Charlotte in Paris Read online

  I smiled as I thought of my mom’s denim jacket and the copy of Charlotte’s Web that she used to read to me. I kept them near me as treasured memories of my own mom. It seemed that Mr. Peckham and I had quite a bit in common after all.

  “Are you an art fan as well?” Mr. Peckham asked me, pointing to the Picasso coloring book as he put his keys back on the key chain.

  I hoped Mr. Peckham didn’t think the coloring book was childish. “My friend Isabel is a huge art fan, and an artist, too. She loves Picasso. She gave me this book to teach me a little more about his artwork.”

  “Charming fellow, Picasso. You know, I actually met the chap once.”

  “Picasso? You mean THE Pablo Picasso?” Isabel would just die when I told her that I had met someone who had met Picasso!

  “Oh, yes. It was many, many years ago, of course. Decades ago in fact. When I was just a young whippersnapper. He came into the pub a few times. Remarkable man. Stupendous talent. I even saw him make a few sketches. Nothing fancy…just charcoal sketches on the back of his bar bills. But in those few lines he was able to capture the very essence of his subject.” He paused and stared off into space as if reliving the moment.

  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.

  Charlotte’s Journal

  Poor Mr. Peckham. To lose the love of one’s life. He seems so sad. It’s such a change from the talkative, friendly gentleman he was just a few minutes ago. I wish I could say something to make him feel better…or turn back time and not have asked so many questions. If I could have one superpower, I would want to be a time traveler. It’s so easy to make mistakes that it’d be great if it was just as easy to go back and fix them.

  I wonder what the real story is behind the dark-haired woman and the man who stole her away. It seems like she was a really important part of Mr. Peckham’s life. Maeve would definitely think this whole thing was SO romantic. Note: Why is it that on planes strangers seem to open up and tell you things they’d never reveal in the supermarket checkout line?

  Right now there is a movie playing on the plane, but I’ve already seen it, so I just have headphones on for some background noise. Mr. Peckham and Madame Giroux are both sound asleep. Madame Giroux has a fancy neck pillow, ear plugs, and even an eye mask to keep the light out. But somehow she just looks really peaceful, not ridiculous, with all of her travel accessories.

  The further we get across the Atlantic (I keep looking at the map and the timetable in the airline magazine!), the more real this trip becomes. I absolutely cannot wait to land, walk into the airport, and be surrounded by everything French. And I can’t wait to see Sophie! There’s so much I want to talk to her about! My new house, my friends, the Tower, Nick…I hope she and I will be as close as we used to be. What if she’s more grown up than me and thinks that I’m immature? She seems like the same old funny, kind Sophie in all of her e-mails and letters, though. But you never know. Things change.

  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 sitt
ing 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.

  4

  Vive la Différence

  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.”