“Are you all right?” she asked me. She spoke English, without an accent, which made me think she was North American. She touched my shoulder.
I practically threw myself into her arms and instead of pushing me away, as if she was being accosted by a crazy person, her arms folded around me.
She was very slender, and yet she felt ten feet tall and enormously strong.
“My dog,” I sobbed. “He’s escaped. He went that way.”
Feeling foolish and old I stepped back from her embrace, wincing at the pain in my ankle, and pointed a quavering arm in the direction Max had gone.
It was then I noticed she was with a man. He was one of those supremely attractive types, who have an inborn knowledge of their own superiority. He had that way about him, of a very good-looking man, as if he was doing this woman some kind of favor by being with her. Even though she was being protective of me, I actually, despite my distress, felt very protective of her.
“Ralph,” she said, pronouncing it in the German way, Rolf, “this poor woman has lost her dog. Can you go find him?”
He gave her an astonished glare and looked, rather pointedly, at his very expensive wristwatch. It was clear he didn’t want to miss the opening song of the concert, had probably put out a lot of money for front row seats.
The woman gave him a look.
I saw right away that she was seeing things about him that she had not seen before or maybe had seen but, in the heat of romance, had dismissed. I think he saw her blossoming awareness, too, because he turned begrudgingly to me and with the outmost reluctance asked after the dog.
“What kind of dog?”
“He’s a dachshund. He’s wearing a sailor suit.”
The man—I decided I hated him in general, and him for her in particular—raised an eyebrow at her that spoke absolute volumes. We’re going to miss Carlene’s opening set for a crazy old lady who probably doesn’t even own a dog. But he set off the way they had come.
“His name is Max,” I called out helpfully, but I realized that man was not going to go through the crowd shouting for the dog.
I began to tremble uncontrollably, partly from the pain in my ankle, but mostly from thinking of Max lost out there in this absolute sea of people.
“Are you hurt?” the young woman asked me.
“I seem to have turned my ankle.”
She quickly had her shoulder under my arm, and again I realized she was much stronger than she appeared. She practically carried me out of the press of the crowd and off to a tea stand set up under a colorful yellow-striped awning, with a scattering of mismatched plastic tables and chairs under it.
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
