“I’m glad the two of you got together,” Camille said.

“I’m glad, too. People can change, after all. It makes me wonder . . .” His voice trailed off. “She wants to meet you and Julie.”

“Of course. Just say when. Do you think she’d be willing to talk to us about her memories?”

“Something tells me she would like nothing better.”

In Bellerive, the impossible happened to Julie. The kids thought she was cool and wanted to hang out with her. They wanted to hear about life in America. They even had a funny nickname for her—La ’Ricaine, short for l’Américaine. Each day after chores, the adventures started, usually with Martine taking the lead. So far, they’d ridden bikes along the Var, jumped into a waterfall in a deep river pool, climbed Cézanne’s mountain—the one he’d painted on canvas fifty times—and played soccer late into the evening. Her favorite outing was a trip to the beach with André and his two brothers. Ever since she’d jumped off the cliff with them, they had declared her their favorite. André even sang an old-fashioned song about her, “Des filles il en pleut,” which meant “It’s Raining Girls.”

“So it’s good news,” said Martine as they were in the garden, taking down the fresh laundry that had been hung out to dry. “There’s a street dance in Cassis tonight, and our favorite boy band will be there. We should go. There is a market at the port with fun kiosks, street performers, and all the usual nice snacks.”

“Absolutely,” Julie agreed, feeling a little jump of excitement in her chest. The seaport village sounded like the perfect place to go on a warm summer night.

Julie knew her mom would say yes. Mom was really easy to deal with these days, because she was so busy with her history project. Also with Finn. Mom had gone out with guys before, but this was different. Instead of getting all cranky and nervous before a date, she just seemed excited. It was nice, seeing her mom like that, smiling about nothing and humming under her breath . . . and not worrying about every move Julie made.

“What are you going to wear?” she asked Martine, holding up one of her shirts, a plaid one she used to like but was sick of now.

Martine shrugged. “Something I can dance in. Do you need to borrow an outfit?”

“That’s nice of you, but we’re not the same size.”

“Sure we are.” Martine snatched a short denim skirt from the clothesline and tossed it to Julie. “Try this.”

To Julie’s surprise, the skirt fit when she pulled it up over her shorts. Snug, but not too snug. The expected muffin top didn’t emerge. Apparently, all the swimming and chores and bike riding were doing some good.

“Cute,” said Vivi, walking past with her arms loaded with more boxes from the history project.

By now, Finn’s coworkers were practically family, showing up at Sauveterre every day, obsessed with finding out about Papi’s real father. Julie was glad it wasn’t Didier Palomar. Pretty much everybody was glad to not be related to a Nazi lover.