“We’re going to piece it together,” he said. “The university in Aix has an archive of personal narratives of the war, and I have a classroom full of eager students. We can get them to identify and interview local survivors.”

“My father’s a bit startled by all the fuss.”

“It’s an opportunity for historical inquiry,” Finn said. “I’d rather have my students working in the field than sitting at their computers.” He studied Camille’s face in a way that made her blush, wondering if he knew he’d been the topic of her conversation with Roz and Vivi. “Everything all right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Julie? She’s having a good time so far?”

She nodded again. “It’s wonderful to see her hanging out with friends again. I worry sometimes about her doing something dangerous, but the kids seem great. She says they just take the bus to the beach and to markets, or they go walking around the village.”

“I used to tell my mom I was going to the library.”

“And you went where, instead?”

“Not the library.”

She picked up the wedding portrait they had found of Lisette and Didier. It was a dead-eyed pose typical of the era, the bride and groom holding themselves stiffly as they stared into the lens of the camera. It was impossible to imagine what was going through Lisette’s head at that moment. Had she been in love with Didier? He certainly looked handsome enough, and proud. Did she share his politics, approve of his decision to throw in his lot with the Germans?

“Do they seem like a fun couple to you?” asked Finn.

She shook her head. “So hard to tell. I always check out the hands—they can tell you a lot, because the subject doesn’t usually think about what the hands are doing. In this shot, hers are holding the bouquet and his are behind his back.”

“Maybe they both had something to hide.”

“I wouldn’t call that a maybe. I’d call it a certainty.”

They were quiet for a few moments. She thought about her conversations with Vivi and Roz. “You were married,” she said.

“So were you.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“About as much as you want to talk about your first marriage,” he said.

“Which is not at all.”

“Right. But you have questions about mine.”

“Yes,” she said. “I have questions.”

He spread his arms. “I’m an open book.”

Sure, she thought. “How long were you married?”

“Ten years.”

That laid waste to the theory that he was a commitment-phobe. “And it didn’t work out.”

“I suppose your next question would be why.”

“Listen, if this is too personal, we can change the subject.”

“I like getting personal with you, Camille.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. “Right.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. Ready to get out your tiny violin of pity? My marriage, the condensed version. It was our ten-year anniversary, and I planned a surprise evening—champagne, flowers, a gourmet meal. Friggin’ chocolate that cost a hundred bucks an ounce. Candles that magically didn’t drip. When Emily got home from work and saw the spread, she burst into tears and told me she was pregnant.”