“And I’m coming with you. Let’s call your cousin Petra on the telephone.”

After they left, Camille and Finn were silent for a few moments. “It’s strange and interesting, learning all these things about people long gone from us.” Then she realized how that must sound to him. “Finn, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re right. When I think about my father, I wonder if the man I’ve seen in pictures, the man my mom and sisters and grandparents knew, is anywhere close to the man I imagine.” He looked around the attic, standing there in a swirl of dust motes shot through by sunlight, looking curiously vulnerable. “And then I wonder how much it matters.”

Julie winced as the rooster crowed, sounding as if he was right in her ear. “How does he know I was in the middle of an excellent dream?” she muttered.

“Dream . . . un rêve,” said Martine, jumping out of bed. “Is that right?”

“It’s six in the morning,” Julie said. “Nothing is right at six in the morning.”

“You’re funny. Come on. We have des tâches ménagères—what is the English word for that?”

“Chores, I think. Or maybe torture. When Papi said we were coming to Sauveterre, he didn’t tell me it was chore camp.”

“Get dressed,” Martine said heartlessly. “Work will go faster if we get an early start. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Julie flopped back onto the bed and tried to bury herself in the duvet. It was just her luck to share a room with a morning person. Martine’s dog, Aspro, leaped on top of her and started digging furiously at the sheets. Martine refused to call him off, so Julie finally gave up.

Martine was already dressed in cutoffs and a cropped shirt, her hair held back with a crinkly scarf. A thin leather band around her wrist looked just right against her suntanned skin. Julie wondered if she had studied the art of being effortlessly stylish, or if French girls were just born that way.

“I’ll be down in five,” Julie said. She made her bed and got dressed, then went out on the balcony. Okay, so this didn’t suck. The sunrise over the vineyards and the orchards bathed everything in gold, and sent Julie inside to grab her phone. The phone was only useful as a camera here. She had no cell signal, and there was no Wi-Fi in the house. For Wi-Fi, they had to ride their bikes into town and log in at the library or one of the cafés. She had been trading e-mails with Tarek, comparing notes on their summer adventures.

The stone balcony was pitted by age and covered with a thick vine, which Martine claimed was useful for sneaking in and out of the house. They hadn’t sneaked anywhere yet, but Julie was looking forward to it.

She went downstairs and found Martine in the kitchen with Thomas and his little sister, Célie. Martine had fixed them a mug of milky tea sweetened with honey, and they were sharing a bowl of melon and berries with a bit of fresh mint crumbled on top.

God, did everyone around here get up at the crack of dawn? Whatever happened to summertime sleeping in?

“Good morning,” Thomas said in English.

“Good morning to you. You’re sounding very smart this morning.” Julie poured herself some tea and opened a little glass jar of yogurt. “Your cousin is making me do chores—des missions de routine. Want to help?”

“No. But Martine says we have to if we want to go to the beach with you later.”

“We’re going to the beach?” asked Julie.

“You’re going to love it,” said Martine. “It’s beautiful, and the water is crystal clear. We know the best places to go to avoid the crowds.”

“Sounds fantastic. Let’s get going on those chores.”

The younger kids were assigned to gather eggs and scatter feed for the chickens. “I’m scared of the hens,” Célie complained. “They’re mean.”

“You’re meaner,” Thomas said. “Just push them out of the way.”

Julie and Martine went to work in the garden. “Two hours here, and then we are free for the day,” Martine explained. “And look, there is a bonus.” She gestured at the three boys who were already at work.

Now Julie understood why Martine didn’t mind getting up early. Their names were Yves, Robert, and André. The three brothers were so good-looking Julie imagined a theme song playing when Martine introduced them. As it turned out, music actually was their thing. They were spending the summer working to save up money for their band.

“We’re just starting out,” said Yves. “No one pays us to play.”

“But they’re really good,” Martine said.

“When can we hear you play?” Julie asked.

“We’re doing the Saturday market in Cassis, down at the harbor. You should come,” said André. He was the youngest of the three, and the cutest, Julie thought. He was totally cool, in slouchy shorts and a T-shirt with nonsense English—compton skate team 1982 classic—and shaggy, light brown hair.

The tomatoes needed to be trellised, a job she didn’t mind, securing the plants to a frame made of old grapevines. André hovered nearby, and a couple of times she caught him watching her.

“You’re a good worker,” he said.

“This is not my first rodeo,” she replied in English. Then she explained its meaning in French.

“This is not my first rodeo,” he repeated, his tortured accent making them both laugh.

“I help Papi in his garden at home,” she said.

“That’s so cool, you’re from America.”

“Is it? I never thought so.”

“Everyone here thinks America is the coolest.”

“Ha. And in America, everyone thinks it’s cool to be from France.” Julie was amazed that he—or anybody—thought she was cool. “Do you live nearby?”

He nodded. “In the village. My parents have a clothing boutique, and we live in an apartment above my granduncle’s tailor shop.”

She remembered passing the shop. “Is your uncle named Michel Cabret?”

“Yes.” He looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“He was Papi’s friend when they were boys.”

Martine and Robert were at the far end of the row, grinning at each other as they worked on opposite sides of the trellis. “I think they’re . . .” Julie paused. “I don’t know the word for ‘flirting’ in French. Like this.” She batted her eyes at him and sighed romantically.

He laughed aloud. “You’re funny. The word is ‘flirter’ same as English.”

“It sounds better in French. Everything sounds better in French.” She went back to work, but kept talking to him through the trellis. “Martine and I are taking the little ones to the beach later,” she said. “What’s that like?”

“Fantastic. I hope you don’t mind hiking over the Calanques.”

“Calanques?”

“Um . . . Very steep rocks that tower over the sea. You have to hike and climb to the best beaches. Clean water and sand, no crowds because they’re hard to get to. Are you a good swimmer?”

“Sure. Everyone from my town is. Our beach doesn’t have cliffs. It’s low and sandy, perfect for surfing.”

“You know how to surf?”

“I do okay.” After her dad died, her mom wouldn’t allow it. Too dangerous. But Julie and her friends—back when she had friends—had gone surfing anyway, practicing on borrowed surfboards, sitting out at the break and waiting for the right wave. She missed those days with her friends. She missed having friends.

She peeked through the trellis at André. “Maybe I’ll see you at the beach later,” she said.

“For sure. And at the Saturday market?”

“In Cassis,” she said. “Is it far?”

“There’s a regional bus you can take. Martine will show you.”

By the end of the morning, Martine and the boys really did feel like friends. Julie didn’t care that she had to come all the way to France to find kids to hang out with. Even doing gardening chores seemed like more fun than she’d had in months. They made a plan to meet at the bus stop in the village and go to the beach together. Anouk drove them to town with a basket of snacks, towels, and sunscreen, along with dire warnings to keep the little ones safe. The three boys showed up, and the bus lumbered down to a little coastal village with a busy harbor, tourist shops, and signs pointing toward the hiking trails that led to the beach.