He looks nervously from Henry to me. I bite my tongue. Unleashed, the string of expletives backed up behind my teeth would have made Amy Schumer blush. I can feel that Henry is as near to bursting with rage as I, but we both swallow it out of common courtesy to the socially awkward young man who is clearly just trying to do his job. Still, he’s like a little kid when mom and dad are arguing. He can sense the tension.

“Smells great in here,” the young guy tries, shuffling from one foot to another. “Like my Granny’s on Christmas.” I offer him a wan smile, and he smiles back and breathes out with huge relief. “Good! Great! Let’s fix that machine.”

Henry steps aside while I lead Blake! (As his nametag proclaims) to the computer, and explain my issues. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry surveying my abode. He peeks around the corner to the kitchen. I watch him eyeball the cooling tartlets with interest.

“Do not touch those!” I hiss quietly, irritated to have been interrupted during my computer consultation. Who does he think he is, pawing through my house?

Like the commander of a starship, Blake has lowered himself into my chair and has taken charge of his domain. He finally looks comfortable in his own skin as he flicks switches, and plugs machinery into sockets.

Henry ignores me, pushing aside one of the curtains and looking at the windowsill. He’s pretending to be all CSI about it, picking up a framed photo of Hudson and nodding his head, but I think he’s just nosey. “Psst! Why are you even here?” I whisper, trying not to distract Blake. The faster the Geek Squad expert gets my computer up and running, the better off I’ll be.

“Go!” I whisper-hiss, making huge motions with my arms indicating shoving Henry out the door. “Just go.”

He mouths “No!” then picks up notebook I left lying on the arm of the couch. It has thoughts on favorite recipes and lists of dishes that I want to cook next, along with perfect menus for different occasions. “Put that down,” I mouth, pointing to the couch. “Down!” I feel like I’m talking to Hudson.

“Lamb chops for Valentine’s Day,” he mumbles, tilting his head in consideration. “Maybe,” he says, bobbing his head up and down, reading the pages. I tear across the room, snatching my notebook from his hands. “Give me that!” He holds up his hands in surrender, and is off to the next corner, poking and prodding.

Comfortable in his wheelhouse, Blake continues typing in long strings of characters. From time to time, he roots in his messenger bag for items to plug into ports in my computer that I wasn’t aware existed. I leave him to it, and turn my attention to His Snobby Highness.

“Now, if you’d go and get yourself dressed, I can supervise your computer technician.” He makes a big show of averting his eyes from my worn tracksuit.

“I am dressed,” I huff. “I’m in my own home looking for my lost dog, not gearing up to walk the red carpet at the Oscars.”

He looks me up and down. “Very well.” He looks unsatisfied, but shakes it off. “Let’s get down to business, then, shall we?” He’s halfway through slipping off his coat, when I pull him aside.

“Don’t get comfortable. You aren’t staying.” I whisper so as not to make it even more awkward for the boy.

“To the contrary, Miss Bell, I will indeed be staying as your aunt has given me explicit instructions that I’m not to report back to The Russian Tea Room, or for that matter, any of our soundstages, party venues, or offices, until I locate your pet. It is now my job.” Underneath his closely trimmed beard, I see a muscle twitch in his jaw. His blue eyes are blazing, but other than that, his face is placid. “So calm down.”

There is nothing, and I mean nothing, I hate more than being told to calm down when I’m already calm. Or even if I’m not calm. Jot this down, it’s a sure way to make me punch you in the nose. I ball up my fists. “Get out,” I say. “Leave.”

“You need help, and I’ve been dispatched to offer it. Relax, and put yourself in my capable hands.”

Relax! That’s even worse than calm down. “I have hands of my own, as you can see.” I show him my quivering fists. “I’ve been on my own since I was twelve. I’m good. I’ve got this. You can go now.”

I pull out my phone and stab in a text to Aunt Miranda.

Dear Aunt M, I appreciate the offer of help, but am fine on my own.

You can tell HW to come back to the office.

If I need to talk to you, I can contact you directly. I really hope to find H today. x C

“Listen to me, Charlotte,” he says in a soft voice full of urgency, “you haven’t ‘got this.’” I don’t even raise my eyes from my phone. I just keep on texting. “Look at me,” he says. Begrudgingly, I do. He nods in Blake’s direction. “Case in point: Your big plan of the day is to run off some scrapbook-level flyers and…and what? Attach them to telephone poles with pushpins? Slide them under the doors of the people in your neighborhood? Maybe wear a sandwich board declaring ‘I’ve lost my dog’?”

I’m starting to sweat around my hairline. Maybe I haven’t fully thought this through.

“What do you know?” I fire off, knowing I sound like a testy adolescent. I need to get Hudson back and I’ve been doing everything I know how. “How dare you…you snobby asshat, come into my home and tell me I don’t know how to find my dog? I’m figuring it out.”

Henry Wentworth puts both hands on my shoulders, and fixes my eyes with those Aegean blue lasers of his.

“You’ll burn hours and hours of precious time, and to no avail in the end. Meanwhile, your dog is God-knows-where, far from home and hearth. Now, allow Bill Gates, Jr. to finish up, and I’ll come up with a real plan of action.” I hear the buzz of a phone. Henry sighs loudly. “Hang on, I have to check this.”

He pulls out his phone and listens to the message. From my vantage point, all I hear is a high-pitched yelling. Is it Aunt Miranda? I strain to hear, but he sees me listening and turns his body away from me. His face closes off, then blooms into an expression of irritation. I scrutinize him, thinking about my next move.

On the one hand, I don’t trust this pontifical, self-important Englishman, emphasis on ‘man’. Being treated like the proverbial fragile little lady has always chapped my ass. Add to that his ulterior motive: He’ll say or do anything to get back under Aunt Miranda’s wing, where the action is. Come to think of it, Aunt Miranda shouldn’t trust him either. I’m getting a real All About Eve vibe from this one.

On the other hand, if I need to swallow my ego to Huddie back, so be it. I owe it to him to take advantage of every opportunity, no matter how distasteful.

“Charlotte, please,” Henry says in a low voice. His posture has softened. “Your dog could be shivering on the street somewhere, cold and scared. And I hardly want to hint at it, but people have been known to steal animals.” A tiny cry escapes my throat.

“Shh.” He squeezes my shoulders. “Stay with me. The faster we find him, the better. Wouldn’t you rather he were here, being fed home-cooked morsels off your plate, and shoving you over in the bed till you’re teetering on the edge while he snores peacefully?”

Oh, Huddie. I let my eyes drift to the floor. I don’t want Henry to see my fear.

“All right, ma’am,” Blake breaks in, standing up and gathering his equipment. “You’re all set to print and scan, and I ran some diagnostics and cleaned off some malware. Today’s visit is $349.99. You should bring her into the shop soon if you want us to run updates.”

“Never mind, that won’t be necessary” Henry says, brandishing a credit card. Before I can intervene, the card is run through a swiper. “I can do the updates myself.”

“Wait a minute,” I begin.

“That will be all for today, thank you,” Henry breaks in.

“Well, great then!” says the boy, moving toward the door. “If there’s anything your husband can’t handle, just stop in or give us a call.”

“He’s not my…”

“I can handle quite a bit, can’t I, my dear?” Henry cuts me off, giving the young man just the lightest shove out the door, and closing it. “And at 350 dollars a visit, I’d certainly offer you more than 15 minutes of fiddling around!”

I feel my eyebrows hurtle skyward, and my mouth drops open.

“That is to say… Miss Bell, what I mean to say, is…”

“Bing!” Saved by the oven timer. I hurry to the kitchen to take out the egg-and-vegetable pie.

Heading into the kitchen, I grab my heavy-duty silicone oven gloves. As I’m bending over to heave the substantial pie from the oven, I’m aware that Henry is behind me. Why won’t he stop following me around? I need a minute to think. Whether it’s from panic or lack of sleep or the distraction of having a person in my apartment, I cannot cut through the fog. I’m edgy, and I know it. I have to keep my cool. I want my dog back, and as Henry has pointed out, two heads are better than one. Especially when one of the heads isn’t firing on all cylinders. I slide the pie onto a cooling rack, and turn around.

Henry is leaning, arms crossed, against the door jamb. “Did you make that?”

“Of course I made it. Do you see anyone else around here?” Easy, Charlotte, my inner voice tells me. Keep your eye on the prize.

“I mean, did you bake that? From scratch? And those little, what are they, mince pies, as well?” He sidles up to the counter, inspecting my wares.

“Yes, I did. Why?”

“It’s just I don’t know any women, apart from my mum, who do that.” He looks at me with that maddening eyebrow lift. “All the women I’ve dated have only ever known how to pick up the phone to order food.”

“Well I made them. Any other questions before you help me find my dog. I mean, that is why you’re here, isn’t it? I mean,” I suck in my breath and let out a long sigh, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It wasn’t fair. Please, help me find my dog.”

“Apology accepted. I do have one question…any chance of a cup of tea? I was ejected from the offices first thing in order to come to your rescue.”

I stare at him. I can feel my breath rising and falling at a rapid rate, and I remind myself not to make an angry face. “One quick cup, then we get to work. OK?”

“Perfect.”

“Sit down at the table,” I bark. “I mean, please. Have a seat.” I flick on the electric kettle and in short order, I’m setting a cup of strong, milky tea and a plate of mince pies in front of him.

“Thank you,” he says. He bites into one of the pies, and moans. “God, this is unbelievable. What are you, a witch?” He takes a drink of tea, and greedily pops the rest of the pie into his mouth. “Heaven!”

I can’t help feeling proud. Half the time when I bake, I just do a ring-and-run, leaving the leftovers at the door of the elderly couple in apartment 1F. They always leave an index card under my door thanking me, but it’s not the same as watching someone appreciate my food.

“Well done, really. This is absolutely superb. You’ve got quite a talent.”

“Thank you.” I’m starting to warm to him a little. “Hudson loves my cooking. I like to think I’m pretty handy around the kitchen.”

“The kitchen, yes, but you were taken to the cleaners with that house call.”

I feel steam rising. “It was an emergency.”

“I could have fixed your computer problems easily.” He bites into a second pie. “Oh, mmm. These may be better than my mother’s,” he marvels. “And I meant to mention earlier, a single woman like yourself shouldn’t open the door to complete strangers. This is, after all, New York City.”

“I didn’t open the door to a stranger. I opened it to the Geek Squad.”

“Perhaps, but who was standing there? I could have been a common psychopath.”

“Could have been…” I mumble under my breath.

“At any rate, I’m here to help. You’ve made the right choice. Now, we can finally do something that will work.” He mutters something that sounds like, “…pleased you’ve come to your senses.” I grit my teeth and smile. “Thank you for helping,” I manage to cough out.

Ooh, it would feel so good to smack him across his smug, beardy face right now, but I can’t afford to be emotional.

“We have an understanding. I’ll use you to get what I want. Just as you’re doing with me. I need my dog; you need Aunt Miranda’s approval. One hand can wash the other. It’s a win-win, right?”

“Sounds perfect,” he replies.

I push away the little voice in my head that reminded me that, in a nutshell, this was James’s modus operandi and the reason I wasn’t standing next to him at the openings of his top-shelf restaurants. But today was a new day. As they say, “All’s fair in love and war.” At least I think that’s what The Art of War said. I don’t know, I really only skimmed the first few pages. Or maybe that’s from a Humphrey Bogart film. It doesn’t matter.

Henry Wentworth has something I need and I’m not going to give up until I get it.