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
