“You might find some answers here,” Vivi said, coming into the room and setting an old tin tobacco box on the table. “I found this on a high shelf in the attic at Sauveterre.”

“I thought we cleared the attic out,” said Roz.

“There was a high shelf in a corner, and I remembered something my father used to say—if you want to hide something, put it up high.”

“Because when people are searching, they tend to look down,” Camille said. “That makes sense.”

“What’s in the box?” asked Finn.

With a flourish, Vivi removed the lid to reveal the contents.

“Film rolls! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you found these.” Camille’s heart skipped a beat.

“Of course I found them,” Vivi said. “I can find anything. And look. They’re labeled and dated. Your mysterious grandmother was wonderfully organized.”

“It’s a shame about the film, though,” Roz said. “Likely ruined, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not if I can help it,” Camille said.

“She’s the world’s leading expert at rescuing old film,” Finn said.

“Slight overstatement, especially coming from you.” She still felt terrible about ruining his father’s last roll. “But if we can find a lab . . .”

“How about we try finding one at the largest university in France?” said Finn.

The darkroom at the university in Aix was old but well equipped and stocked with fresh, good-quality chemicals. There were no detectable light leaks. Camille took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to dive from a high place, and stepped inside.

Finn followed, brushing up against her in the small space.

“There’s not much room in here,” she said. Awareness shot through him, and she felt a surge of desire.

“I want to watch.”

She liked working with him. She liked being near him. She liked him. It was exciting to develop the film and study the digitized results, and the edge of intensity she felt only made the work more interesting. Jace had never taken much interest in her work, yet Finn seemed to share her passion and curiosity. The pictures that emerged from the distant past showed her a portrait of courage—a wounded soldier and the woman who took care of him. It made Camille’s fear seem petty by comparison.

There was a photo of a tall, dark-haired man with a bandaged leg. They thought it could be the American soldier who had left the parachute pack behind. There were several portraits of him. They were thoughtful, tender studies, beautifully composed, taking advantage of natural light. “More of Lisette’s work,” said Camille. She studied the face for a long time. “The soldier was someone important to her. How can we find out who he was?”

“How do you find out who anyone is?” asked Finn, bending close so she could feel the brush of his breath on her cheek. “You figure out what drives him, what he loves. And what he doesn’t even realize he wants.”

The darkroom revealed more about Finn than he realized. She watched him in the red glow of a safelight as he studied a candid shot of a group of children on the beach. “What are you seeing?” she asked him. It was a lovely composition—balanced, and clearly framed by someone with a practiced eye. She was sure Lisette had taken the photo. It had what Camille had come to recognize as her trademark timing, and an understanding of the subject.

“Something about this picture makes me think of my family,” he said. “Between my mom and Rudy, and all the aunts and uncles and cousins, we’re a loud, friendly, demanding clan.”

Working together, they began cleaning up the darkroom. “Sounds fun.”

“It is. I always thought I’d have something like that,” he admitted. “A big family, I mean. Or even a small one.”

“Small works for Julie and me.”

“Camille, are you saying you want—”

“No,” was her swift, fearful reply. “That came out wrong.”

He studied her intently, then held the door for her to step out ahead of him. He was always doing things like holding doors, chairs, waiting his turn, listening with full attention. She loved his manners, the unstudied, thoughtful gestures that were second nature to him. “You’re lucky to have her. She seems great.”

“If you’d seen her a month ago, you might not say that. It’s so hard to see your kid going through a tough time.”

“I bet she’d say the same about you.”

“She was my lifeline after her dad died.” Camille shuddered as a shadow of the past flickered like a faulty lamp. “I remember thinking that after Jace, I would never know happiness again. And then, just a couple of months after he was gone, Julie crawled into my lap and smiled at me. Watching my daughter smile was better for me than months of grief counseling.”

“I want one,” Finn said.

“What, grief counseling?”

“No. A kid, smiling at me.”

She made light of it. What else could she do? “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

He studied her. Sexy. Smoldering. “Am I?”

“I have to go,” she told Finn. “I can’t . . . I have to go.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” She forgot what she was going to say. When he looked at her, she forgot everything in the world.

“That,” he said, turning to her and giving her a lingering kiss, “is not a valid excuse. Let’s discuss it later. At my place.”

“Your place, eh?” She was intrigued.

“We’re going to have a nice dinner at my favorite bistro, and then we’ll bring a good bottle of rosé home.”

“I should get back to Bellerive. Check on Julie . . .”

“She’s fine. She has a whole houseful of people looking after her. Let me borrow your phone.”

She handed it over without thinking. He tapped in a message and hit send.

“Hey.”

“I let everyone know you’re staying in Aix tonight.” And with that, he turned off both their phones and stuck them in his pocket.

“Hey.”

“You bossed me around all afternoon in the darkroom. Now I’m in charge.” He ushered her out of the institute, and she followed, weirdly and reluctantly turned on by his attitude. He took her through the old town, where the evening was just getting under way. Aix was true to its Roman origins—Aquae Sextiae—with fountains in every square, bursting from walls or ornate stone basins, where the locals placed their wine to chill.

“There’s a saying by Cocteau,” Finn said. “‘In Aix, a blind man thinks it’s raining. If he could see with his cane, he would see a hundred blue fountains singing the glory of Cézanne.’” He shrugged. “Probably sounds better in French.”

The Cours Mirabeau was lined with plane trees and cafés with scalloped awnings. It was open to pedestrians only, with colorful booths lining both sides of the street. Kids and nannies played around a mossy fountain in the center. The sounds and smells were overwhelming—fish fresh from the ocean, bouquets of flowers, incense, food being fried up in huge iron pans over gas burners. Street musicians played for tips, and to Camille’s delight, Finn was a generous tipper. She felt utterly seduced by the joie de vivre here.

He brought her to a small square with yet another fountain, which was surrounded by café tables. The waiter served them from one of the bottles left to chill in the babbling water. They savored a slow, delicious dinner, finishing it with small cups of lemon ice. Camille felt his gaze unabashedly studying her eyes, her lips, the way she sipped from her wineglass.

“Let’s go,” he said, signaling for the check.

She was too relaxed to object. She wanted to explore this thing that was happening between them. It felt so new. Every look, every touch, even just the brush of his hand, ignited her senses. A feeling of wonder held her captive as they strolled to his house, a walk-up apartment in an elegant old converted mansion in the pedestrian quarter where the only traffic consisted of wandering tourists and the occasional scooter. Lime-washed walls and exposed beams gave the whole place a timeless air. It was like being detached from the world here, a hideaway set apart from everything else in her life.