She’d been busy with work all day, and she was eager to get to her personal e-mail. Yes, she and Finn had been e-mailing each other. She rationalized that they were collaborating on research for her father, finding out more about the photos they had found in Lisette’s trunk. The truth, which she would barely admit to herself, was that she liked corresponding with him. He was funny and entertaining, and quite good at flirting. The fact that he was so far away worked well for her. She didn’t have to worry about actually having a relationship. Flirting was nothing but harmless fun.

The current note in her in-box was a good example. Subject: you’re in my 3AM thoughts.

The idea of him thinking of her at three a.m. was ridiculously enticing. She kept reminding herself that all she wanted was to find out more about Lisette and her world during the war years. Maybe that way, her father would drop the idea of rushing off to Bellerive, and instead content himself with a video call to the caretakers of his property there. Maybe he—and she and Julie—would stay safely in Bethany Bay, same as every summer.

Except that in Julie’s case, Bethany Bay didn’t feel safe anymore.

Worries kept Camille awake at night. She hoped Julie was just going through a phase, that she could make a fresh start now that summer was here. Camille had already set the fresh start in motion. Julie’s braces were going to be removed and substituted with a nighttime-only appliance. She was also switching to contact lenses. Camille knew better than to believe it was a cure-all, but it might give Julie’s confidence a boost.

She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down with her laptop.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: you’re in my 3AM thoughts

Hey Camille,

Turns out Bellerive was definitely in the drop zone for Operation Dragoon. I drove over there yesterday to have a look. Found the property your father owns and took some photos. It’s quite a place, wedged between the mountains and the sea. I’ll send the pics later. You should see it. Rustic charm, drenched in sunshine. All that’s missing is a glass of wine . . . and thee. Or is it thou? Whatever. You know what I’m saying.

Cheers,

Finn

[This email is UNCLASSIFIED.]

“You went to Bellerive,” she said to her screen. “Wow, you went to Papa’s village.” It made her absurdly happy that he’d taken the time to go there. The other thing that made her happy was that line about her. “You’re a flirt, Professor Finnemore, that’s what you are,” she told the computer screen.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: you’re in my 3AM thoughts

Finn,

Thanks for the field report. You’ve gone above and beyond. I feel guilty not paying you for your services. Looking forward to the pics.

Best,

Camille

She hesitated before hitting send. She wanted to make sure this sounded like a casual exchange, nothing more. She went back and changed services to time and then sent the note.

A moment later, a window popped up at the bottom of her screen.

Imakepesto: Hi.

She frowned. Who was that? Since she didn’t know, she clicked the X to close the window. There was a message from Billy Church about work—the Tidewater Film Society was collecting images from found film for an exhibit that would debut early next year. Did she want to get together with him to decide what to submit?

Of course, she said. She loved working with found images, and getting them out into the world might uncover the mystery behind some of them.

Imakepesto: Hey Camille.

Another pop-up window. She scowled at it.

Imakepesto: It’s Finn.

Her heart sped up. She took a quick sip of wine. Then she clicked the reply box and started typing.

Stewardess: Oh. Hi there. I didn’t recognize your screen name. Imakepesto?

Imakepesto: Yep.

Stewardess: Because . . .

Imakepesto: Because “Bazillionaire” was already taken.

Stewardess: But . . . pesto?

Imakepesto: Actually, I DO make pesto. You should try it sometime, it’s awesome. Stewardess?

Stewardess: I can type it with one hand. Leaving the other hand free to hold the wineglass.

Imakepesto: Ah. So practical.

Stewardess: Is it really 3am there?

Imakepesto: Not anymore. You got my note?

Stewardess: I did. That was really cool of you to go to Bellerive.

Imakepesto: Trust me, not a hardship. Fantastic little town, straight out of a storybook. We found a great restaurant in the center of the village.

Stewardess: We?

Camille cringed. Did that look as if she was fishing for details about his personal life?

Imakepesto: Me and my research assistant, Roz.

She wondered what Roz was like. Then she chided herself for wondering.

Stewardess: Cool you have an assistant.

Imakepesto: Had an amazing salade niçoise for lunch—Bandol tuna, fresh off the boat—and for dessert, honey ice cream served in this insane cone made from a sugared croissant.

Stewardess: Sounds lethal.

Imakepesto: You’re missing out. You need to see this place.

Stewardess: You sound like my father.

Imakepesto: That’s a bad sign. I don’t want to sound like your father.

Oops, thought Camille. That came out wrong.

Stewardess: I mean he keeps saying he wants to go back for a visit.

Imakepesto: He should. What’s stopping him?

Me, she thought, but she didn’t want to share that with him.

Stewardess: He just finished cancer treatment. The doc cleared him to travel, but I worry . . .

Imakepesto: Then come with him. Bring your daughter.

Stewardess: Now you REALLY sound like him. He’s been saying we should go with him.

Imakepesto: You should. I bet he’d love to show you this part of the world. I know I would.

Quick, change the subject, Camille.

Stewardess: Hey, did you send those pictures you took?

Imakepesto: Yep, just now.

She heard the rocket blast of an incoming e-mail. Swoosh.

Stewardess: Excited! I’m going to have a look right away . . . I shouldn’t be keeping you up.

Imakepesto: I like staying up late with you. It’d be even better if we were having this conversation in person.

Stewardess: I’m looking at the pictures now . . .

He was right. The town was utterly charming—old stone buildings, narrow streets, a grand Gothic church. The weather looked gorgeous—crystal-clear blue sky, everything drenched in sunshine. Grapevines and hollyhocks everywhere.

There was a young woman in a few of the pictures. She had silky-straight hair, oversized sunglasses, and was effortlessly dressed in a flowy top and capri pants. She looked like a high-end fashion model. The assistant?

Camille was not surprised that he had an assistant who looked like a model. “Move on, Camille,” she muttered. “Look at the pictures.”

Imakepesto: When you get here, remind me to take you to this museum in the Vaucluse. It has an extensive collection from the war years.

“When I get there?” Camille asked the empty room. “You mean, never? And why would you assume I’m coming to France?”

She drew her attention back to the pictures he’d sent. The most arresting image was a hand-colored, vintage portrait of a man with pale blond hair and steely blue eyes.

Imakepesto: Recognize this guy?

Stewardess: No. Should I?

Imakepesto: Found it in the town records. Didier Palomar, mayor from 1937 to 1945. The label says “Maire de Bellerive.”

Stewardess: Wait. What?

Imakepesto: Pretty sure it’s Lisette’s husband. Which would make him your grandfather, right?

Stewardess: I’ve never seen a picture of him.

Imakepesto: Say hi to grand-père.

She felt a chill as she gazed at the picture. Every hair was in place. His eyes, thin lips, bony face, chin held at a haughty angle.

Stewardess: Ick. According to my father, he was a collaborator. The most hated man in the village. Did you find out if he was really shot in ’45?

Imakepesto: No. We can look into that when we go back to Bellerive.

We. Did he mean him and the supermodel?

She set the print of Lisette next to the screen and studied the images side by side. Her grandparents gazed back at her across the decades—two strangers to whom she was inextricably tied. Lisette was a beauty, clearly much younger than Didier, her sleek hair and delicate features almost mesmerizing. Didier, not so much. Even in a portrait meant to flatter, he had close-set, pale blue eyes and wispy blond hair, and—