Читать книгу: «A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas»

Chapter 1

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.”