Charlotte in Paris (5 page)

Mr. Peckham thoughtfully smoothed his mustache and cleared his throat. “Will you be able to visit any museums while you are in Paris?”

“Uh…well…I don’t know. I think we’ll spend most of our time searching for Orangina. And I’m not sure if the Morels have anything planned.”

“Do you have a picture of your missing feline? I will keep my eyes open for the cat if I know what to look for,” promised Mr. Peckham.

I reached into my wallet and pulled out my snapshots.

Mr. Peckham examined a small photo of Orangina sunbathing on the docks. “Orangina is certainly an appropriate name for this spectacular orange creature!” Then he pointed to a picture of Marty. “Who is this little fellow, might I ask?”

“This is my dog, Marty. My friends and I found him abandoned in a park near my house. Do you think it’s weird to carry around pictures of pets in your wallet?”

Mr. Peckham’s mustache twitched and a smile lit up his face as he pulled his wallet from his chest pocket. “I carry a picture of my pooch as well. A black Scottish terrier by the name of Wellington. A rather grand name for a canine, is it not? I think it had rather gone to his head. Even if he was really only named after rubber boots that keep out the English rain. He was terribly spoiled. See that smug little look on his face?” Mr. Peckham asked as he showed me a cracked black-and-white photo of the most adorable Scottie in a plaid doggie sweater. He did look a little spoiled. Next to the picture of the dog was a picture of a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a flowing dress.

“This woman is so beautiful. Is she your wife?” I asked.

Mr. Peckham pulled the picture out and gazed at it thoughtfully. He took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. “I had hoped she would be…,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But alas…she married someone else. Ah, unrequited love…” He sighed, clutching his heart.

“Oh…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry…”

“It was hard enough to lose her, but then she married that awful man…”

I felt bad that I had brought up the subject and made Mr. Peckham upset.

“Do you ever see her?” I asked gently, hoping the story had a happy ending.

“No…I hadn’t seen Agnes in decades. Then last June, she died.”

All I could say was, “I’m sorry.”

“She deserved to marry someone who appreciated her exquisite beauty…her charming character. But instead she married a terrible cad who was incapable of appreciating anything.”

Mr. Peckham stopped. He seemed flustered and sad. He lowered his head so he could look out the window past the seats to his left.

I opened up my journal again and stared at the seat back in front of me, trying to sort through my thoughts before picking up my pen. Maeve would love this story. She was fascinated by tragic romances of any kind.

My eyes started feeling really heavy. I checked my watch…almost eleven p.m…. five a.m. Paris time. I stuck the little white pillow under my head and closed my eyes.

I woke up to a familiar rattling noise. My head had slid to the right, just inches from Madame Giroux’s shoulder. I sat up quickly, checking to make sure I hadn’t drooled on
her beautiful blouse. It would have been mortifying to say, “That glop on your shirt would be from me. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Well, Miss Charlotte!” Mr. Peckham bellowed, as upbeat as ever. “You’re just in time for breakfast.” He gestured to the plastic tray in front of me.

I couldn’t believe it when my watch said 2:10 a.m. Had I switched the time? Paris was six hours ahead of Boston. “I wasn’t asleep for three hours, was I?” I asked.

“Indeed you were! I expect you must have been exhausted from the whirlwind of travel preparations,” Mr. Peckham explained. “That always happens to me.”

“Boy, I guess I’d better change my watch,” I said. I adjusted the hands and smiled. We only had another hour or so left!

After finishing his tea, Mr. Peckham peered across the aisle and through the window. “Our long journey’s end is in sight. Perhaps I should visit the loo before we land. Will you excuse me?” Mr. Peckham unbuckled his seatbelt, got to his feet, shook out his legs, and headed to the back of the plane. Loo is such a wonderful word, so much more polite sounding than
bathroom
, I thought.

I looked out the window. I could hardly believe it! We’d flown over the entire Atlantic Ocean! I glanced at Madame Giroux to my right. She looked very much like the illustration of Sleeping Beauty—if Sleeping Beauty had an eye mask and ear plugs. I couldn’t help but hope that some of the Parisian sophistication and style would rub off on me this week. Not that I wanted to change
completely, but a little style never hurt anyone, Katani was fond of saying.

After Mr. Peckham returned, the pilot made an announcement that we would be landing soon. Madame Giroux awoke and checked her appearance in a small silver compact. “We’re almost there, Charlotte!” She smiled brightly. I nodded my head and squeezed out a tired smile. She was the picture of poise. How could that be? I wondered. Maybe it was the French food that made people so stylish. I, on the other hand, was hot, crumpled, and wrinkly from sitting in such a cramped space for so long. I hoped with all my might I’d be able to remember enough French to communicate with the locals.

The plane touched down, and for the second time that day I felt as if there were a gazillion butterflies racing around my stomach. I kept telling myself that we were in France, but I could hardly believe it. As we taxied to the gate, blue lights flashed and odd-sounding European sirens wailed as police cars went zooming past our plane.

“My, my,” Mr. Peckham murmured, trying to see the activity out the window.

“Do you think there’s a problem at the airport?” I asked.

“Not to worry,” Madame Giroux reassured us. “Just because you see police at the airport doesn’t necessarily mean there is a real emergency. Paris police are cracking down on all sorts of crimes. Just last week, they arrested a jewel thief trying to smuggle jewels into the country. They
were waiting for him in the terminal when he got off the plane. With such high security these days, most criminals don’t have a chance!”

Mr. Peckham jumped to his feet as soon as the seatbelt sign was turned off. “Allow me to help you gather your things,” he said to me. Passengers were crowding around the overhead bins, eager to pull down their bags and be on their way.

I handed Mr. Peckham the Picasso coloring book, colored pencil bag, and my journal, and placed the Morels’ gift basket on my seat. I’d been so entertained by him during the flight that I hadn’t even glanced at Isabel’s gift, let alone colored in the book. Mr. Peckham put my things into my messenger bag and then lowered it from the bin to my seat.

“What part of Paris is your final destination?” Mr. Peckham asked as we waited to get off the plane.

“Oh, we’ll be spending time all over the city,” I answered vaguely. Even though I liked Mr. Peckham very much, and he seemed like a nice man, I was careful not to tell him exactly where I was staying in the city. How could I forget Dad’s “be careful of strangers” lecture that he had given me every night before I left? He always said that when you are a world traveler you have to follow certain “safety precautions.”

“Very nice,” Mr. Peckham said distractedly.

“Are you all right?” I asked. Mr. Peckham’s face was suddenly very red—almost purple—and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

“Yes. Quite. How kind of you to ask. It’s been a long flight, and it’s just a little stuffy in here, don’t you think?” He cleared his throat and looked anxiously at the rows of people that still had to exit before we could.

It seemed to take forever for us to shuffle from the plane down the long, crowded jetway. Conversations in French bombarded me from every direction as we headed toward Customs. I understood most of what I heard, but would I be able to speak French myself? I just hoped that people wouldn’t look at me like I had three heads when I started talking to them.

Mr. Peckham and Madame Giroux stayed by my side as we waited in the long line at Customs, claimed our baggage, and finally made our way through the security area. The moment we were cleared through, Mr. Peckham put on his coat and hat.

“Well, I must be on my way…I wish you a splendid trip, Charlotte, and lots of good luck finding your feline. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon, Amelie,” he said, turning to tip his hat to Madame Giroux.

Mr. Peckham was already halfway to the airport exit before I could respond, “Good-bye, Mr. Peckham. So nice talking to you!”

“Charlotte!
Ma chérie!
”

Her voice was just as lively as I remembered it. I turned and saw Sophie hurrying toward me, her father a few steps behind.

I suddenly felt a little shy. I walked toward Sophie and gave her a little wave and looked down. A wave? What was I thinking? As if she were just an acquaintance I was passing on the street! Sophie returned the wave with a huge smile and a laugh, which made me feel less awkward.

“Oh, Charlotte…you are exactly the same! I’m so glad!” Sophie hugged me before giving me
la bise
, those four little kisses on alternating cheeks. Before I knew it, French was flying out of my mouth, and I was telling Sophie how glad I was to see her and how excited I was to be in France again at last.

Monsieur Morel, who had been chatting with Madame Giroux, turned to us. “Well, girls, would you like to spend your week together in the airport, or shall we go home? I know Jacqueline is anxious to see that you have arrived safely.”

“Let’s go,” I grinned and turned to say good-bye to Madame Giroux. “Thank you so much, Madame.”

“
Je t’en prie
, it’s nothing, Charlotte.
Au revoir
…I hope you have a wonderful trip.” Madame waved as she made her way to the airport exit.

I was wide awake, even after the long journey—exhilarated with the joy of seeing Sophie. As we walked outside to catch a taxi, I began asking Sophie about what had happened in the months I’d been away. Suddenly, it all came flooding back—exciting times with Sophie exploring the streets of Paris seemed like just yesterday.

HERE’S TO OUR DIFFERENCES

I
can’t believe I’m really here!” I exclaimed as the taxi bumped along. I gazed out the window at the familiar buildings that lined the streets. We had finally made our way into the city itself, and I was trying to take in everything at once. It was just after ten a.m. Paris time, but it felt like it should be much earlier since it was only four a.m. back in Boston. We wound our way in and out of the small cobblestone streets of the historic Fifth Arrondissement, a lively section of Paris full of restaurants, bookstores, and lovely parks.

“You are the same Charlotte, but somehow you seem more…American!” Sophie observed me carefully as I gazed out the window.

“I was always American,” I reminded her.

“Mais oui! But you were an American coming from Australia. Now it is in the way you dress…the ski jacket, the running shoes, the bag. It’s always easy to pick out
the American tourists by their clothes. But you are not a tourist…. You’ve come home!”

“I can’t believe I’m really here!”
~ pg. 48

“We wound our way in and out of the small cobblestone streets of the historic Fifth Arrondissement…”
~ pg. 48

I smiled and glanced out the window again. It felt good to hear Sophie say that I’d come home. I think people can be at home in many different places…Paris just happened to be one of mine.

“Have you seen Orangina since I last spoke to you?” I asked Sophie.

“No, I returned to the quay yesterday afternoon, but
rien
…nothing.” Sophie waved her hand. “Don’t worry,
mon amie
, we will search everywhere this week. He’s alive and well, we know that for sure now. I am certain that I saw him…there is no mistaking that
boule de fourrure orange
—that orange furball. But he will only come to you…you know how stubborn he is.”

“Do I ever!” I agreed. “Remember when I stepped on his tail by mistake and then he refused to come back onto the houseboat, even though it was pouring rain? He just sat outside the door glaring for an entire day.”

The taxi squeaked to a halt in front of the Morels’ apartment house on rue Jacob. “
Nous sommes arrivés
,” said Monsieur Morel. “Here we are.”

As we got out of the taxi, I noticed that Sophie, too, looked different, although I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. She was taller, and her hair was swept up and twisted into a small clip, with a few pieces framing her face. She wore fitted jeans, a white camisole top, a black off-the-shoulder sweater, and tall black boots. Was it the clothes? Was it the way she lifted her chin? Or was it that confident sparkle in her eyes?

Was this a new, more sophisticated Sophie that I had not seen before? Or was it just my imagination?

“Here we are!” Sophie echoed her father.

I looked up at the apartment house. Miss Pierce’s Victorian on Corey Hill seemed old, but by Paris standards, it was practically brand new. The Morels’ building was ancient, but it was renovated and very fancy. We took the elevator to the eighth floor and then walked the spiral staircase to the Morels’ rooftop apartment, where through the windows the whole of Paris was spread out before us.

Madame Morel was waiting at the door. Sophie’s mom greeted me
en français
. “
Bonjour!
Oh, Charlotte, you’ve come back to us at last! It’s wonderful to see you. Welcome home!” Again the hug and
la bise
left me feeling like a true Parisian. “You must be
très fatiguée
from your journey. We will give you a moment to catch your breath and unpack your clothes. But hurry back and we will have some hot food. That airplane food is not even fit for a dog!” Madame Morel was so particular about her food. In fact, I couldn’t wait to have one of her great French meals. “After we eat, you must have a long rest and then you will feel like yourself again.” I couldn’t help but remember my father’s description of Madame Morel as a “marathon talker.”

I handed Sophie’s mother the plastic bag containing the gift basket of homemade treats from Montoya’s. “
Voilà
—here you go! This is for you, for having me in Paris. Now you can taste the pastries from Boston,” I told Madame Morel as she looked at the basket with pleasant surprise.

“
Merci
, Charlotte. You didn’t have to do this,” she said,
giving me another hug. “Now you two run along and freshen up.”

Sophie grabbed my hand and led me to her room.

After I splashed some cold water on my face, I arranged my clothes in the drawer that Sophie always used to clear out for me. Sophie was a bit like Katani—very neat and organized. She had hangers ready for me, my bed was turned down, and she had even left a chocolate by my bedside. She said she was practicing for when she had her own hotel.

“Just imagine, Charlotte. Hotel Sophie splashed across the entry. You will always be welcome, and I will have a room called Charlotte’s Room. We will have a telescope and lavender in the pots and a portrait of Orangina and your little doggie on the wall.”

I had forgotten how imaginative Sophie was. I could feel myself getting carried away with her dream.

“Where will Hotel Sophie be?” I asked. “You know, I will be traveling around the world, so I hope it will be in a very restful place.”

“
Mais alors
, Charlotte. Have you already forgotten my favorite spot in the world?”

“The Côte d’Azur.” I smiled broadly. How could I forget Sophie’s favorite summer vacation spot?

“Yes, I will have the most
chic
spot on ze beach. My American convertible T-Bird will be parked in the courtyard and there will be chocolate everywhere.”

For the next half hour, Sophie and I planned Hotel Sophie down to every detail. We had one mini argument about what kind of chocolates to serve at breakfast because
both Sophie and I were chocolate fanatics and could get very insistent about our preferences.

When Madame Morel called us in for breakfast, I stood for a moment in front of the Morels’ living room window. The view from their apartment was truly amazing. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one whole living room wall overlooked the city. I had a rooftop view that could have been a Paris postcard.

Ah, Paris. The very air seemed alive. Not like the electric energy and hustle-bustle of New York or Boston, but truly alive. It was as if every moment, every breath was precious, and the city was coaxing me to slow down and appreciate it. I felt so lucky to be here with my friends once again.

“Come, Charlotte.
Le petit-déjeuner est prêt
—breakfast is ready!” Sophie smiled as she linked her arm through mine and led me into the dining room.

Madame Morel had set out fresh croissants from the bakery, a colorful fruit salad of grapes, melon, and strawberries, and eggs baked with cheese and tomatoes. She took my plate and served me small portions of everything. Supersizing was not a French custom. Perhaps that was one reason the French looked so trim and fit. Madame Morel poured me a steaming mug of hot chocolate and a glass of ice water as well.

I waited until everyone else had filled their plates and then eagerly tasted everything. The memories came back with every bite I took.

“Were you frightened to be traveling on your own?” Madame Morel asked.

“I wasn’t really on my own. Madame Giroux was right beside me the whole time. And we ran into a friend of hers on the plane—a Mr. Peckham. I spent a lot of the flight talking to him. He was nice, but he had the most tragic love story to tell!”

Suddenly, Sophie clapped eagerly, catching everyone’s attention. “Charlotte, everyone at school is so happy you’ve come back to visit. When I told the class on Thursday, the students didn’t stop talking about it all day!” Sophie’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Really?” I was surprised. “I haven’t been so very good at keeping in touch with anyone but you. I kind of thought everyone might have forgotten about me by now.”

“How could you think they would forget
you
, Charlotte?” Sophie wondered, elegantly sipping her hot chocolate. “You live in America. Everyone wants to hear about your adventures. They all want to know if you’ve ever seen Tom Cruise or Natalie Portman.”

I smiled as I took a bite of my croissant and wiped the buttery flakes off my chin. This was why I loved being a world traveler. I’ve learned that there are amazing people everywhere, and now here I was, ready to see my old classmates again.

After we finished our meal, Madame Morel insisted that I sleep for a while, even though I was reluctant to waste even one moment of my visit.

“We will leave you in peace for a few hours, and there will still be much of the day left for exploring,” Madame Morel gently assured me.

Sophie and I went back to her room. I loved how it was decorated all in cream and deep rosy magenta. Very sophisticated, I thought. As I took off my sneakers and crawled into the roll-away bed the Morels set up for me, I reminded myself to describe it to Katani. Sophie sat down at her desk and took out her schoolbooks.

“I’m going to study as much as I can until you wake up. If I can get ahead on my assignments, then this week will be like a vacation for
moi aussi
…me too!” Sophie quietly began to read and write in her notebook.

Despite my earlier protests, I found my eyelids getting heavy. Just as I was about to drift off, I bolted upright.

“What is it?” Sophie asked, startled at my sudden burst of energy.

“I forgot to call my dad!” I exclaimed, hopping out of bed. “Is it okay if I use the phone in the hallway? My dad got me an international calling card to pay for long-distance calls.”

“
Bien sûr!
Of course!” Sophie said, gesturing toward the door.

I found the calling card in my wallet and took it with me into the hallway.

“Charlotte?” Dad sounded tired when he answered the phone.

“Hi, Dad. I’m here. I’m sorry I forgot to call earlier,” I said quickly.

“It’s okay, Char. I’m glad you finally remembered, though. I was getting worried, but then I checked online and saw that your flight landed safely, so I decided to wait
a little while before checking up on you. How is everything going?”

“It’s amazing, Dad. I can’t believe I’m back here. It’s just like I remembered it…almost as if I never left. I was afraid that I wouldn’t remember my French, but it’s coming back to me no problem.”

“That’s great, kiddo. Have fun and be careful, okay? Say hello to Sophie and the Morels. And don’t forget to eat some
escargots
for me.”

How could I forget? Snails—no one in America understood how tasty snails could be all smothered in butter and garlic. Yum! I smacked my lips.

“Bye, Dad. Love you…and thanks so much for letting me do this.”

“You’re welcome, Char. Love you too. Remember to keep a journal now.”

I hung up the phone, went back into Sophie’s room, and crawled into the bed all over again.

“Good night, Sophie,” I said.

“Good
morning
, Charlotte,” Sophie replied, pointing to the clock.

I giggled and then snuggled into the soft comforter and drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up, the sun was shining brightly through the gaps between the shade and the window. It took a moment to realize where I was, and I grinned as the events of the past day came flooding back.

I hopped out of bed, smoothed the comforter into place,
and quickly tied on my running shoes. I found Sophie in the kitchen, stirring a big pot of soup.

“Hello, sleepyhead. You were asleep for almost four hours. Did you have a good rest?” Sophie asked.

“Yup, I did. I guess I needed it. Can I help you in here?”

“Nonsense!” said Madame Morel. “You girls go enjoy the rest of the afternoon. Just make sure you are back by seven o’clock for dinner.”

Sophie and I put on our coats and went out into the brisk air. It would have been chilly if the sun wasn’t shining so brightly. We walked away from the Seine up rue Jacob and headed to the nearby Jardin du Luxembourg, one of our favorite places in the city. The park was filled with families, joggers, and couples enjoying the sunny afternoon. Everyone in Paris loved the Jardin.