“Emojis. What did Petra say?”

“She was not surprised. She always wondered why I was so dark when the rest of the family were all fair. Of course, I asked her if she knew who might have been my father, but she has no idea. And since there is no Palomar blood in my veins, I offered to deed Sauveterre to her.”

Camille gasped. “What do you mean, you offered her . . . ?”

“Sauveterre, the entire property, free and clear.”

Camille realized then how deep her father’s shame had run. He wanted nothing to do with Didier Palomar. “And?”

“And she laughed, and said she is eighty-two years old and has no use for a working farm with a falling-down house. She never had children, and her husband left her well off. I am going to pay her a monthly stipend, however, for the rest of her life.”

“I’m glad the two of you got together,” Camille said.

“I’m glad, too. People can change, after all. It makes me wonder . . .” His voice trailed off. “She wants to meet you and Julie.”

“Of course. Just say when. Do you think she’d be willing to talk to us about her memories?”

“Something tells me she would like nothing better.”

In Bellerive, the impossible happened to Julie. The kids thought she was cool and wanted to hang out with her. They wanted to hear about life in America. They even had a funny nickname for her—La ’Ricaine, short for l’Américaine. Each day after chores, the adventures started, usually with Martine taking the lead. So far, they’d ridden bikes along the Var, jumped into a waterfall in a deep river pool, climbed Cézanne’s mountain—the one he’d painted on canvas fifty times—and played soccer late into the evening. Her favorite outing was a trip to the beach with André and his two brothers. Ever since she’d jumped off the cliff with them, they had declared her their favorite. André even sang an old-fashioned song about her, “Des filles il en pleut,” which meant “It’s Raining Girls.”

“So it’s good news,” said Martine as they were in the garden, taking down the fresh laundry that had been hung out to dry. “There’s a street dance in Cassis tonight, and our favorite boy band will be there. We should go. There is a market at the port with fun kiosks, street performers, and all the usual nice snacks.”

“Absolutely,” Julie agreed, feeling a little jump of excitement in her chest. The seaport village sounded like the perfect place to go on a warm summer night.

Julie knew her mom would say yes. Mom was really easy to deal with these days, because she was so busy with her history project. Also with Finn. Mom had gone out with guys before, but this was different. Instead of getting all cranky and nervous before a date, she just seemed excited. It was nice, seeing her mom like that, smiling about nothing and humming under her breath . . . and not worrying about every move Julie made.

“What are you going to wear?” she asked Martine, holding up one of her shirts, a plaid one she used to like but was sick of now.

Martine shrugged. “Something I can dance in. Do you need to borrow an outfit?”

“That’s nice of you, but we’re not the same size.”

“Sure we are.” Martine snatched a short denim skirt from the clothesline and tossed it to Julie. “Try this.”

To Julie’s surprise, the skirt fit when she pulled it up over her shorts. Snug, but not too snug. The expected muffin top didn’t emerge. Apparently, all the swimming and chores and bike riding were doing some good.

“Cute,” said Vivi, walking past with her arms loaded with more boxes from the history project.

By now, Finn’s coworkers were practically family, showing up at Sauveterre every day, obsessed with finding out about Papi’s real father. Julie was glad it wasn’t Didier Palomar. Pretty much everybody was glad to not be related to a Nazi lover.

“We need something to wear to the dance in Cassis tonight.”

“That,” said Vivi, “is my favorite kind of problem. If you like, I can drive you down there, and you can get something new at the street fair.”

“Really? That’d be awesome,” Julie said.

That evening, the three of them drove to the coast in Vivi’s mustard-colored Renault, a scenic ride along narrow country roads surrounded by fields and forests, vineyards, rock walls, and old farms. Castles, or remnants of castles, were as common here as rest stops were in the States. Julie loved it here. She loved it even more when Vivi helped her pick out a great dress and sandals for the evening. She and her friends danced and laughed, and when André took a break from playing, he put his arms around her and gave her a kiss. Her first actual kiss from a boy. Like everything else this summer, it was magic.

Camille’s night with Finn was the start of something she wasn’t ready to define—or maybe she was afraid to define it. And their assignations didn’t just take place at night. They stole away together in the early morning after a swim at a secluded beach, or when others lingered over a lengthy Provençal lunch. One time, he cornered her in a shed on the property, and they went at it like a pair of teenagers rather than functioning adults. She could not deny that she was falling fast and hard for him, almost against her will. The feelings were too much too soon, she told herself. She tried to keep her heart out of the relationship, but her heart wouldn’t listen.

She also tried to keep the burgeoning romance a secret, not wanting to have to explain it to her father or to Julie. Yet both her father and daughter seemed to be well aware of the situation. And Julie, never the soul of discretion, didn’t hesitate to send the news to Camille’s mother and sisters. They peppered her with instant messages and e-mails, wanting details. Camille could scarcely explain what was happening to herself, much less her family.

When she awakened alone at Sauveterre, she missed Finn, and then felt silly for missing him. She reminded herself that he would be here later today. He was driving Papa’s cousin Petra from Marseille to Sauveterre so everyone would meet her.

Before that, Camille had an even more momentous meeting. Michel Cabret was coming to have lunch. Papa said that learning Palomar was not his father had given him the courage to make amends with his boyhood friend. Now he wanted to introduce Camille to him. Watching her father prepare for Cabret’s visit, Camille had a strange notion. In some way, Papa’s fluttery excitement reminded her of herself, anticipating the next encounter with Finn.

“Did your friend always make you nervous?” she asked, bringing a tray of fresh drinks to the garden, where they would have their lunch. In the shade of a pergola, the table looked inviting with colorful blue and yellow linens, Madame’s bright cobalt pottery, and clear wineglasses embossed with a bee, the symbol of Sauveterre.

“Ah. Do I seem nervous?”

“Like a kid on his first—”

The garden gate opened with a rusty creak, and in walked a remarkable-looking man. The word that came to mind when Camille saw Michel Cabret for the first time was impeccable. A tailor by profession, he wore a lovely bespoke suit with a white shirt and silk tie, shoes gleaming with fresh polish, and a perfectly tilted hat.

They greeted each other in the French fashion—embrace, kiss, kiss—and then Cabret held out his arms to Camille. “You are even more beautiful than your father described. The only time he shuts up about you is when he’s talking about Julie.”

He even smelled impeccable, of subtle cologne and sunshine. She liked him instantly.

“Come to lunch, mon vieux,” Papa said, glowing as he gestured at the nicely set table. “You’ll see that I’ve developed some culinary skills over the years.”

“So it appears.” Cabret took off his hat and gallantly held Camille’s chair. “Now. Henri tells me you have been exploring old Bellerive.”

“We have. I developed Lisette’s film rolls at the laboratory in Aix. Lisette was my grandmother. Would you like to see?”

“Certainly.”

She set up her tablet so they could see the digitized prints. “We found several rolls of undeveloped film from the war years.” She scrolled through the images, showing him the town and landscape through Lisette’s eyes. “According to Papa’s cousin, Lisette’s parents were killed the day of the Allied invasion in August of 1944. Petra says they were here, at this café.” She showed him two shots—before the bombing, and after. “It was hit by Allied bombs that were meant for the bridge over the river.”