Charlotte in Paris (13 page)

IN YOUR DREAMS

I
was exhausted by the time we arrived back at the Morels’ apartment. Sophie had to go to school in the morning after she and her dad dropped me off at the airport, and I had a long trip home, so we turned the lights out and tried to keep our voices low.

We talked about Philippe and Alain and Céleste and Chantal, the Chuchoteurs. I told her about the piece of paper Philippe handed me right before she joined us on the corner.

“I know you made up the whole story about getting something for your mother at the drugstore, Sophie. Don’t try to deny it. You left us alone together on purpose,” Iaccused her.

“Of course I did, Charlotte. Aren’t you glad?” Sophie asked, her eyes twinkling.

“I…I don’t know. You know me…I couldn’t think of anything to say!” I admitted. “Oh wait, I think I promised to give him English lessons…”

Sophie laughed. “Oh, Charlotte, you are so funny! Promise that you’ll keep writing to me all the time. And you must come back to visit Paris soon—I will miss you so much.”

“What if you came to Boston sometime?” I asked.

“Actually, that is not such a crazy idea. My father has been dealing with a man named the Cheese Man…you have heard of him?”

“There’s a children’s book called
The Stinky Cheeseman
. Is that what you mean?”

Sophie laughed. “No, I am sure not! This man lives in New York and writes a magazine column called ‘How Cheese Can Improve Your Life.’ Interesting title, no? He is working on a book. My father is helping him with inside information on rare French cheeses.”

“So you might come to New York? Boston is so close. You would have to come for a week or more!”

“I would love to meet your friends…the Beacon Street Girls.”

“They’d love to meet you too. I’ve told them so much about you!”

Just then there was a soft knock at Sophie’s bedroom door. “
Bonne nuit,
girls” was all Madame Morel said, but the hint was obvious.

Sophie and I were instantly silent. We listened for Madame’s footsteps. When we heard her bedroom door open and close, we started talking again, but more quietly this time.

“Tomorrow after school I will go to the Marché Buci
and approach the Sourpuss. I will tell him that Orangina belongs to you, and that he better treat him right. I will bring some little fish heads for him. You are right, Charlotte. I think Orangina belongs to the Seine. He looked so happy today…so much at home. And the most important thing is that he is healthy and cared for. Even though the farmer is a Sourpuss, he seems to be taking care of Orangina just fine.”

“And who knows?” I told her. “Orangina might not stay with Mr. Sourpuss either. Perhaps he’ll get bored and find another home.”

“Oh, are you sure? You have come so far to get Orangina back!”

“Orangina wasn’t the only reason I came to Paris. He’s not the only one it’s hard for me to be without. You are such a wonderful friend—almost a sister, really. But like Orangina…you belong in Paris. At least I always know where to find
you
,” I confessed with a smile.

“I will miss you very much. You are my best friend,” Sophie whispered. “Good night, Charlotte.”

As I laid there in the dark with the full moon shining through the window, I thought about everything that had happened that day—seeing Orangina, figuring out why Mr. Peckham stole the sketch, going to the Churchill Pub, Philippe handing me his e-mail address, finding out that Sophie might visit the United States in the near future, even recognizing that as much as I loved Orangina, the right place for him was just where he was—near the Seine.

I shut my eyes and imagined Sophie climbing the
ladder to the Tower. I would show her all my favorite places in my hometown—Montoya’s Bakery, Irving’s Toy and Card Shop, The Book Nook, and Fenway Park. We would take Marty for a long walk with all of the Beacon Street Girls. With these happy images flickering in my head, I fell fast asleep.

UNTIL NEXT TIME

N
o matter where I’ve lived, I’ve always hated to get up early in the morning. And this morning, my last morning in Paris, we had to get up before dawn so that I could make my flight back to Boston. Even so, there was no mad dash. Breakfast seemed soothing, leisurely, as if I had all the time in the world. I knew that I would miss that feeling in America, where everyone always seemed to be in a hurry.

Monsieur Morel carried both my bags to the taxi outside. Madame Morel had loaned me a third bag. With all my new purchases, I needed another suitcase to take everything home.

“I promise I’ll ship the bag back to you once I’m home,” I volunteered.

“Oh, no. Please keep it for now,” Madame Morel insisted. “If we come to the United States someday, we’ll need another bag for our return trip.”

I thanked Madame Morel for hosting me and also for taking me shopping. I said I hoped that we might do that again sometime.

“Certainly, Charlotte,” she said graciously. “…My dear American daughter.” I felt a huge lump in my throat as I threw my arms around her and gave her a big hug. It had been so special going shopping with Sophie’s mom. (I love my dad but he is not a great shopper of girls’ clothes—they seem to befuddle him.) Madame Morel bent down and kissed me on the cheek. “Charlotte, you will always have a home in Paris.” It was the most meaningful thing she could have said. I hugged her one more time.

Monsieur Morel, Sophie, and I got into the cab and set off for the airport. It seemed like no time at all had passed since we had been heading in the opposite direction when I first landed last Sunday. Once we arrived at l’Aéroport Charles de Gaulle, Monsieur made sure I knew where I was going. The check-in desk was just inside the door, and Mr. Morel explained that I was traveling alone and would need an attendant to escort me to my gate.

The taxi beeped, so we had to say good-bye quickly.

Sophie hugged me.

“I’ll see you soon, Sophie,” I promised, squeezing her tightly. Suddenly, the lump in my throat was back.

“
Bon voyage, mon amie
,” Sophie choked, hugging me one last time.

I waved at the taxi pulling away from the curb and then headed inside the airport to begin my journey home.

Exhausted from the events of the week, I slept through almost the entire flight back to Boston.

As we were getting ready to land at Logan Airport, I woke up, feeling like I had imagined the whole trip. But then the flight attendant pulled my new coat from the overhead bin, and it all became real to me again.

Dad was waiting for me outside the security area after I collected my baggage and passed through Customs. I jumped into his arms, hugging him tightly.

“Charlotte, I missed you so much,” he said into my hair. “Were you this tall when you left? I swear you’ve grown two inches and…you look…a bit different,” he declared, holding me at arm’s length. “Did you get your hair cut or something?”

I smiled. “No, Dad. Check out my new coat and shoes. Thanks to Madame Morel…she insisted on taking me shopping.”

“Well, Madame Morel is a very generous woman with a big heart. You look very grown up—very fancy too!”

I smiled.

“Wait a minute, you ARE very grown up. I don’t think I like this one bit. What happened to the cute little five-year-old girl who hid behind me and refused to look at other people?” Dad asked, throwing his arm around my shoulder as we headed out the door.

“Dad!”

“Well…what can I say? I’d like you to stay my little girl. For a few more years at least.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder as we continued to walk. I wondered if he was right. Maybe I had grown up a bit. I hoped at least that my klutzy days were finally behind me.

“I’m sorry you didn’t find Orangina,” Dad said as we headed toward the car.

“But we did
see
Orangina,” I told him as we got into the car.

“You did?”

“Yes…on the very last day. We started and ended each day of searching the same way…at our houseboat.”

“How is the houseboat?”

“It looks the same…except there aren’t any geraniums in the kitchen window and the back deck has so many bikes piled up that there isn’t any room for the wicker chair.”

“Ah…Paris.”

“Yup…the Seine still has that same old magic, Dad. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Orangina really belongs to the Seine. He loves that river so much.”

“Don’t we all. So you saw him by the river?”

“ON the river.”

“On the river?”

“Yes. He was sitting like a hood ornament on the front of a barge. You know, one of those farmer’s barges. He probably latched on to the farmer and the barge just as he did to us and our houseboat.”

“Did the farmer look like a nice fellow?”

“Actually…he looks even grumpier than Yuri. Sophie
calls him
mauvais Caractère
—Sourpuss. He does look like a sourpuss. But I think he’s got a good heart. Orangina looked well cared for. At least we know he’s being fed and has a roof over his head to stay out of the rain, which he hates so much.”

Dad laughed. It was quiet for awhile as we drove by the Charles River toward our house in Brookline.

“You know what? I always blamed those boys for chasing Orangina away, but maybe he actually ran away on his own…because he wanted to stay close to the Seine,” I told Dad as we pulled up in front of our house. I gazed up at the yellow Victorian with its blue shutters.

“It’s good to be home,” I said as I got out of the car. “But I’m not so sure Orangina would feel at home here.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it’s just as well,” Dad said as we walked to the door.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, someone here missed you an awful lot.”

Dad opened the door and Marty began dancing around my heels, wiggling with joy. I tried to avoid stepping on him, which was hard because every time I put my foot down it seemed that Marty was right underneath it. Dodging Marty and juggling my bags, I tripped on the edge of the Oriental rug in the foyer and tumbled to the floor. So much for Paris making me less klutzy. Marty jumped up on my stomach and licked my face.
Home sweet home
, I thought as I gave my little pooch a very big hug.