Marie-Anne put down her pen and looked around their room approvingly as she sealed the envelope. Her eyes followed a few motes of dust, dancing in the fingers of early morning sunlight that slipped through the partially drawn blinds. Their warmth caressed a gentle blush into her daughter’s creamy, perfect skin and brought out the many-hued glory of Amélie’s chestnut-bright hair where it fanned out over the pillow.
Even in her sleep she smiles.
When they returned to France, Amélie’s wide circle of friends were always avid for details of the adventures she described so vividly in her many postcards to them. She was doing very well in school and special treats during their August travels were a reward for her hard work. Her first birthday had been spent in Scotland, the second in Ireland. As she got older they went further afield. Marie-Anne encouraged her to choose their destinations, agreeing if Amélie could tell her a little about the country she chose; for her tenth birthday she had asked to see New York.
What will the special treat be in this amazing city? Marie-Anne wondered.
Marie-Anne turned back to the little desk and addressed the envelope to Mr R Richards then popped it into her bag. A rustle of sheets behind her was quickly followed by a huge hug; Amelie always woke and was out of bed as if the spring had been released from a jack-in-the-box.
“Bonjour, Maman.” Amélie rushed over to the window and pulled the cord to draw the blinds right back. “Oh, c’est incroyable!” She craned her neck to see all round.
Her daughter’s voice was the music that filled Marie-Anne’s days with love and laughter. “In English, Amélie,” she said. “While we’re in America we must speak English.”
As this was not so much a second language as an equal language for Amélie it took no time at all for her to mentally shift gears. “Come and look, Maman, everything is so tiny down there, little toy cars and people!”
Marie-Anne went over to join Amélie, gazing down at the busy street nineteen storeys below. “Mon dieu, you are growing so fast, chérie,” she said.
“In English, Maman,” Amélie said, with a big cheeky grin, before dancing away into the bathroom with the grace of a young gazelle.
“Less of your lip, young lady,” Marie-Anne called, “or I might change my mind about buying you some American clothes. I might decide to only get you a new school uniform and shoes when we get home.”
A bright head popped round the bathroom door, grey eyes wide and excited. Amélie pulled the toothbrush out of her mouth. “Can I choose them?”
“Choose the uniform?”
“Mummy!” Amélie’s wail was drawn out several seconds.
Marie-Anne laughed. “Of course you can, ma petite; whatever you want on your special day.”
“And can we go to the Statue of Liberty, right to the top? And get ice cream? And a burger? And go up in a helicopter?”
“All at the same time?” Marie-Anne took a tissue from the box and wiped toothpaste from Amélie’s chin, then shadow-boxed her nose. “Come on, Amélie, hurry up and get ready or we won’t get any of it done,” she said, then went to gather what she would need for a day out.
Amélie didn’t need a second invitation.
On the way out Marie-Anne popped the envelope into the post box in the hotel lobby. She stood there a moment, imagining Ron’s feelings when he received it, knowing he would be expecting it after receiving nine others, one each year. Would he dread it dropping through the letter box? Would he hesitate before opening it? A secret little smile curved her lips as she imagined the scene.
“Come on, Maman! What are we waiting for?”
She took her daughter’s hand and they went out into the sunshine and bustle of people and traffic that was New York.
Amélie, you will never know how much pleasure that annual envelope gives me.
For in the envelope was just one thing: a photo of her daughter. And across it, in black capitals, were the words