A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas. Lynn Hulsman Marie
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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.
By the time we’re up and out the door bright and early the next morning, Henry