Michel studied the pictures. “I already knew this, because they were sitting with my own grandmother, drinking ersatz coffee, when the bomb hit. My grandfather was spared only because he had left the table to fetch something, but he was never the same afterward.”

She stopped. “My God. That is incredibly sad. Even though it happened before either of you was born, it seems like such a terrible loss.”

“One can only imagine,” said her father.

“And this,” said Camille, “is the most interesting and mysterious picture I found.” It was the soldier photo. “We think he might have been an American paratrooper.”

Michel studied the picture for a long time, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ve brought some old photos of my own,” he said. “They are printed on paper, though, rather than digital ether.” With a wink, he reached into his breast pocket and brought out two deckle-edged black-and-white pictures. “Here is a picture of Henri and me in 1959, our first year at the lycée.”

Both boys wore school uniforms. Her father looked abashed in the ill-fitting dark blazer over a wrinkled white shirt. Michel, on the other hand, faced the camera with a proud grin. His blazer fit perfectly and his shirt was pressed to perfection.

“We were a mismatched pair, eh?” Papa said.

“In some ways.” Michel held the next picture beside a shot of the soldier on Camille’s tablet. “Here you are at sixteen or seventeen. The resemblance is striking, is it not?”

Camille reached for her father’s hand and squeezed it while they studied the pictures side by side. Both the soldier and Henri had skinny necks and prominent Adam’s apples, curly dark hair and dark slashing brows. Their faces were shaped the same. Even their ears stuck out at the same angle. “You could be brothers,” Camille said. “Oh my gosh, we have to figure out who this guy was.”

“To me, what is more significant is who he was not—Didier Palomar.” Henry’s eyes misted as he looked at the soldier, and then up at Michel. “And now let us speak of other things. There is something I must tell you. I was silent about my boyhood here, because I didn’t want you to know about the shame of being Palomar’s son. I learned to keep secrets, and it affected other parts of my life. Including my friendship with Michel.”

“I’m so grateful you were Papa’s friend,” Camille said. “You were good to him when no one else was.”

“I wanted to be his friend, and I wanted to be good to him,” said Cabret. “There was no stopping my feelings.”

“What a lovely way to put it,” she said, beaming at them both.

“What we’re trying to say, chérie, what I’m trying to say, is that we were friends of a certain kind. But at some point in my life, I decided my true heart would always be a secret. When I first knew I loved this other boy, it . . . I am not overstating things when I say it formed my personality. But at the same time, I tried to hide these feelings.” He covered Michel’s hand with his. “Until now. Now with certainty and no sense of shame I can tell you that I love him still, and he has been kind enough to keep his heart open to another chance.”

She frowned in confusion. “Papa? I don’t understand. Or maybe . . . Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Chérie, Michel and I . . .” He took a breath, reached over, and placed his hand on his friend’s. “Michel was my first love, and I love him still. At long last, I want to come out, to let you know the truth.”

She gave a short laugh. “What? But . . .” And then the laughter died as a piercing insight struck like a physical pain. “You’re gay.” She looked from her father to Michel. “You . . . the two of you . . . Seriously?”

“Chérie, I had these feelings from boyhood, but of course at that time . . . I didn’t know how to handle myself. I simply had no context, no understanding of the situation. In those days, especially in a small country town, this situation simply did not exist. Or if it did, no one spoke of it. Camille, I’m so sorry. I never should have kept it from you for so long.”

Her mind was whirling. “This is . . . my God.” Papa . . . gay? How could that be? He was just Papa. Her father. He couldn’t be—

He could. He was. When she looked at him and Cabret together, she could see it clearly, which was strange, because five minutes before, she couldn’t see it at all. All her life, she hadn’t seen it. But now missing puzzle pieces finally fell into place, seemingly all at once. After the divorce, Papa had never married or even had a serious girlfriend. He’d been social, but always single. Finally she knew why.

Rather than shock or surprise, she felt . . . something else. Tears—not of sadness, but of relief, perhaps. “Why didn’t the thought ever cross my mind?” she wondered aloud.

“I was in denial myself.”

“But why? I would have understood. I do understand.”

“As I knew you would. I never worried about that, Camille. I should have spoken up long ago.”

“You think?” she whispered. “Why did you keep it from me—from everyone—for so long?”

“It’s something I’ve asked myself,” he said. “I grew up a secret keeper. There was this terrible secret I was holding in about Palomar, and I’d trained myself to stay silent on all personal matters. I made a habit of taking on a shame that was not mine to own, and I nearly ruined my own life because of it.” His voice broke, and he pulled in a shuddery breath. “The one relationship I wanted seemed impossible to me. I fell in love with a boy, but I didn’t even let myself recognize what that was. I didn’t even have a name for these feelings, yet I decided they must always be a secret. Finding out Palomar was not my father has liberated me. Letting go of my guilt over Didier’s crimes finally opened my heart to a love I’ve never forgotten.”

Michel dabbed at his eyes. “You were never far from my thoughts, mon vieux.”

Camille was still reeling. “I wish I’d known. Oh, Papa, if only I’d realized what was going on . . .”

“You can be forgiven for not thinking of your parent in that way,” Michel said gently. “Camille, thank you for letting me be part of this conversation. I know it must be difficult for you.”

“I’m—it’s not difficult. Just new. I think I need time to process this.”

“Of course.” He stood up. “And now I am going for a little walk in the garden, so the two of you can have a talk. My grandnephews have nothing but praise for Julie. With your permission, I would like to meet her.”

“Certainly,” Camille said. She held his gaze for a moment, unsure of how to feel. This man had once owned her father’s heart, and it appeared they wanted to continue together. She took a deep breath. “I’m glad to meet you, Michel. Truly.”

He offered a slight bow and left the table. She watched him go, a dapper man in his tailored suit, walking beneath a sunlit vine pergola. Her stomach felt twisted in knots. More tears flowed unchecked. “Papa, you’ve been alone all this time because you were hiding the truth. It must have been so lonely for you. Does Mom know?”

“We never spoke of it.” He must have read Camille’s expression. “I did love your mother as best I knew how, which was hardly adequate, but . . . I married her, because that was what people did—they got married and started a family. Cherisse and I threw ourselves into work—the house, the shop, our jobs. But no matter how busy we kept ourselves, there was no hiding the mistake I’d made. Your mother and I held each other in mutual respect and affection, but that is no substitute for deep, passionate love. I was resigned to the idea that the love I always wanted was forbidden, and happily for Cherisse, she found a love that was meant to be.”

Camille nodded, picturing her mother and Bart together. “And maybe you have, too.”

“We shall see. There is something I want you to understand,” he said, using his handkerchief to dab at her eyes, the way he used to when she was a little girl. “I can have no regrets, because I have you. And you are my greatest achievement in life.”