Then she took out her phone. “Hey, I don’t have service,” she said.

“You don’t need a phone while you’re here,” Camille told her.

Julie’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to complain.

Camille held up a hand. “When you’re spending the summer in France, you don’t get to complain about your phone.”

Julie scowled. “Well,” she said. “When you put it that way . . .”

“I’m putting it that way.”

The next leg of the journey, a one-hour flight to Marseille, passed in a blur. The airport was small and modern, and Papa hired a car, a little Renault Twingo the color of a ripe grape. Camille loved the sound of the language spoken here. It was her father’s variation of French—Occitan. Compared to the rushing crowds at Charles de Gaulle, life moved at a leisurely pace in the south, even at the airport and car-rental kiosk.

Once they were on the road, she looked out the window in wonder at the spectacular scenery and picturesque villages with their shady squares and gurgling fountains, clinging to impossibly steep hillsides. The hour-long drive took them past dramatic gorges draped in pines, evergreen oaks, olives and vines, cherry orchards, and walnut groves.

Julie eagerly followed the route on a map, calling out the names of the tiny villages and landmarks they passed along the way—a castle here, an aqueduct there, churches and ancient coppices along the waterways. The fields of sunflowers and flax and lavender were just beginning to bloom, the vineyards were thriving with bright green new growth, and the sky was a marvelous shade of blue. Papa called Madame Olivier to give her their ETA.

“She’s making a special aperitif for us,” he said. “I have not seen her since I left Bellerive. She was a young bride back then. Now she has a granddaughter—Martine, who is a year older than you, Julie. I’m sure she’s eager to meet you.”

For the first time, Julie looked apprehensive. “What? You didn’t tell me there was another kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know until Madame told me, just now. It’s good news. You won’t be stuck with a bunch of boring adults.”

“Maybe I like hanging out with boring adults.”

“Now you’re getting cranky,” Camille said. “Jet lag is hard, but when we get there, be polite. And remember, you’re the one who begged for this trip.”

“What if this Martine kid doesn’t like me?”

“Nonsense,” Camille said. “Everyone likes you.”

“Uh-huh. That’s the reason they’re kicking me out of school.”

“No one’s kicking you out of school.”

“That’s what Vanessa said.”

“And her information is always so reliable. Listen, we’re half a world away from all that, so let’s enjoy where we are.”

They came to a roundabout, and Camille noticed a sign pointing to Aix-en-Provence, where Finn lived. The sign alone caused a flutter of nervousness. But they passed by and went in another direction.

Her father grew quiet, and when she scanned the landscape, she knew why. A road sign pointed toward a hilltop village, a cluster of buff-colored buildings topped by a church tower: bellerive 3.5 km.

“Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

“Yes. It’s very strange to be coming back here after such a long time.”

“Strange in a good way? Or . . . ?”

“I’m glad to be coming home.”

He had been away for more than five decades, yet he still called it home. A sign welcomed them to one of the most beautiful villages in france.

And so it was. Camille’s breath caught; Bellerive was even prettier than the pictures Finn had sent and the other images she’d found online. Surrounded by vineyards, olive groves, and almond orchards, the town was nestled beside a rushing river. As they crossed the bridge, Papa said, “This is the Pont Neuf. The original one was destroyed when the Allies came to liberate the town.” The winding streets, spiraling up to the church square at the pinnacle, were almost too narrow for the car as he showed them the shady squares rimmed by charming cafés and shops. He pointed out the école maternelle and the lycée he’d attended as a boy.

Camille noticed his haunted look. How awful to think of him as a little boy, tormented by bullies for the things his father had done.

“You hated school, didn’t you?” Julie asked quietly. When he didn’t reply, she said, “I know what that’s like. And maybe they were mean to you for no reason at all. Mom showed me the picture of Didier Palomar. You don’t look anything like him. Didier. Sounds like Diddler,” she added in English. She stared out the window at the ancient stone-built school. “Didn’t you have any friends at all?”

“I . . . no. Well, perhaps one.” A softness came over his face. “His name was Michel Cabret.”

“I’m glad you had a friend,” Julie said. “What was he like?”

The soft expression made Papa look years younger. “He was quite wonderful. Clever and kind, even though being my friend made him unpopular with all the other students. I was proud to call him my friend. And then . . . I left for America and never contacted him again.”

“Why not?” Julie asked.

“We quarreled about something—I don’t recall what. Isn’t that pathetic? It’s a great regret of mine that we parted ways on bad terms.”

“Suppose you try getting in touch with him now?” Julie asked.

He looked up and smiled. “Camille, you must stop letting this child grow up. She is getting too smart for an old man like me.”

“Quit saying you’re old, Papi. What about your friend? Do you think you could find him?”

“Do I think?” He chuckled. “Of course I can find him. I already have. This is something I learned from my very gifted granddaughter. I found him on the social network. The Facebook.”

“Cool,” Julie said. “Did you contact him?”

“Certainly not. He’s undoubtedly forgotten me.”

“Does he still live here?” Julie asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“I believe so, yes.” He stopped at a crossroads and thought for a moment, then turned down a sunny cobblestoned street. “That was Michel’s house,” he said, indicating a stone residence surrounded by shade trees, with a small garden in back and a tailor shop next door, marked with a metal sign in the shape of scissors. “He was apprenticed to a tailor, and he later took over the shop.”

“You should pay him a visit,” Camille suggested.

Her father shook his head. “It’s an old and painful situation. He wouldn’t welcome me.”

“How do you know?”

He didn’t answer. Camille wondered what memories were hiding inside her father. Later, when they were rested, she would try to talk to him about it. They drove through the winding alleyways of the village, passing colorfully painted old doors studded with iron rivets, windows rimmed by climbing roses, hollyhocks, and geraniums, people walking to and from the shops with their straw panniers. The atmosphere was utterly charming, and it was hard to imagine what this place had been like when it was overrun by Nazis and their war machines.

After passing through the town, they drove along a narrow lane bordered by plane trees and surrounded by vineyards and orchards. The fields were dotted by unmortared stone huts, many of them collapsed and overgrown. “That is Sauveterre,” Papa said, indicating a large property in the distance, dominated by a stone manor house. Sun-gilded dry stone walls enclosed gardens exploding with growth. The ocher-washed manor house, terraced fields, and surrounding forest hinted at a warm and gentle lifestyle from a forgotten era. The building showed its age. At one end of the main house, a blue tarp covered the gray slate roof. That was probably where the cave-in had occurred, prompting Madame Olivier to send the box of Lisette’s belongings.

They passed through the wide iron and stone entry gate. There was a row of beehives in a meadow along a tall hedge, numerous sheds and barns, a henhouse, and a pond. The manor house was surrounded by lavish gardens, walkways draped with wisteria and clematis, and a sunny garden with wrought-iron furniture and lounge chairs.