Charlotte in Paris by Annie Bryant Read Free Book Online Page A

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 becauseboth 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