At the lifeguard station, she and Vanessa were monitored. Vanessa was still gagging from the seawater. She shot Julie a glowering look. “I wasn’t in trouble,” she muttered. “Way to overreact, Julie.”

“Whatever,” Julie said, waving away the oxygen mask. “Did someone get my dad’s board?”

The guards looked at each other, and her heart sank. “I need my dad’s board,” she said, moving toward the door.

“We have to write this up,” said the older guard.

“I’m going to find my surfboard,” Julie insisted.

“It’s here.” Jana Jacobs stood in the doorway to the station. The board was propped between her and Tarek. “It washed in down the beach.” She offered a tenuous smile, and held out the friendship bracelet with the anchor charm. “Hey, that was cool what you did.”

“That’s okay,” Julie said. “You keep it.” She didn’t need the bracelet. She knew where her anchor was. “Thanks for grabbing the board.”

“Thanks for grabbing Vanessa,” Jana said. “We were really scared.”

“I’m fine,” Vanessa said from behind the O2 mask. She paused, then said, “I’m fine, Julie. Okay?”

Twenty-one

Camille found her daughter sitting on the rocks at the base of the lighthouse, just outside the fence. It was sunset, and Julie sat very still, her hair damp from a shower, her legs stretched out in front of her. How beautiful she looked, strong and calm, like a new person, very different from the shrinking, tentative girl who had let herself be pulled out to sea in a riptide only a few months ago.

“Hey,” Camille said, climbing over the rocks.

Julie turned to her. “Am I in trouble?”

“Should you be?”

“Should I have let Vanessa drown? If I’d had time to think about it, I might’ve been tempted.”

“Very funny.” Camille smoothed her hand over Julie’s hair. “This new cut you got in Aix is great on you,” she said.

“Thanks. Do you think Deep Cuts will figure out how to keep it?”

“Sure. You just have to tell them what you want, and don’t let them lead you astray.”

“I miss France,” Julie said.

Me, too. Camille batted the thought away. “Papa used to remind me that sometimes the best journey of your life is the one that takes you home.”

“And sometimes it isn’t,” Julie pointed out.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crying gulls and the surf surging against the breakwater rocks. Camille thought about Finn’s observation about Julie when they’d parted ways. Much as it stung, there was a grain of truth in what he’d said.

“Listen,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. It’s always been true, but maybe I’ve never said this, Jules.” She turned to her. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You are my greatest achievement and you’ve given me the proudest moments of my life—not just today, but every day. And I’m afraid I never made sure you understood that fully. I’m afraid I led you to believe that when your dad died, my life started to suck, irreversibly. The loss was horrible, and so was the grief. But you’re here, and you’re my miracle.”

“Mom, okay. I get it.” Julie’s voice sounded thick. The expression on her face was soft with affection—and understanding. Camille realized this was exactly what Finn had been talking about. How had he known?

“Oh, sweetie, I’m not trying to make you sad. I just want to make sure you know you’ve been my whole world. It’s not the world I imagined for us when your dad was still here. But we had a wonderful life and we still do; it’s all because of you.”

“Mom, that’s nice. It’s totally sweet. But . . . Okay, here’s the thing.” Julie turned to face her, drawing her knees up to her chest. “As much as you worry about me, I worry about you. In a few years, I’ll be on my own.”

The words turned Camille’s blood cold. “Of course you will. It’s not my favorite thing to think about, but that’s the way it works, right?”

“I mean really on my own. You’ll always be my home base, but I want to go far away, see the world, go back to Bellerive and visit Paris and Sydney and all the places I haven’t seen yet in the world.”

Great, thought Camille. That’s what she got for taking Julie to France, giving her a taste of travel. She should never have—

She stopped herself from thinking like that. “I don’t blame you, Jules. Everybody needs to see the world. I did the same thing at your age.” She pulled Julie into a hug, inhaling her candy-sweet scent. “There are certain journeys you make in your lifetime that stick with you always. You remember the feel of the air on your skin, the quality of the light, the food you ate, the smells that wafted in the air. Most of all, you remember how you felt about the person you were with. And how you felt about yourself.”

“That was this summer, for me,” Julie murmured against her sleeve. “I’m glad you get it, Mom. You totally get it.”

Camille drove a rental car from the Burlington airport to the town of Switchback, Vermont. In the passenger seat, her father gazed out the window, while in the back, Julie listened to French pop songs on her phone, occasionally coming out with a tuneless sing-along phrase that made Camille smile.

It was the final—and most important—trip they would make all summer. For Papa, it was the most important trip of his life. She glanced over at him. His jaw tightened and released, tightened and released. “How are you doing?” she asked softly.

“As you’d expect—excited. Nervous. Filled with an emotion I can’t describe.”

She reached over and patted his arm, then turned back to her daughter. “That makes three of us, eh, Jules?”

“Totally.” Julie plucked out her earbuds. “Look, the sign says four more miles.”

Camille flexed her hands on the steering wheel. Her search for each WWII veteran on Finn’s list had led to this moment. The high school math teacher from Philadelphia was not a match. He’d passed away, but his daughter assured Camille he could not have fathered a child in France in 1944. Yes, he’d taken part in Operation Dragoon, and yes, he’d been in the Var, but not until August of that year, weeks past the date of conception. The second man—a retired farmer in North Carolina—was still living, and although he recalled the summer of ’44 in detail and had done reconnaissance work in May of that year, he was never near Bellerive.

The final prospect on Finn’s list was Corporal Henry “Hank” Watkins, ret. He had answered the phone himself, and when she’d explained the reason for her call, a long pause had ensued. Just when she thought the call had been dropped, he’d said, “How soon can you come?”

Two days later, they were here—a small town in Vermont. Julie navigated them through the pretty New England village and then out along a country road to a snug wooden house where Hank Watson, a widower, lived with his daughter and her husband.

When they drove up to the house, the ninety-year-old veteran came out on the porch and down the steps. He had a crooked leg and walked with a cane. When Papa got out of the car, the old man set down the cane and opened his arms. Under his breath, Papa said, “Mon dieu, it’s him,” and strode forward. Two strangers, and yet they connected instantly, the recognition palpable. The two embraced, and everyone within fifty feet of them burst into tears—Camille, Julie, Hank’s daughter Wendy, and his son-in-law Nils.

“It’s a miracle,” Hank said in a rough, wavering voice. “Thank you,” he said, looking at Papa with wonder in his eyes. “Thank you for finding me.”

After further hugs and introductions, Wendy herded everyone to a deck overlooking a pretty garden surrounded by orchards and maple groves. The table was set for afternoon tea, with cloth napkins and good china, cookies and iced maple bars made, she explained, from their own maple syrup. There was a selection of sandwiches, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon in a bucket of ice.

“I can’t stop looking at the two of you together,” Camille said, unable to stop the tears of joy. “This is . . . oh my gosh.” She embraced the two of them together.