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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