He switched on the radio, and they listened to French pop songs along the way. It was a singular feeling, letting go so completely, the breeze snatching her hair through the window as the deux chevaux trundled through the countryside and with “J’ai besoin de la lune” wailing from the radio. She wondered if he realized how new this was to her, exhilarating and risky, like teetering on a narrow precipice.

After a while, Finn said, “Back in the States, you said you weren’t a photographer.”

“No, I said I didn’t take pictures anymore.”

“Grab that bag from the backseat,” he said.

She turned and picked up a heavy canvas bag. “A camera?”

“Yep. I borrowed this from the photography department. It’s one of the best on the market today.”

She unzipped the bag and took it out, a glorious high-performance Nikon. “It is,” she agreed.

“Thought you’d like to check it out.”

“Oh. Well . . . thanks.” She looked through the viewfinder at the scenery outside and explored some of the camera’s functions.

He glanced over at her. “I like watching you handle it. Like a pro.”

“Really?”

“It’s kind of sexy.”

“Shut up.” She could never quite tell if he was teasing. When she glanced over at him, she caught him in an unguarded moment, his face somber as he watched the road ahead.

“Was your dad a pro?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Yeah. Yeah, he was.”

She’d guessed right, then. She was getting better at reading him. “I’d like to see some of his pictures.”

“Sure. I’ll show you one of these days. But today I want to show you something else.” He turned off the main road, following signs to Gordes. There was a monument indicating that the entire village had been awarded a medal for its actions in August 1944. “Ever hear of Willy Ronis?”

“Are you kidding? Yes. He’s one of my photography heroes. He and Cartier-Bresson. I’ve been obsessed with them for years. What made you think of him?”

“Want to go to his house?”

“What?”

The deux chevaux’s gutless engine whined in protest as he drove up a series of steep, ancient streets. They got out and walked up to the top of Gordes, passing ancient stone cottages decked with vines and flowers. He stopped at a neat, unassuming cottage with two weathered wooden doors. One was marked PRIVÉ and the other SALON RONIS.

“No way,” Camille said softly. “Willy Ronis lived here?”

“He did.” Finn slipped a donation into the honor box beside the door and held it open. Light streamed through the open window, settling on Ronis’s most famous and remarkable picture. It was a shot of his wife in the nude, turned away from the camera’s eye as she bathed in front of a rustic sink. The interplay of light and shadow gave it a painterly quality. Camille was inspired by the perfect timing and unabashed tenderness of the shot.

“It’s quite a picture,” she said. There were several others on display, shots of everyday life in the Luberon—a fieldworker resting against his panniers, a little boy running past a window, holding a toy airplane aloft, a cat climbing a curtain. “I like his joie de vivre.”