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

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.”

      “Do you have a card? With your website on it?”

      “I do,” I say fumbling in my bag. I’m down to my last one, it’s a bit damp, and crumbs from the bottom of my purse are clinging to it. I brush it off, and wonder if he’ll think it’s too gross if I hand it to him.

      “Cool. I’m an art director,” he says, taking the card and pocketing it. “My name is Ken by the way. My friends all call me a foodie. I hate that word, but it’s kind of true. I like cooking, and I really love eating out.”

      “Food is… really great,” I say awkwardly. He smiles encouragingly. “Really. I eat it all the time.” I’m starting to sweat. Not pretty. I try to scratch surreptitiously under my arms. Beneath my coat, perspiration is making me feel all prickly.

      “Glad to hear that. I was just thinking that I’d love to take you out to dinner some night. Do you like Ethiopian?”

      Oh my God. He’s asking me on a date.

      I see Hudson bounding up, holding something in his mouth.

      “Hudson! Put that down. We don’t pick up trash in our mouths,” I say. I hear my rigid, school-marmish tone. Does this guy think I’m a stick-in-the-mud? “Hudson,” I try again, “bring that to me. That’s right. Come here. Good boy. I’ll take that.” I hope I sound less uptight. My peppy little angel is headed right toward me, so I bend over and hold out my hand.

      At the last minute, Hudson veers and lasers in on the guy. He drops the magazine from his mouth, onto the guy’s feet, and sits down, looking very pleased with himself.

      “I’ll get that,” I say quickly. I don’t want him to think my dog and I are litterbugs.

      “Don’t worry.” He’s already reaching for it.

      “No, really, I’ve got it.” I bend over to grab it and smack my skull into his.

      “Ow!” I say, rubbing my head. “I’m so sorry!”

      He’s got the magazine in his hand. “Don’t worry. He points to his head. “Hard as a rock,” he says with a laugh. “Hey, you didn’t answer. Would you go out to dinner with me?”

      I reach for the magazine, but the guy is examining it. He turns it over, and to my horror, it’s American Bride.

      Hudson’s on his feet, with his expressive tail high in the air, wagging like metronome on the verge of exploding, looking from one to the other of us.

      The guy laughs out loud, and points to the magazine’s cover. “You have to go out with me now. Your dog obviously has big plans for us.”

      I can feel my whole face go red. Could I go out with this guy? I wonder to myself. It’s been a long time. Why not? It’s crazy that I’m a food blogger and I haven’t eaten out at a nice place in… how long?

      “I guess dinner would be OK,” I say, doubting that’s the truth, even as I say it. I’m talking slowly, turning the possibility over in my head, thinking through any potential pitfalls. What would we talk about for two hours?

      “Great! Have you heard of that new place in Chelsea? The Fork?”

      “No, I haven’t.” I’m embarrassed. The truth is, I don’t know what’s hot or new on the city restaurant scene. “Is it new?”

      “Really new. It’s James Keyes’ latest. American comfort food. He’s the chef behind Four Chairs and East 4th. Do you know of him?”

      I feel like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down my back. “Oh, I definitely know of him. In fact, I know him.”

      “Cool!” How did you get to know someone so famous?”

      “We went to culinary school together. You know what?” I say, scrambling to pull on my gloves and gather my belongings. “Thanks anyway, but I’m super busy. I really don’t think I can work in going out to dinner any time soon. I’m sorry, we have to go now,” I say, lunging toward Hudson, and snapping the leash onto the ring of his harness in one swift motion. I snatch the magazine from the guy’s hand, and zoom for the gate, dragging my unwilling canine behind me.

      “Wait!” the man calls. “Your coffee!”

      By the time he says it, I’m locking the second gate behind me. I chuck the copy