Author: Kristan Higgins

“So what’s the plan, Nick?” I asked. He was staring out the window, his mouth tight, eyes sharp.

“The officer in charge is waiting for us at the nursing home,” he said. “He’ll fill us in then. How my father could just wander out—” He shook his head and said no more.

Coco sat quietly on my lap, shivering occasionally as we headed up Park Avenue. It was a very posh area, of course; once I’d spent the afternoon around here, a lonely newlywed trying to fall in love with the city that was such a part of Nick. I pushed the memory aside and stared out the window, hoping against hope to see Nick’s dad.

By the time we pulled up in front of the Roosevelt Center on East 65th Street, it was three-thirty in the afternoon, a miracle of efficiency on the part of Nick’s travel agent and assistant, and still Nick’s father was missing. A detective and the director of the facility, an understandably anxious woman named Alicia, greeted us and brought us into a sitting room.

“Mr. Lowery,” she said to Nick, “you have my deepest apologies on this. Apparently, one of the new staffers inadvertently shut off the front door alarm, and—”

“We’ll deal with how this happened later on,” Nick said tersely. “What are you doing right now, where have you looked, what was my father wearing, how many people are out looking?”

They filled us in on the efforts thus far—an APB, photos, news coverage, neighborhood canvassing, K-9 unit. They handed us the flyer they were passing out, which featured a large, clear photo of Nick’s dad. My heart lurched. Mr. Lowery—Call me Ted—had aged shockingly. His hair was thin and white, and his face held a slack, sweet expression. He couldn’t have been more than sixty-five, but he looked eighty.

“Is there anywhere he might’ve wanted to go, Nick?” I asked when the briefing was over. I didn’t watch Law & Order for nothing.

“I was just about to ask that,” Detective Garcia said.

Nick ran a hand through his hair. “Did you call his old company?” he asked. “Maybe he went there.”

A quick phone call ascertained that Mr. Lowery had not shown up at his old building on Madison Avenue. Though it seemed unlikely that he’d have the ability to find his way back to his old house in Westchester County, the current owners were notified and asked to call immediately if they saw him.

Neither Lila nor Jason had returned Nick’s calls.

“Any sentimental places he’d go, Nick?” I asked. “Central Park? Maybe his favorite restaurant? The zoo?” I hesitated. “Places he took you boys as kids?”

Nick glanced at me, then slumped back in his chair. “I don’t know,” he admitted. Because of course, Ted hadn’t taken him many places at all. “Jason might have a better idea.” He closed his eyes. “Well, I’m not going to just sit here,” he said. “I’ll head for the park. What was he wearing this morning?”

The director glanced anxiously at Detective Garcia. “Well, here,” she said. “We have the security tape, in which you can clearly see your father leaving and heading west.”

The tape was already loaded; the director clicked the remote, and we saw the front entrance of the Roosevelt Center. A second later, the film showed a man simply walking out the door.

The quality of the film was good; it was definitely Mr. Lowery, clad in what appeared to be a sport coat, dark T-shirt and sneakers.

No pants. None at all. I clutched Coco a little more tightly.

“Oh, shit,” Nick muttered. “He’s wandering the city bare-assed?”

I bit my lip, and Nick glanced at me. “Don’t laugh,” he warned, but his mouth twitched.

“No. Not funny at all,” I agreed. “I’ll go with you, Nick.”

Coco, Nick and I took a bunch of flyers and headed west, toward the park and Museum Mile, past the limestone and brick townhouses adorned with wrought-iron balconies, down the tree-lined streets of the wealthy. We passed a homeless man, sleeping next to the garbage cans in front of a beautiful brownstone. It wasn’t Mr. Lowery, but Nick took a good look anyway, then took a twenty out of his wallet and tucked it into the guy’s boot.

“I thought the mayor discouraged that,” I said.

“Screw the mayor,” Nick answered. I had to trot to keep up. Coco, however, loved the pace and galloped joyfully on her leash. Despite biking to and from work each day, I was panting by the time we reached Fifth Avenue. It was so hot, and the air was heavy and damp.

“Nick, can you slow down a little?”

“My father’s out there somewhere,” he said tightly, walking across the street against the light. Swallowing, I dashed after him—I’d never mastered the art of jaywalking.

“Nick, wait,” I said. I grabbed his hand and dug in my heels, stopping him. “Just…wait.”

“Harper—” His voice choked off, and I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his neck.

“This will turn out okay, you’ll see,” I said. “But it’s a big city. Let’s try to be smart about this, because we can’t just run all over Manhattan. Where do you think he’d go?”

He pulled back and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know, Harper. I just…we never did that much together. If that idiot Jason would call, maybe he’d know, but I just can’t think of anything.”

“Okay, well, what do we know? He’s not at work…anything he’s always loved? Like, I don’t know…dinosaurs? Maybe he’d head to the Museum of Natural History?”

Nick shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“What about horses? He rode, right? Isn’t there a stable somewhere in the park?”

Nick’s face lit up. “You’re a genius, Harper.” With that, he hailed a cab.

TWO HOURS LATER, WE’D come up empty. No sign of Mr. Lowery, not at either of the two uptown stables, not at the recreation center in the park itself where the trail rides began. Nick had called the police with the idea that his father might’ve sought out a place with horses, and they were doing the same thing we were, with unfortunately the same results.

We passed out a bunch of flyers, spoke to everyone we could, but things were looking bad. At this point, we were simply walking through Central Park, which was full of the usual suspects—tourists from all over the earth, runners, students lounging on the grass, kids climbing on the rocks. I’d forgotten how loud New York was, the endless noise of traffic, horns blasting, sirens calling, the chatter of people, the blare of radios and street musicians.

Nick had been checking in with the nursing home and cops every fifteen minutes. Apparently, there’d been a few reports of a man matching Mr. Lowery’s description, but none had turned out to be the real deal.

I myself was sticky, dirty and getting more and more anxious as the day wore on. And starving—my last meal, for lack of a better word, had been a pack of pretzels on the airplane. I bought a hot dog from a street vendor for Coco while Nick was on the phone, but only had enough cash for one. I carried Coco now, concerned about the effects of asphalt on her little paws, and my arms were aching. She may have weighed only eight pounds, but she felt like an unconscious Great Dane at this point.

It was hard not to picture the worst-case scenario…poor Mr. Lowery wandering onto the West Side Highway or falling into the East River or being hurt by an evil thug. My heart ached for Nick—such a devoted son, despite his father’s shortcomings.

Jason had called; apparently he was at a casino in Vegas and had no suggestions on where to look for his adoptive father. Chris was still out of reach, though Nick left him another message.

“We’ll find him,” I said, not at all convinced of the truth of that statement. Nick nodded, clearly disheartened.

Then his phone rang. “Nick Lowery,” he answered. His expression changed. “Where? Okay. We’re on our way.” He hung up, grabbed my hand and started running for the street. “You were right about the horses,” he said. “Someone spotted a guy with no pants down by the carriages and called it in. Taxi!” A yellow cab veered out of traffic and Nick opened the door. I slid in, Coco in my arms, more grateful than I could say at getting off my feet.

“Fifth and Fifty-Ninth,” Nick told the cabbie, then turned to me. “By the time the cop got to the spot where the guy had seen him, Dad was gone, but someone maybe saw him heading down Fifth, so…” His voice was hopeful, his knee jiggling with nervous energy.

It was clear the cops were on the job, because there was a glut of black-and-white cruisers there on Fifth where horse carriages lined the sidewalks across from the Plaza Hotel. Nick’s phone rang again. “Yeah? Okay. Okay, sure.” He clicked off. “Another possible sighting by St. Pat’s.” He knocked on the Plexiglas divider. “Keep going down Fifth, okay?” he asked. “Real slow. I’m looking for my dad.”

We passed FAO Schwartz and CBS, Bergdorf Goodman and Tiffany’s, as well as places that hadn’t been there when I’d lived here—Niketown and Abercrombie. There was Rolex, Cartier Jeweler’s, St. Thomas, the beautiful Episcopal church with the blue stained-glass windows and white marble altar, a place where I’d sought refuge from the heat one summer day. Midtown was packed, as it was now well into rush hour.

“You’d think someone would stop an old guy without pants,” I murmured, looking out my side of the window. Then again, this was New York City.

“Yeah,” Nick said, gnawing on his thumbnail. At St. Patrick’s Cathedral, his phone rang again, just as we were pulling over. “Shit. Where? Okay.” He hung up. “Keep going, okay?” he asked the cabbie.

“Whatever you want, mister,” the driver answered, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“They got a call from someone who might’ve seen him farther downtown,” Nick informed me, looking out the window. “The cops are all over St. Pat’s, but nothing yet.”

Half a block farther, Nick lurched forward. “Stop! Pull over! There he is,” he said, pointing.

And sure enough, Mr. Lowery—though I wouldn’t have recognized him—was shambling along in front of the flag-bedecked building that was Saks Fifth Avenue. Still no pants, I noted. Traffic was thick, and Nick didn’t bother waiting for the driver to make it to the curb. He threw a few bills at the driver and was out of the car before it stopped. A good number of horns blasted as he dodged through the heavy traffic to the sidewalk. “Be careful!” I shouted.

The cabbie pulled over—on the opposite side of the street from Saks, alas, but traffic was like a solid wall. “Good luck,” he said as I got out with Coco.

“Thanks,” I called. Dang. I couldn’t see Nick or Mr. Lowery—wait, there was Nick, just disappearing into Saks. Surely the security guards would grab Mr. Lowery.

Clutching the ever-heavier Coco to my chest, I ran to the corner to cross the street with the light, dodging people, bumping into more than a few. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, waiting impatiently for the light to change yet unwilling to defy death by crossing against it.

Then I saw Mr. Lowery. He wasn’t in Saks…he was across the street in all his pantsless wonder, sport coat still on, scratching his, um…okay! Where was a cop when you needed one? And of course, Nick was inside the store.

At least now Mr. Lowery was getting some attention; passersby stared, grabbed their kids and steered well clear of him as he crossed the intersection, looked up at the store on the corner, and went inside.

It was American Girl Place, that bastion of juvenile femininity. Dolls. Dress-up clothes. Tea parties. And now, a half-naked old man.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered.

Then the light changed, and I flew across the street and into the foyer of the store, which was packed with, oh, hell, dozens of girls and their parents, red-and-white bags everywhere. Holding Coco tightly as she wriggled in excitement, I stood on tiptoe and peered in each direction. No Mr. Lowery. Come on! Where’d he go? He hardly blended in here.