“I don’t want to get that personal with him,” Camille objected. “And I’m absolutely not going to roll in the hay. It’s not . . . we’re not like that.”

“That’s a shame, then,” Vivi said. Her expression turned thoughtful. “We’ve never seen him smitten over a woman before.”

“He’s not—”

“Trust me, he’s smitten.”

“Come to the table, everyone. Henri has made the most wonderful salade lyonnaise,” Madame declared, bringing a tray to the long outdoor table. “Camille, go and get Finn. He’s over at the shed.”

The Olivier family, it seemed, was conspiring to throw her together with him. She found him sorting through the things they’d brought down from the attic. “All these artifacts from a past no one can remember,” she said.

“We’re going to piece it together,” he said. “The university in Aix has an archive of personal narratives of the war, and I have a classroom full of eager students. We can get them to identify and interview local survivors.”

“My father’s a bit startled by all the fuss.”

“It’s an opportunity for historical inquiry,” Finn said. “I’d rather have my students working in the field than sitting at their computers.” He studied Camille’s face in a way that made her blush, wondering if he knew he’d been the topic of her conversation with Roz and Vivi. “Everything all right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Julie? She’s having a good time so far?”

She nodded again. “It’s wonderful to see her hanging out with friends again. I worry sometimes about her doing something dangerous, but the kids seem great. She says they just take the bus to the beach and to markets, or they go walking around the village.”

“I used to tell my mom I was going to the library.”

“And you went where, instead?”

“Not the library.”

She picked up the wedding portrait they had found of Lisette and Didier. It was a dead-eyed pose typical of the era, the bride and groom holding themselves stiffly as they stared into the lens of the camera. It was impossible to imagine what was going through Lisette’s head at that moment. Had she been in love with Didier? He certainly looked handsome enough, and proud. Did she share his politics, approve of his decision to throw in his lot with the Germans?

“Do they seem like a fun couple to you?” asked Finn.

She shook her head. “So hard to tell. I always check out the hands—they can tell you a lot, because the subject doesn’t usually think about what the hands are doing. In this shot, hers are holding the bouquet and his are behind his back.”

“Maybe they both had something to hide.”

“I wouldn’t call that a maybe. I’d call it a certainty.”

They were quiet for a few moments. She thought about her conversations with Vivi and Roz. “You were married,” she said.

“So were you.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“About as much as you want to talk about your first marriage,” he said.

“Which is not at all.”

“Right. But you have questions about mine.”

“Yes,” she said. “I have questions.”

He spread his arms. “I’m an open book.”

Sure, she thought. “How long were you married?”

“Ten years.”

That laid waste to the theory that he was a commitment-phobe. “And it didn’t work out.”

“I suppose your next question would be why.”

“Listen, if this is too personal, we can change the subject.”

“I like getting personal with you, Camille.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. “Right.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. Ready to get out your tiny violin of pity? My marriage, the condensed version. It was our ten-year anniversary, and I planned a surprise evening—champagne, flowers, a gourmet meal. Friggin’ chocolate that cost a hundred bucks an ounce. Candles that magically didn’t drip. When Emily got home from work and saw the spread, she burst into tears and told me she was pregnant.”

“Oh my gosh, you mean you didn’t want to have kids, so you dumped her?”

“Nice, Camille. Mind if I finish?”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Hell, yes, I wanted a family. It was all part of the dream. But I wanted kids of my own, not kids fathered by some other guy.”

“Oh no, Finn. Really?”

“You think I’d make this shit up? There’s an old-fashioned word for it—a cuckold. I think we should revive the word, because that’s exactly what I felt like. I filed for divorce the next day.”

“The next day? Did you ever think there was a chance of fixing it, maybe trying to stay together?”

“Here’s the thing about infidelity,” he said. “It doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Even though she did the cheating, I suppose I played my part by not seeing the cracks in our foundation. Things hadn’t been right for a while, and I ignored them. I finished my stint as a naval officer and became a teacher. The opportunity to teach in Aix came up, but she didn’t want to go, and I did. So no, I didn’t think there was any point in trying to stay together. Emily moved in with Voldemort and they had a kid together. They’ve since split up, and now Emily’s a single mom.”

“I’m sorry you went through that, Finn. And I’m sorry I made you talk about it.” She knew he wouldn’t welcome her pity, but the sense of betrayal and ruined pride must have been devastating.

“Okay, now it’s your turn,” he said.

Camille felt cornered. But this was Finn, and she was fast discovering that she could tell him anything. It was strange and kind of wonderful, knowing he wouldn’t judge her. He’d just listen. “I was married for ten years, too. I just wanted a normal life.”

“Define normal,” Finn challenged her. “Does such a thing exist? For anyone?”

“It did for me,” she insisted. “I had a normal life until I lost Jace. I assumed everything would always be good. Is that wrong of me?”

“No. It’s romantic of you.”

She felt a chill, the one that was deeply embedded in her heart. “We need to join the others for lunch.”

He gave her a look that let her know he was onto her. “They can start without us.”

She sighed. Finn had been totally honest with her about his first marriage. He deserved no less from her. “After Jace, nothing felt normal to me. If not for Julie, I probably would have drifted off into nothingness. About two years ago, I was finally coming out of the fog, and then my father was diagnosed with cancer.”

“Ah, Camille. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. He’s done with his treatment. There are still two tumors, but he’s stable and says he feels all right. So . . . we’ll see. There’s a high likelihood of recurrence with this type of cancer. His advice from the doctor is to stay well and enjoy life.”

“That’s good advice for anybody.”

“And it’s time for lunch. My father made a salad. Don’t worry, it’s a man salad, with bacon and a poached egg on top.”

“I wasn’t worried. The bacon makes me extra happy, though.”

She surveyed the collection of memorabilia, and her gaze kept going back to the wedding portrait. “We’ll have to talk more later.”

“Why, Madame Adams, is that your way of asking me on a date?”

“My . . . what? No.”

“It is, too, and I accept. Where would you like to go?” He grinned. “Don’t give me that look. You’re in Provence, Camille. Things are going to get romantic whether you like it or not.”

What could be the harm? she asked herself. She was here just for the summer, and he was helping her find out vital information for her father. It seemed silly to be a Sabine about it. “Okay. Surprise me.”

Filled with nervous energy, she hurried through lunch, then went right back to work, digging into a carton labeled linge. True to the label, it was a collection of bed linens, faintly redolent of dried cedar and lavender. Most of the items were brittle and yellowed with age. She set each piece aside, labeling things the way Vivi had instructed.