But oh, man. She sparked something in him. He wasn’t sure why. She lingered in his mind, reminding him that there was more to life than hooking up and getting laid. He had never felt anything like this, not even with Emily.

Camille didn’t want him to call. He shouldn’t call. But when had “shouldn’t” ever stopped him? Bad idea, he reminded himself. One thing Finn was good at was knowing when to walk away. When to leave well enough alone.

This was one of those times. Yes, Camille Adams was intriguing and beautiful and there were undiscovered layers he longed to explore. Since his divorce, he’d walled himself off from the kind of feelings she inspired. But her soft eyes and soft lips, the way she lit up when she talked about her daughter and her work—those things exposed vulnerable cracks in his wall. No. Finn shored up his defenses. He was not going to do a long-distance anything.

The beauteous, sad, worried photography expert would stay where he’d left her—a missed connection.

And so, when his phone vibrated against his heart to signal a message, he was blown away to see the name of the sender—Camille Adams. Camille “Don’t Call Me” Adams. Camille “I’m in a Bad Place” Adams.

Camille “I Don’t Even Know How Sexy I Am” Adams.

“I wonder if I did the right thing,” Camille said to her mother and half sister Britt. “Maybe I shouldn’t have sent him that text message about the pictures I found in Papa’s old camera.”

The three of them sat together at Brew-La-La. They met here every Monday morning for coffee, a business meeting, and girl talk.

Sometimes they were joined by Hilda, the younger daughter of Cherisse and Bart. Hilda was still in college, currently doing a semester abroad in Cape Town.

The shop specialized in local snacks—Kaiserschmarrn with macerated berries, breakfast croissants filled with scrapple, Taylor ham sandwiches for the visitors from Jersey. Camille always opted for a tartine with butter and strawberry freezer jam.

“Why are you wondering?” asked Britt. “Because you think he might still be upset at you for ruining his film? Or because he’s hot and single?” She turned her laptop screen toward them on the table. “I mean. Look at him.”

The pictures were on the Washington Post website, accompanying a piece about the Medal of Honor ceremony.

“I’m looking.” Camille’s cheeks felt warm. She thought far too much about Finn. She told herself he was the embodiment of a bad idea—too handsome, too cocky, too . . . everything. “He really looks different with short hair.”

“But no less hot,” said Britt.

Their mom scrolled to a shot of Finn’s mother accepting the flat presentation box from the president. “He had a remarkable father, didn’t he? Gave himself up to save his team and was never seen again.”

“The pictures I ruined could have been a clue about what happened,” Camille said.

“Stop it,” her mother scolded. “It’s unfortunate, but it’s done. No point in beating yourself up about it.”

“You’re right. Still, I feel weird asking him for advice about Lisette’s pictures. The film we found in that old camera at Papa’s dates back to 1945. I was able to process it with no trouble at all. And yet I decimated the last roll Finn’s father ever shot.”

“It happens,” her mother said.

“He was disappointed. That’s even worse than him being mad. I hate disappointing people.”

“You should go out with him and pick up the tab to say you’re sorry,” Britt suggested, still gazing at her screen. “He’s gorgeous. Annapolis grad. Professor. What’s not to like?”

“The fact that he lives thirty-five hundred miles away,” Camille reminded her.

Britt sighed. “Well, there’s that.”

“I’ve decided not to date anyone for a while,” Camille told them. “Drake was really good to me, but it just didn’t work. It’s like something in me is broken.”

“Nonsense.” Her mother rubbed her shoulder. “There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing broken. Breakups are always hard. Don’t you dare give up hope.”

“I’m not giving up hope. I’m giving up men.”

“Let me see the pictures again,” said her mother. “I’m just so fascinated.”

Camille opened a screen on her own laptop and they looked together at the seventy-year-old photos. There were eight images in all.

They studied each one—a town, a broken bridge, the rubble of a building, a glade by a stream, a gaunt man, his face turned away from the camera, his shoulders hunched with hopelessness. The final image was the most startling of all—a stunningly beautiful woman in the late stages of pregnancy. She faced a tall cheval-glass mirror with the camera held against her distended belly.

It was a self-portrait of Lisette. She looked ethereal, like a fairy. Although the photo was in black and white, it was clear that her hair was blond.

“I have so many questions,” Camille said. “Papa could only tell me so much about the shots, because they were all taken before he was born. Obviously. I thought if I showed them to Finn, he could tell me how to find out more.”

“Then you should definitely show him,” Britt said. “But be honest. You could contact any number of experts, and yet you thought of him.”

“He’s the only expert I know on postwar France,” Camille protested. Flustered, she changed the subject. “Mom, did Papa ever talk about Sauveterre?”

Cherisse shook her head. “Not so much. I knew of the family property. He said there was a tenant with a long-term lease, and we never really discussed it further.”

“How do you not discuss something like that with your husband?” asked Britt. “If Wylie kept something like that from me, I’d wonder what else he was hiding.”

Cherisse sighed. “Henry didn’t keep it from me. He had so little to say about it. On one of our trips to France for business, I suggested a visit to Bellerive, but he looked at me like I was crazy. Said it would be a total waste of time—a tiny village in the Var. He said we’d be totally bored.” She sighed again. “Your father is a singular man. Intensely private. His heart was always a mystery to me. I was young and naive enough to believe we’d grow closer as time went on, but instead we grew apart. I don’t believe I ever really knew him.”

“He’s not a mystery,” Camille said. “He’s just . . . Papa.” She gazed at Lisette’s picture. “And he had a mother he never knew. She looks so sad. It makes me sad to know she never got to see her son grow up.”

“It’s awful that he was born an orphan,” Britt said. “Did it mess with his head to be raised by his aunt?”

“He told Julie and me that his aunt Rotrude wasn’t kind,” Camille said. “She resented him because she was a war widow with a child of her own, and Papa—her baby nephew—was the legal owner of Sauveterre. When he turned eighteen, they could no longer afford to pay the taxes, so he leased the place out to a family called the Oliviers, and Rotrude had to move out. Papa came to America, and he never went back.”

Cherisse signaled the barista for another round of coffee. “All right, ladies. Let’s get down to business. Summer is right around the corner. Summer hours at the shop start next week. It’s going to be our best season yet.”

Camille knew her mother wasn’t exaggerating. Business was thriving at Ooh-La-La, thanks to the bustle of sun-seeking tourists, well-heeled locals, and power brokers from D.C. stealing away for the weekend. The wealthy come-heres had built luxurious summer places amid the courthouse towns and fishing villages of the peninsula. Camille had grown up observing their ways. They had always seemed like a breed apart, driving their European cars along the Chesapeake Bay Bridge or the over-and-underwater highway crossing of the Hampton Roads, where aircraft carriers and nuclear submarines were nearly as common as skipjack watermen dredging for oysters while under sail.

The merchants and restaurateurs of Bethany Bay were all too happy to cater to the expensive needs of folks from Philadelphia and New York, offering sailing trips and shore dinners, fishing charters, and luxury home goods from the boutique.