Charlotte in Paris (6 page)

“Remember when we took my little cousins to the merry-go-round here last spring? Adèle refused to come down from the horse when the ride was over.” Sophie laughed as she recalled that afternoon.

I giggled. “You had to drag her off the horse while she was kicking and screaming. And then we took them for ice cream at La Buvette des Marionnettes and Claude dropped his ice cream and wanted to take his spoon and eat it off the ground. I’m so glad we’re not baby-sitting today.”

After walking slowly through the park for an hour, we stopped at an
épicerie
and bought a
baguette
and a package of herb cheese from the grocer. We sat on a bench outside the store, tore off pieces of the bread, and dipped it in the
cheese. Dinner was in about an hour, but since neither of us could wait that long, we decided to treat ourselves to a little
amuse gueule
—an appetizer. It would be about lunchtime now back at home. Maeve would adore Paris, I thought. All of the couples walking by were holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. So romantic.

“I suppose we should head back now…
Maman
will be annoyed if we’re late. She’s been planning this dinner for three days!” Sophie brushed a few crumbs off her jeans as she stood up, and in a moment we were off, giggling through
les rues de Paris
—the streets of Paris—as though I’d never left.

Bon Appétit

Dinner was absolutely spectacular. I felt like I was at the Ritz—the Paris Ritz. All white linen, roses, candles, silver, and china. Monsieur Morel lit a fire in the dining room fireplace. The flames crackled on one side of me while the lights of Paris sparkled on the other. Madame Morel brought in each course from the kitchen—a simple, but elegant meal. We started with a small bowl of her famous sorrel soup, full of delicious leafy greens, onions, and potatoes. I inhaled it. Madame Morel was very pleased.

Dad and I cooked together all the time, but our dinners were pretty informal, and we gobbled up the food in no time. I think it’s part of the fast-paced American life. Watching the Morels eat was like watching a ballet. Every movement was graceful. Conversation bubbled around me. Madame Morel, who worked at La Samaritaine, one of
the largest department stores in Paris, told me all about her new job, and Sophie filled me in on the latest gossip from school. I tried not to slurp or spill the delicious soup as I listened intently.

After the entrée—beef
bourguignon
—came the cheese tray. Monsieur Morel was a cheese exporter. He explained to me that a proper cheese tray has a variety of milks (cow’s, goat’s, and sheep’s) as well as a variety of textures (soft, medium, and hard); the variety makes the whole experience pleasing for the taste buds and the palate. He carefully carved tiny slices of cheese for me to sample. My favorite was the
Doux de Montagne
. It was delicious…creamy, nutty, and buttery all at once.

When we’d all tried the different cheeses, Madame Morel took the cheese tray back to the kitchen and returned with
crème brûlé
for dessert.

“Oh, this is my favorite dessert in the world!” I exclaimed as I spied the custard with the burnt sugar caramel on top.

“But of course, Charlotte…I remembered how you loved it, but Sophie made sure to remind me just in case.” Madame Morel smiled.

After dessert, Madame Morel served espresso to the adults. Sophie went to a cupboard and returned with a long rectangular box. Inside the box were ten different colored packets. Sophie carefully inspected the selection and then plucked a tiny magenta envelope. “
Oui
, raspberry, I think. And for you?” she asked, opening the tea box in my direction.

The only kind of tea I drank was cold, had a big slice of lemon in it, and lots and lots of sugar. But when Sophie dropped the little baggy into her porcelain cup of steaming water and the rich, sweet scent of rosebuds and raspberries wafted through the air, I couldn’t resist.

“If your Razzberry Pink’s store sold perfume, this is what it should smell like!”

I agreed. Sophie was fascinated by the idea of a store devoted to pink.

“Raspberry please,
merci
,” I said, trying to imitate Sophie’s graceful steps—tearing open the tea sachet and lowering the bag into the water. The sugar cubes were in a bowl nearby, but the tea smelled so sweet already I decided to skip the sugar and took a sip. BIG MISTAKE! The hot tea burned my tongue and it definitely wasn’t sweet.

Sophie didn’t seem to notice my reaction as she lifted the cup with her wrist gracefully arched, her pinkie extended. She took a tiny sip and continued telling me about Philippe and Alain’s big presentation in science class the week before. I couldn’t help noticing how much Sophie sounded and looked like her mother as she spoke and daintily sipped her tea. I think Katani would call Madame Morel’s look “classic” and Sophie’s look “modern,” but they both had a certain flair that made it clear they were mother and daughter. Sophie and Katani should definitely meet someday, I thought.

It was nearly nine thirty p.m. when we finished dinner.

“May I help with the dishes?” I asked.

“Oh, no, my dear Charlotte,
merci beaucoup
—thank you
so much,” Madame Morel said, glancing at the clock. “It’s a school night for Sophie…you girls must get ready for bed. You have a busy week ahead of you, and you have had a very long day, Charlotte.”

“Thank you for dinner, Madame Morel. It was delicious beyond belief,” I said.

Madame grabbed my hands. “How you talk, Charlotte, so amusing.
Je t’en prie
, you’re welcome, my dear Charlotte. A special celebration for a great friend,” Madame Morel replied graciously.

“Before you leave the table, we must make a toast,” Monsieur Morel announced.

Everyone raised their glasses.

“To Charlotte.
Bienvenue à Paris
,” Monsieur Morel clinked his glass against mine.

“To Charlotte!” Sophie cheered.

“To Madame Morel—for an amazing dinner,” I added.

“To old friends.” Madame Morel smiled and raised her glass high.

We all sipped our drinks and sat in silence for a few moments, full of good food and the memories of a wonderful evening.

Sophie fell asleep right away that night. I, on the other hand, was still too wound up. Every cell in my body buzzed with excitement. Was it only this morning that I had been in my own bed all the way across the Atlantic? I knew I would never fall asleep if I continued tossing and turning, so I slipped out of my bed and tiptoed to Sophie’s
desk. I started up the computer as quietly as I could and connected to the Internet.

I checked the clock on the computer screen. Ten-fifteen p.m. I counted back on my fingers. Nine-fifteen. Eight-fifteen. Seven-fifteen. Six-fifteen. Five-fifteen. Four-fifteen. No wonder I wasn’t tired—it was only four-fifteen in the afternoon! Half of me was in America and the other half in Paris.
Très bizarre!
I thought.

I was still wide awake, so I decided to check the
Boston Globe
website to see what was happening back home.

Home, I thought. What a flip-flop! Just a short time ago I was wondering what was happening in Paris because I still considered it to be my home.

Same old news. There was trouble in the Middle East. Would that ever change? I wondered. The front-page story was about a possible strike by public transportation workers. Blah, blah, blah, as Maeve would say. I was about to sign off, but I noticed the word “Picasso” under the Arts and Entertainment heading. I clicked on the story and scanned it quickly.

A Picasso sketch had been stolen from a Boston home. Odd, I thought…Isabel had been so excited that I would get to see Picasso’s artwork in Paris, and the picture that had been taken was an original sketch from the neighboring community of Newton, not that far from where we lived in Brookline. The police had no leads on the thief, and the case was under investigation.

When I turned off the light on the desk and logged off the computer, it was just after eleven p.m. Paris time—five o’clock at home. The computer desk was only five steps away from my roll-away bed, but as I crept back I somehow managed to trip over my suitcase. Thankfully, I caught myself on the edge of the bed, but cringed as my tiny flashlight rolled off the mattress and landed with a loud
kerplunk
on the hardwood floor. I peeked at Sophie, but she only squirmed and rolled over.

I picked up the flashlight and quietly climbed back
into bed. As I began to drift off to sleep, I dreamed of Orangina wandering the streets of Paris. He wasn’t slinking around on all fours. Instead he was wearing a tuxedo, walking down the street like a regular person, and talking to me in a French accent. “Oh, my dear Charlotte, it is
fantastique
to have you back in Paris. Won’t you join me for a cup of tea? I want to tell you everything that’s happened since you went away.”

THE LATEST FASHION

W
hen I woke up, the room was bathed in a soft light. I blinked as I tried to adjust to my surroundings. This wasn’t my bed. Where was Marty? Why wasn’t he curled in a ball at the foot of the bed? Then it hit me…I was in Paris.

Sophie had closed the curtains to let me sleep, but she left a small lamp on so I wouldn’t be confused when I woke up. Her bed was empty. I looked at my watch. It said nine o’clock. I felt wide awake, which was especially surprising since it was three o’clock in the morning back in Boston.

Yikes! Sophie must have left for school more than an hour ago. And I was supposed to go to school with her! Sophie’s parents both worked. Had they left me in the apartment alone?

I grabbed my robe and stumbled into the living room. Even though the Paris sky was as gray as the rooftops, the Morels’ living room was filled with a soft, bright light. The
light in Paris always made me feel like I was in a painting. It cast a glow that made everything seem more real and more magical at the same time. Maybe that’s why there are so many great French painters, I thought. I paused at the window and gazed out. Between rooftops of buildings cluttered with stacks of clay chimney pots, I caught a glimpse of the silver waters of the River Seine.

“
Bonjour!
” Madame Morel called out cheerfully, stepping into the living room to join me.

“Good morning, Madame Morel,” I replied. “I’m sorry I slept so late. I wish Sophie had woken me up for school!”

“Do not worry,
ma chérie
. We decided that after your long day of travel, you should sleep well so you will feel rested. I have the day off from work today, so I will bring you to school in the afternoon…that will be plenty of time for a visit.”

For breakfast Madame laid out an
omelette au fromage
, slices of
baguette
topped with strawberry jam, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. I eagerly dug into the delicious cheese omelette and sipped the sweet juice.

After breakfast I got dressed, and while I was rummaging around in my bag, I realized that I hadn’t packed my favorite brown shoes. I hit my head lightly with the heel of my hand.
Nice job, Char
, I thought. Since I had a week’s worth of clothes to cram into one suitcase, I had repacked it several times to make it all fit. Even though I had my trusty checklist, I must have left my shoes on the floor back home at the last minute—
no wonder
everything had finally fit. I hoped I hadn’t forgotten anything else. I didn’t want
to come across as completely unstylish. After all, I was in one of the world’s most fashionable cities.

My sneakers would be fine for walking around Paris, but if the Morels took us out to a fancy dinner, well…I would stick out like a sore thumb. At least I didn’t have to worry about that right away. For now, I put on a pair of corduroy pants and a light, warm sweater. The brown shoes would have looked better with the outfit, but I had no choice. I grabbed my ski jacket and went to the living room.

“You plan on exercising this morning before we go to the school?” Madame asked with a twinkle in her eye as she nodded toward my running shoes.

“I accidentally left my nice shoes back at home. I know the sneakers and ski jacket scream ‘American,’ but they’re all I have.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your ensemble, Charlotte. If everyone looked the same, it would be terribly boring,
n’est-ce pas
—don’t you think?”

I nodded.

Madame smiled and stepped back. “But I’m sure we can find some other shoes for you to wear if you would like. Hmmm,” she said, looking at my feet. “Sophie wears a thirty-seven, and your feet look a little larger.”

European sizes are different from American sizes, but just from seeing Sophie’s shoe collection, I could tell that her feet were smaller.

“One moment.” Madame held up a finger. She retreated to her bedroom and shut the door. When Madame returned,
she had a satisfied smile on her face. She had changed into tailored black pants, a cream-colored sweater, and black high-heels with pointy toes.

“After all, I was in one of the world’s most fashionable cities.”
~ pg. 68

“Come,” she said as she put on her gray wool coat and black scarf. “Bring your bag—we will do a few errands and then I will leave you at school. It is arranged.”

Madame Morel loved to “arrange” things—it was her passion. I was anxious to know exactly what Sophie’s mom had arranged for me, but I was too timid to ask.

I hurried to keep up with Madame Morel as she briskly clicked along the sidewalk to the
métro
station. After we had been walking for a few minutes, I got the weird feeling that I was being watched. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw a few people walking behind us. At first I thought my imagination was getting the better of me, but then a man in a black raincoat caught my attention. Almost immediately, he wheeled around and walked into a store. When I turned around again, I had to double my pace to catch up with Madame Morel. Her black heels made a sharp ringing sound on the metal steps as we descended into the station.

The
métro
wasn’t overcrowded at midmorning like it was during rush hour. We found two seats together toward the back of the train. I tried not to stare at the people around me, but I couldn’t help it. Sophie was right—it was easy to pick out the tourists by their cameras, maps, and casual clothing.

We emerged from the
métro
station in front of La Samaritaine—one of the largest department stores in
Paris—where Madame worked as a buyer in the baby clothing department.

“First…the shoes,” she said with a knowing smile.

“Huh?” I asked as Madame took off in quick, determined strides toward the shoe department. I ran a few steps to catch up with her.

“You are on vacation, Charlotte. It is a time for special treats, like new shoes,” Madame explained as she pulled two pairs of shoes off one of the racks.

I stopped counting the number of shoes I tried on over the next hour. Madame rejected this shoe as too sophisticated or that shoe because it would be
démodé
—out of fashion—by next year. She ruled out some shoes because they were not durable enough and others because they would show dirt or scuff marks. Finally she settled on three pairs for me to try on.

“Any of these will do. But you must choose the shoe that makes you feel confident and comfortable. Comfort is important, yes? But if your shoes make you feel confident, they will carry you through the world for the next year.” I knew Katani would approve of Madame Morel’s advice. She was always saying that true style was all about finding clothes that made you feel good about yourself.

I looked for the price tag.

“No, no! Do not worry about the price. They are all great quality. They are all worth every penny. These will be
un petit cadeau
…how do you say?…a gift from me, to celebrate your return to Paris. And do not protest, I only pay half with my discount.”

I knew it was no use arguing with Madame Morel. She was a very generous—and very stubborn—lady. “Thank you so much, Madame Morel,” I said. “This is so nice of you. I’ll always think of you when I wear them.”

I turned to the tough task of choosing a new pair of shoes. I loved the looks of all three. One pair I put aside because they were not as comfortable as the others. Switching off between the other two pairs, I practiced walking up and down the narrow strip of carpet several times, repeating in my head, “Confidence! Confidence! Confidence!” One pair had a higher, chunkier heel, and I wobbled a little bit during my model walk. So I decided to go with the soft, chestnut brown pair with a low block heel. The shoes were elegantly stitched with a simple flower design.

“Excellent choice,” Madame remarked. “You will wear them now, no?”

“Of course!” I exclaimed, giddy with excitement. I shoved my sneakers in the bottom of my bag.

“Next…a coat,” Madame declared, and then grabbed my arm and marched me off toward the coat department.

“A coat?” I asked bewilderedly. “But I already have a jacket. Really, I don’t need a coat, thank you, Madame.”

“Every young woman needs a proper dress coat. It will serve you for years, and with a good coat and the right shoes, you will look
splendide
no matter what else you are wearing,” Madame said as she summoned the saleswoman.

“But Madame, dress coats are very expensive! I can’t accept another gift from you, it’s—it’s too much.”

“
Ma chérie
, you must. There will be no argument. There
is a sale on coats, and with my discount, it will not be so expensive.”

I nodded slowly, not knowing what else to do. I was overwhelmed by Madame’s generosity.

The saleswoman busily followed Madame’s directions. Just as with the shoes, Madame Morel went about weeding out unacceptable coats. She sorted through the racks, making quick decisions “
Mauvaise couleur. Trop lourd. Quelle horreur!
” She was getting very excited and I had a hard time following her French.

“
Qualité, qualité, qualité
,” Madame reminded me as I tried the coats on. “And when you can’t afford the quality you desire, you must exude the quality yourself. Project it from deep inside you. No matter what you are wearing, the air of confidence is always the first thing you put on.” I felt like Cinderella, with my very own fairy godmother creating my new wardrobe.

After trying on countless coats, I finally narrowed it down to two. I asked Madame which she liked better. She said she liked them both and that I must be the one to make the final decision.

“I don’t know.” I hesitated. “I always find it hard to keep up with fashion DOs and DON’Ts. My friend Katani is really into fashion…she helps me pick out clothes sometimes.” I thought wistfully for a moment that it would be so nice if my mother was here picking out shoes with me and Madame Morel. But I let that moment pass. My dad told me, “It’s important to live in the present, but cherish your memories.”

“We will try this then. What colors bring out your complexion and the color of your eyes? This is better than depending on the whim of fashion. For you…always remember earth tones—the rich, dark reds, purples, and browns of the earth, the deep green of the forest, and the midnight blue of the night sky are best. Silver, not gold, accents your complexion.”

I couldn’t wait to write down Madame’s fashion tips in my notebook. Katani would be
very
impressed.

“I think I’ll take this purple coat because…well, because it matches the hat that my friend Katani made for me.” I pulled out the purple beret from my bag. “And it’s my favorite color,” I added.

“Your friend made a beautiful choice for you. She has a good eye, no?”

“She wants to be a fashion designer. In fact, she asked me to take a few pictures of the latest Parisian fashions in the windows to give her an idea of what’s new.”

“I know just the street. But first, I will show you how to wear a hat.
Un chapeau
can pull together an outfit like no other accessory. It can soften and frame the face and give a young woman an extra boost of confidence. Your hair is a beautiful honey color, and a great length to accent your face. With the confidence this hat will bring, people will think to themselves
très chic
when you walk by.”

Every time she said “confidence,” I felt a little bit taller.

Madame went on. “A square face should wear a hat with a medium brim. An oval face can wear a large, straight, or floppy brim. Your face is between oval and round. For
you, this beret is
parfait
…perfect!!” she said, gently pulling my shoulders back and then lifting my chin so my eyes met hers. “Lovely.” Madame expertly dipped the hat slightly to the right side and pronounced me “
magnifique
.”

I looked in the mirror and had to admit I did look fabulous…and
très française
. I couldn’t help smiling. Maybe it wasn’t the air in Paris or the latest fashions that made Parisian women look
chic
. Maybe it was simply a skill passed down from mother to daughter.

I rolled my puffy ski coat into a tight little ball and shoved it into my messenger bag along with my wallet, notebook, and my surprise gift for my old classmates. It was a good thing I had left the Picasso book at the Morels’ apartment—my bag was chock full as it was.

Madame and I went to the elevator, but instead of pushing “ground floor” she pressed the top floor button. I wondered if she had made a mistake. But when the elevator door opened, my heart jumped at the sight before me. We stepped through two large glass doors and onto the terrace of the department store. Below us, the city of Paris and all of its treasures stretched out in every direction. It was the perfect panoramic view of the city I had called home for two years—a city that still had an important place in my heart.

“One of the many advantages of working at La Samaritaine,” Madame said, gesturing toward the view. “It is the best view in the city,
n’est-ce pas
?”