A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas. Lynn Hulsman Marie

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       Chapter 4

      “Slow down there,” Henry calls. I’m already halfway up the block. Once my feet have hit the sidewalk, my body kicked into high gear. I couldn’t slow down if I wanted to. Henry does a little jog, and catches up with me, panting slightly. “It’s a good thing I wore trainers today. Now, tell me again, where exactly was Hudson when he slipped away? We’re going to retrace your steps.”

      It didn’t matter to me that I’d been all over the park with Officers Curtis and Scrivello. Today was a new day, and Henry Wentworth had a new perspective. If I had to pretend to trust him to find my dog, then that’s what I’d do.

      “Hello there, what’s that?” he said, gesturing to Paws & Claws, a mom-and-pop pet supply store on the avenue. “Have you ever been there?”

      “Yes,” I tell him, “that’s where I get Huddie’s food. I know the lady who owns the place.”

      “Let’s make a detour, then. Follow me.” I swallow the urge to tell him not to boss me around, and I do as I’m told. After all, it’s not the worst idea.

      He surveys the complimentary water bowl that Mrs. Rabinowitz leaves out for passing dogs. This time of year, its deep blue with a yellow Star of David painted on the bottom. I see Henry take in the kitty-cat menorah sitting in the window, waiting for sundown when she’ll turn on the right number of bulbs for this night of Chanukah. She spies me through the window, and waves enthusiastically, gesturing for me to come in.

      Once Henry pushes open the door, tinkling the shop bell, Mrs. Rabinowitz races over, pumping her elbows and leading with her ample, pigeon-shaped bosom.

      “Come in! What, you never visit anymore? Don’t tell me you’ve been getting Hudson’s food from the internet, God forbid, puh puh puh,” she spits. “We haven’t seen you in weeks!”

      I open my mouth to ask if she’s seen Huddie, but before I can form the words, she holds up her hands in surrender.

      “I get it,” she says before I can speak, “you’re a young girl, you’re busy with the young men, and the social life, and the this and the that.” She gives a not-subtle-at-all nod to Henry. “Where’s my little bubbeleh?” she asks.

      “That’s the thing, Mrs.…?” Henry replies.

      “Rabinowitz,” she offers, scowling. “Everyone knows that. But what? What’s the thing? Is something the matter? Talk to me.”

      Henry pulls a card from his pocket, and gestures toward a cup of pens on the counter. “May I?” She nods her head, and he chooses one, and scribbles on the back of the card.

      In the name of all that is holy, why doesn’t he just print his phone number, email, and Twitter handle on his cards like everyone else in the 21st century? From the way she’s eyeballing him, I get the sense that Mrs. Rabinowitz is as suspicious of Henry as I am.

      She loses her patience and quickly blurt out, “forgive me for being a buttinsky, but there’s something you’re not telling me. Out with it, already.”

      “Hudson has gone missing,” I whisper.

      She looks horrified and then Henry informs her briskly. “Here’s my card. If you hear anything from pet owners in the neighborhood, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

      She takes the card without looking at Henry. “What happened, my Shayna Maidel?” she asks me. I feel a lump rise in my throat. “Was he stolen? You poor dear.”

      I shake my head no, pinching my lips together so I don’t cry. I don’t like to cry in front of people under the best of circumstances. I sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of Henry Wentworth of the Heavy Cardstock Wentworths. But Mrs. Rabinowitz’s eyes are wells of pure concern. I look away. There’s nothing worse when you’re trying not to cry than having someone be nice to you. “Talk to me. What happened?”

      “We’re not sure. He was last seen around Columbus Circle. He slipped away without his collar and tags,” Henry says.

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