“How was your trip?” he asked, letting go of her.

“It was fine. Julie loved it.”

“That’s good, but how was your trip? You said you didn’t like flying.” He grinned at her expression. “I know all your secrets, remember? We’ve been e-mailing and chatting online, and I’ve been studying our conversations like it’s my job.”

“Why would you do that?”

He looked at her for a long moment, and a shiver of awareness passed through her. “You know why,” he said.

She decided to make light of the comment. “Come and meet my father. And no, that’s not as scary as it sounds.”

“Good. Because fathers usually scare me.”

“You’re funny.”

“It’s true. No man wants some strange guy hitting on his daughter, even when the strange guy is me, and I’m awesome.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Hitting on me?”

“Is that what you want?”

Yes. No. “Do we need ground rules?”

“Never been fond of rules.”

“Let’s go find Papa. I think he’s in the vineyard with the Oliviers, being all lord of the manor.”

“I like the manor.” He looked around at the abundant gardens. “What a fantastic place.”

“I think so, too, but we’ve only begun to explore it. The foundation dates back to Roman times, and the main house was built in the eighteenth century. It’s definitely showing its age.” She indicated the blue tarp over the damaged section of the roof. “No one has cleaned out the attic in a hundred years or so. I swear they found a species of bat that’s now extinct. It’s like being in a time warp.”

The vineyard was on a trapezoid-shaped slope outside the stone wall. The end of each perfectly straight row was marked by a blooming rosebush, like a bright exclamation point. Workers in straw sun hats were tucking the new growth of the vines into the guide wires of the trellising, and Camille’s father seemed happy to pitch right in.

Henry and Madame came to greet them. “It is as if I’d never left,” her father said, wiping his hands on a red handkerchief. “They are making me work like a rented mule.”

“Go on with you,” said Madame. “You insisted.” She beamed at Camille. “Your father has won me over with his skills in the garden and the kitchen.”

Papa extended a hand to Finn. “Now, remember your manners, and introduce me to your young man.”

“He’s not—”

“All right. I do not want to start sounding like your mother.”

“Papa, this is Professor Finnemore. Finn, my father, Henry Palmer.”

Finn smiled and shook Papa’s hand. “Camille shared the photos from your mother’s camera,” he said. His French was smooth and charming, more formal than the local dialect. “With your permission, I’d like to find out more about her.”

“Of course. I would like the same thing.”

“It all started with a leaky roof,” Madame explained. “When we went to the attic, we came across things that haven’t been touched since the war. Since both wars, in fact. Come, I’ll show you.”