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.”