Chapter 29
SNICKERS
The limousine rolls to a smooth stop in front of Chez Henri.
Beside me, Piglet sits tall and proud, smelling faintly of that raspberry-scented shampoo. Fluffed out and perfect, he looks like he belongs on the cover of French Bulldog Pedigree magazine.
Well, it’s good to know that if I get kicked out of my CEO position, lose the family company, and somehow get banned from the DJ scene, I can always get a job as a dog groomer.
“How did a purebred beauty like you even end up in the shelter?” I say to the mutt.
Piglet shoots me a look that says, I’m not even going to go there.
“I respect that, buddy.” I scratch him under the chin.
“Underneath all that arrogance, you’re a good dog at heart.”
Piglet yips in response.
The chauffeur opens the limo door, and I scoop Piglet into my arms.
Chez Henri, perched on the corner of 60th and Park, is a stunning restaurant.
It takes up the entire first floor of one of Manhattan’s most classic hotels.
I’ve been here many times before.
Typically, the murmur of sophisticated conversation, and the aroma of lingering perfume and high-end scotch greet my senses.
But tonight, the restaurant is empty except for Kit, her ragtag team of paparazzi, Clare, and assorted restaurant personnel.
In addition to our own media team, it looks like the restaurant has brought in its own publicity crew.
Hmm. It certainly promises to be an interesting night.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. Woodward,” says a tall, slender woman I’ve noticed traveling with our entourage.
She swiped my nose with a powder puff a few times, so I assumed she was a makeup artist.
But tonight, she’s holding up tiny costumes on miniature hangers.
“Look at the outfits I have for Mr. Piglet!” she giggles.
“This is his little sous chef outfit—just for publicity pictures, mind you. Mr. Chef Henri does not allow dogs in his kitchen.
“And this,” she says, holding up a little doggy tuxedo, “is for when he joins you and Miss Pip for dinner.”
“I was hoping to dine alone with Miss Pip,” I say. “I didn’t think Piglet would be invited.”
“Oh, well...” she stammers.
I grace her with my beautiful smile.
“Oh, I see you’re joking. Well then, if you don’t mind, I’ll take Piglet and settle him into his outfit.”
Piglet’s eyes widen in alarm.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I say, tickling his tummy the way I know he likes it. “You’re in good hands.”
The woman carries Piglet off to God knows where.
I glance around the room. Kit's ragtag team of paparazzi sits at the corner tables near the rear of the dining room, their cameras and notebooks piled in the center.
Sara, the Snickerdoodle fan, sits alone, long mousy hair hiding her face as she types into her device.
I feel a strange compulsion to speak to her. Several times I've seen her look my way, as if she was trying to tell me something.
But I resist. Even though I know she's a Snickerdoodle, a hardcore fan, I know it's best to let Kit handle her own people.
A few minutes later, I spot Pip in deep conversation with Kit. My eyes narrow.
What could they be whispering about right now? There’s only one way to tell.
“Hello, ladies. What are you doing standing in the elegant lounge of Chez Henri without a glass of Champagne in your hands?”
“No drinking before the shoot,” says Kit. “That goes for you too, Snickers.”
“Where’s Piglet?” Pip asks, her eyes darting around the room for the frisky French Bulldog. “What did you do with him? You said he’d be here.”
I sense the panic in her voice.
“Relax, Pip. He’s all well and good. The costume designer wants to dress him as a chef,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Kit, is this really necessary? I think you’re taking this way too far.”
“I’m just following Clare’s orders,” she says. “Now, are you two ready for tonight? You know the drill, right?”
I snicker. “I presume it means donning a sous chef outfit?”
“Right. And a hairnet. You both must wear hairnets. It’s a New York State law.”
“I don’t think that will be very photogenic,” I say. “Especially with the knife-sharp angles of my fellow sous chef’s pipsqueak face.”
“Touché,” says Pip. “I can’t wait until we finish our cooking chores. Then we can toast to not seeing each other again until our wedding rehearsal tomorrow night.”
“You’re forgetting you still have media dates tomorrow,” Kit says.
“The schedule keeps changing so much I can barely keep track,” Pip complains. “What are our activities?”
“Tomorrow is ice skating at Rockefeller Center,” says Kit, looking at her phone. “And following that, you’ll have hot chocolate.”
“Oh, how nice,” I say. “I love a good cup of hot cocoa. Will it be overlooking the ice-skating rink, Kit? Just like a Woodward and Co greeting card?”
“That’s the point,” says Kit. “We’re recreating the best illustrations of scenes we’ve used for the last 200 years.”
“Was there even a printing press back then?” asks Pip.
“The printing press was invented in 1440,” I say smugly.
“But I’ll admit, the first Woodward and Co greeting cards were rather primitive.”
“Still are,” says Pip. “If I were you, I’d look for a way to bring them into the future. You’re a DJ. You know how music can communicate emotions more than anything else. Even words.”
I stare at Pip for a long moment. In seconds, she’s captured the idea I’ve struggled to convey to Preston and the board for years.
Kit glances at her watch. “We’re late. Let’s get you two dressed.”
She escorts us to a back room, where the woman is putting the finishing touches to Piglet’s outfit.
“Oh, here’s my Piglet!” says Pip, reaching to give him a hug.
“Careful,” says the woman. “That sous chef outfit is freshly pressed. You wouldn’t want to crush it.”
Pip picks Piglet up and hugs him anyway.
“Here are your sous chef outfits,” the woman says, handing them to us. “You can dress in the restrooms around the corner.”
“Got it,” says Pip, taking Piglet towards the restroom.
“How was your afternoon with the dog?” says Kit once Pip is gone.
“Uneventful,” I say. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I wasn’t sure that you could handle it. I was afraid you’d come back without him. You wouldn’t imagine the scenarios that were running through my mind. But I’m proud of you, Snickers. You did good. Now go get dressed.”