A young woman was just getting up from a table. She was clutching her Carlene ticket as if she had waited her whole life for this moment. She saw me, crying, and she saw my angel, and she hesitated, and then made a decision.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, approaching us. She had short dark hair and she was quite petite, like she could be cast for Tinker Bell in Peter Pan. She had some kind of instrument slung over her shoulder in a case—perhaps a violin or a ukulele, making me think that, as well as being desperate to see the Carlene concert, she might be one of the lesser known performers here. She was British, like me, and for some reason I found that quite comforting.
“Not really. My friend has lost her dog. And hurt her ankle, I’m afraid.”
Friend.
Not Crazy lady keeping her from the concert.
“Oh, dear,” she said, and then I had two angels, as she rushed to support my other side. The tent café was empty—of course it was, everyone was heading to the concert—so we had no problem finding a nearby table.
“Do you think you need medical attention?” the British girl asked.
“I need my dog!” I said and my voice came out in an embarrassingly quavering wail.
“What kind of dog?” she asked gently.
Again, I was so grateful not be asked why I had brought a dog to the event. Even though Denmark is one of the most dog-friendly nations I have ever visited, obviously bringing Max this evening had been pushing it just a wee bit.
“A dachshund.”
She won me forever when she smiled at me, her green eyes sparking with good humor, and said, “I adore dachshunds. What’s his name? I’ll go have a look.”
“His name is Max.” I hesitated a moment, thinking of the man’s reaction, but anything that would help had to be divulged. “He’s wearing a sailor suit.”
“A dachshund in a sailor suit,” she said. “Honestly, you have made my day. Maybe my whole week.”
This from someone on her way to the most coveted concert of the year! But she put the Carlene ticket in her pocket, as if it didn’t matter a whit to her, and was soon lost in that crowd, shouting after Max.
My remaining angel went and fetched me a cup of hot tea.
She was just the loveliest girl in an understated kind of way. She was dressed in a rather unexciting pair of capris and a knit tank top I could only describe as the color of porridge. Aside from her eyes, which were quite astonishing in both the doe-darkness of them and their size, she was what I might call plain. She had shoulder-length, light brown hair, and even, but unremarkable features, and the willowy build of those disinterested in food.
She obviously intended to distract me, because she chatted, even though she had that reserved air about her of the type who would not enjoy being chatty with strangers. She told me her name was Jessica Winton, and that she was from a small town in Canada, where she owned a bookstore named, adorably, The Book and Cranny.
“Difficult to compete with the online giants,” I commented.
“Not really,” she said, “because my view is that a bookstore is no longer just about selling books. If anything, the online world is creating an even deeper need for connection.”
She went on to say that people thought brick-and-mortar bookstores were going to go the way of the dinosaur, but she disagreed. She felt bookstores needed to reinvent themselves as the hub of the community.
I could see she did have a gift for connection, because I felt connected just talking to her. I could also see that she was an astute businesswoman, and she reminded me, just a bit, of my younger self. She had succeeded in taking my mind off both my missing dog and my throbbing ankle.
I indulged my curiosity about her. “Do you travel a great deal?”
She gave a little self-deprecating snort. She told me she had never traveled abroad before, and that this was her first real adventure. She said that all her previous adventures had been between the covers, and then added of books and gave a little laugh. I could tell, even as distracted and panicky as I was about poor Max, that her adventure might not be turning out exactly as planned.
“Is that man your boyfriend?” I asked, putting unnecessary emphasis on that. One of the few perks of being old is you can be as direct as you want.
Jessica hesitated, and then looked uncomfortable. “We’ve been back and forth online for nearly a year. This is our first actual time together. I thought...”
She let her sentence drift off, but I’m afraid I could tell exactly what she thought, poor thing.
With an ocean between them, and his rather stellar good looks, she had thought he was her Prince Charming.
I had nearly finished the tea, and despite how much I might have enjoyed my companion in other circumstances, I felt deflated and exhausted, and as if I needed to go back to my hotel room, to the inevitable finger-shaking of my head of security, and to begin to mourn the loss of my beloved Max.
But just as I had given up hope, that girl who had put her ticket in her pocket emerged from the crowd, and she was with another girl. They could have been sisters, they looked so much alike with that spiky, very short hair, and both of them with petite builds.
The other girl’s hair was lighter, and she had freckles, and it was she who had a squirming Max held firmly in her arms. Both the young women were laughing, and they looked so vivacious and full of life. It was such a beautiful thing to see—plus the miracle of Max being returned to me—that I started to cry all over again.
I suddenly found Max in my arms. The little monkey—his outfit utterly destroyed—licked my face as though he had not deliberately
