LITMIR.BIZ

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are not listening to me. I’m trying to tell you that Huddie is missing.”

      “He’s quite small…have you checked under the bed? You know, at one time Cerie was a warrior. I once watched her bring Joan Rivers to tears! I loved Joanie, God rest her soul, but Cerie was right. The Gucci bootlets were too youthful.”

      I sense that she’s in the middle of a monologue, and not about to come up for air any time soon. I take the time to run into the kitchen and pop a capsule into my Nespresso machine. I’m going to need coffee today, and lots of it if I’m going to find my little needle in the haystack that is New York City.

      “Aunt Miranda, do you even care that my dog is missing? Do you?”

      “Of course, darling, but I’m in the middle of a story. Just let me finish my thought. Losing Cerie was like losing my right arm, let me tell you. I will never, as long as I live, understand how she could have chosen to take leave just as I was on the brink of locking down the curation of Caitlyn Jenner’s world debut.”

      “Didn’t you say she was in labor?” I demand in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Aunt Miranda.” I slam down my coffee cup.

      “We all make our choices, don’t we? Any old hoo, I’m calling to break the news that Christmas Day lunch at yours is defo a no-go. I’m sorry, darling, it’s just the event planner for the Vatican Christmas Dinner quit in a huff. It seems the new pontiff is a good deal more humble than previous ones, and he’s insisting on keeping it simple.”

      “Aunt Miranda! I called to talk about Hudson. I don’t have time to talk about Christmas.”

      “Several cardinals are in an uproar, and Jacques Desmaisson refuses to work with such a low budget, “low” being in heavy inverted quotes, you understand.” While she rattles on, I pour milk in the frother, and watch it swirl and foam.

      “Aunt Miranda,” I say, cutting in where there’s a breath, “I need you to focus. On me, for a change.”

      “Oh, but don’t you want to hear my genius plan to make this disaster an opportunity by introducing a shabby-chic element? Picture it: The Vatican meets Pottery Barn meets Summer in Provence! It goes without saying that all of the gold staffs and mitres could distract from the theme, but my new assistant has some ideas that could tie it all together.”

      “You are seriously not going to listen to me, are you?”

      “Hold the phone, darling. You cannot put silver spoons in the Beluga caviar, you nitwit! That’s why we special-ordered an entire crate of mother of pearl ones! Sorry about that, as I was saying, Henry did a short stint in Connecticut last summer for Martha Stewart, you know. During the Post-Prison Renaissance. I stole him from under her nose. She’s furious. Suffice it to say, I won’t be shucking clams at her beach house any time soon. Still, it was worth it. Henry is a hungry young thing who works like a machine. I have him here through to New Year’s when he’s promised himself to Nigella Lawson for some launch or another. I’ll be sorry to see him go, even though he’s in the doghouse with me at the moment for the way he treated you at the tree lighting.”

      I feel a stab of guilt. “Don’t punish him on my account. Even if he is a puffed-up jerk.”

      “Don’t try and defend him! I’ll think of a little lesson to teach him. If you give the brilliant ones too much rope early on, they don’t learn discipline. If I check his ego, he’ll respect me for it and take it like a man. He’s the closest thing to a mini-me I have. No offense, darling.”

      “None taken. Believe me.”

      I slurp down my second coffee in one hot gulp, the bitter burn no match for the hole in my heart left by the fact that Aunt Miranda is continuing to ignore me. It’s no secret she has always been disappointed that I don’t click around behind her in high heels and a form-fitting pencil skirt barking orders at catering staffs around the globe. But you’d think she’d be on deck for me in a time of crisis. As if I’d want to be a robot like that stick-up-his ass Englishman she had toadying for her. I wish I didn’t need her. It would feel so good to just hang up on her. But today I do.

      I can hear crystal tinging, and people shouting in Russian.

      “Aunt Miranda! Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Why won’t she just pay attention to me and let her little shadow handle whatever is going on at The Russian Tea Room. He’s probably lording his power above PAs and waiters as we speak.

      I’m not sure if my heart is pounding from the two shots of espresso I just chugged, or from abject fear of never seeing my dog again.

      I check my circa 1955 red Bakelite kitchen clock, and see that morning is now fully upon us. “All right. No more monkeying around. It’s go time. You have to listen to me, now. Hudson is gone, Aunt Miranda. As in not here. As in lost!”

      There’s a beat of silence on her end of the phone. “Well, surely if he were dead you’d have heard by now, wouldn’t you?”

      I burst into tears with the force of someone turning on a jet-powered spa shower. Grabbing a kitchen towel to contain what has unexpectedly come forth from my nostrils, I consider what I hadn’t even allowed myself to think last night. That Hudson might be dead.

      “There, there, darling, I’m just trying to be practical. I didn’t mean to be insensitive, but it seems to me that this is an awful lot of fuss to make over a dog.”

      “He’s not just a dog,” I cough out, still sobbing. “I know you don’t like him, Aunt Miranda, but I can’t believe you’d say that. He’s my family.”

      “Oh, there, there Charlotte,” she says awkwardly. Aunt Miranda doesn’t do tears. “It’s not that I don’t like him, exactly. I’m just not a dog person, as they say. Cheer up. If you don’t find him, I’ll order you another.”

      The heaving sobs threaten to squeeze my heart till it stops. I’m gasping for a full breath. In the background, I hear someone calling, “Ms. Nichols, you’re needed in the staging area. The vendor sent 30 pounds of cheesecake instead of cream cheese.”

      “I hear that you’re upset, Charlotte. And truly, I am sorry, it’s just… hang on, I’m so sorry, one more mo… Then get your arse down to Food Emporium and buy every block of Philadelphia’ s finest in the dairy case! In 20 minutes, we’ll have the heads of the most powerful countries on the planet sitting on those rococo chairs to inhale their breakfasts while they solve world war! Are you going to be the one to tell them they’re going to have to eat naked bagels??? I thought not!”

      I put the phone on speaker, set it on the counter, and splash cold water on my face. A glimpse of my kitchen calendar tells me I’m falling behind on the recipes for The English Manor Cookbook and I haven’t responded to Charlotte’s Chefs on the blog in two days. My regular fans, like Martha26 and GrillDadNJ will be worried. I’m meticulous about responding to my blog followers. I consider them friends. But I can’t think about that right now. It’ll keep till Hudson is back safe and sound. I dry my face on my dishtowel and steel myself to move forward. All by myself.

      “Hello? Hello, darling? Are you there?”

      I consider just hanging up, and pretending the connection was lost but I take a breath, and answer. “Yes, I’m here.”

      “As you can tell, sweetheart, I’m swamped, but I’ve put you on my list. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll check in after the last chancellors and presidents are out the door and on their way to see The Book of Mormon. You cannot imagine how I had to move heaven and earth to get them orchestra seats for the matinee. Hottest ticket in town!”

      “You know, Aunt Miranda, I’ve learned not to expect much from you but this time I’m truly disappointed.”

      “Charlotte, please don’t say that. Really, I am trying to think of a way to solve your little problem.”

      “I thought talking to you might help. I feel worse than I did before I called.”

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