Julie nodded, not bothering to stifle a yawn.

“Somebody’s fading,” Camille said.

“Madame will have a nice bed ready for you soon.” Papa parked in front of what had probably been a carriage house at one time. As they were getting out onto the cobbled pavement, a bright-faced woman came rushing out to meet them.

“Alors, alors, bienvenue, tout le monde,” she sang out, opening her arms. She was as charming as the manor itself, wearing a gauzy skirt and top with a shawl, beaming as she firmly clasped Papa in a hug and planted an audible kiss on each cheek. “Can this be my darling Henri?” she asked, stepping back, seeming to devour him with her gaze. “Look at you, as old as stone, but handsome as ever.”

“And you are old as well, Madame, but no less beautiful. How are you?”

“Call me Renée, please. You’re not a callow boy anymore, as you were when last I saw you. Now.” She turned to Camille. “This is your fabulous daughter, eh?”

Camille found herself clasped in that firm embrace. Renée smelled of lavender and onions. “Thank you for having us,” Camille said. “What a lovely place this is.”

“Lovely but decrepit, much like myself,” she said. “We keep it up as well as we can, but the restoration work on such an old place is never-ending. And now, happily for us, the roof cave-in brought us together, eh? And this is Julie, the wonderful fillette.”

Julie looked chastened by travel, tired and pale, but she smiled and submitted to the hugs and kisses.

“Come in immediately and meet the family. My grandson Nico will bring in your luggage.”

The old plank door creaked on its iron hinges. Camille felt as though she was breathing in the past. She could clearly sense the atmosphere of a farm a hundred years ago. The kitchen was a snapshot of the past with its colorful Provençal tile, hanging copper pots, cupboards crammed with pottery, and a gas stove that was probably older than Madame herself. Light flooded through the windows, illuminating potted herbs and trays laden with savory socca, olives, spicy fish in oil, and bowls of fresh berries.

“This way,” said Madame. “We’ve been waiting. You don’t have to learn all our names at once.” She gave a gamine wink.

The introductions went by in a jet-lag-induced blur. Madame Olivier, the matriarch, had come to Sauveterre as a young bride. In the intervening years, she and her husband, Jacques, had raised six children, two of whom still lived and worked at the mas. Their daughter Anouk and her two little ones lived here while her husband was on a UN peacekeeping mission in Africa. Georges was an expert in viticulture, cultivating grapes for a local winemaker. He and his wife, Edithe, had four children, two at university in Aix and two still at home—Martine, who was fifteen, and her older brother, Nico.

Camille tracked Julie’s reaction to the two teenagers. Her smile was tentative and her posture closed—arms folded defensively in front of her. Martine, who apparently had inherited her grandmother’s effusive personality, was having none of it. She beamed at Julie. “It’s awkward at first, eh? But I’m an excellent friend. I won’t disappoint you. Nico might. But I won’t.”