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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 strangersseem 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