~Chapter Three~
Madeline stood at her window, sipping her tea. Her mind was strangely calm. Her eyes were towards the sleepy Paris morning that lay out before her, but she wasn't really seeing it. Just a few straw rays of AM sunlight poked through her winter daydream.
"Come on, Madeline! I'll race you!"
"Oh, no you don't! Get back here!"
A much younger Madeline bolted from where she stood on the frozen pond, constantly moving her legs and trying to keep up with Pepito's increasing speed. Before he had come along, she was the fastest one on the ice, and now the title was constantly switched between them. Her wooly scarf flapped wildly behind her as she came up close on his left side, giving him a quick smile before overtaking him. Pepito only returned her smile and flicked his feet quicker against the icy pond, trying to catch up.
The two friends bobbed and weaved to avoid colliding with Chloe and Nicole, but only collided with each other on the other side. They flailed their limbs like wild chickens before plopping down hard on the ice, Madeline on her bottom and Pepito on his stomach. His signature hat flew from his head and landed a few feet in front of them. Madeline simply brushed herself off before rising again and skating over to retrieve it. She flicked the red ball hanging from the brim with her finger affectionately and smiled secretly to herself. Then she skated back to her Spanish friend and placed it gently on his crown.
"You lost your hat, Pepito," she teased.
From his place down on the ground, Pepito gave her a quick smirk, but then it somehow morphed into a genuine smile. Madeline reached for his hand and pulled him upright again. Then, with one hand still clasping his, she led him around the perimeter of the pond once again. This time, at a decent pace.
The older Madeline was broken from her memory by the knock on the door. But before she could assure her caller that it wasn't locked, something slipped through the mail slot, and she heard footsteps and a merry whistle grow more distant.
The redhead carefully set her tea mug on the coffee table before she crouched down over her doormat to review the mail. There was but one letter. There was no name on the return address, but Madeline still recognized the street number. She remembered the quick wave of heat that flowed through her body when she had found it printed in the phone book.
She righted herself, her eyes not once straying from the envelope. She took her time in breaking the glue seal, making sure not to rip the flap in the tiniest way. She noticed her hand was shaking when she tried to pull out the letter, so she paused and breathed heavily before trying a second time, slower and smoother.
It was her letter. It was the letter that she had written. It was her words in her handwriting. Madeline's eyes knitted in confusion, but then she turned it over, and her lips formed a small "o" of comprehension.
His penmanship had not always been the best in France, but she found it just as easy to read as the morning newspaper. His scrawly handwriting brought a sense of nostalgia and comfort over her, and her heart rate began to pick up considerably.
"Mi amiga,
Life has been simply mundane without you living next door. I remember, as a little boy, I always anticipated seeing your bright, smiling face after you returned from the morning walk. You and I had so many adventures together, and those adventures seem to have brought us closer together. I can not recall exactly when it happened, but I confess that those feelings you expressed to me in your letter are, without a doubt, mutual. You are possibly the most amazing person I have ever met – muy magnifico. And even today you continue to fascinate me. I apologize that I do not have the time to write you a proper reply, but dios mio, I want to see you again. Meet me at the bridge (you know the one) tonight at sunset, por favor. There is so much I have to explain, but I simply have to see you. All these years of separation have almost been too much to bear.
Always,
Pepito
P.S. Try not to fall again."
Madeline couldn't help but smile at the last sentence, remembering his bewildered child eyes when she had told him that story. She pressed the paper to her beating chest, and then looked over at the couch where the tired and arthritic Genevieve sat. The slightest of tears began to form in the redhead's eyes as she was swiftly at her companion's side, stroking her ear affectionately.
"Genevieve, he...he..." Madeline could not complete her sentence, but the old dog seemed to smile in that way she would, and looked at her with the look that told her she understood everything. Even in her old years, she was still the smartest dog in Paris.
Madeline carefully wrapped her arms around her friend, making sure not to crumple the beloved letter. Some tears brushed against the dog's fur, but these were tears of utmost happiness, and Madeline did not care.
(A/N: Whee! Stay tuned! ... Oh, Pete's sake, please never let me say that again.)