“Ah. Do I seem nervous?”

“Like a kid on his first—”

The garden gate opened with a rusty creak, and in walked a remarkable-looking man. The word that came to mind when Camille saw Michel Cabret for the first time was impeccable. A tailor by profession, he wore a lovely bespoke suit with a white shirt and silk tie, shoes gleaming with fresh polish, and a perfectly tilted hat.

They greeted each other in the French fashion—embrace, kiss, kiss—and then Cabret held out his arms to Camille. “You are even more beautiful than your father described. The only time he shuts up about you is when he’s talking about Julie.”

He even smelled impeccable, of subtle cologne and sunshine. She liked him instantly.

“Come to lunch, mon vieux,” Papa said, glowing as he gestured at the nicely set table. “You’ll see that I’ve developed some culinary skills over the years.”

“So it appears.” Cabret took off his hat and gallantly held Camille’s chair. “Now. Henri tells me you have been exploring old Bellerive.”

“We have. I developed Lisette’s film rolls at the laboratory in Aix. Lisette was my grandmother. Would you like to see?”

“Certainly.”

She set up her tablet so they could see the digitized prints. “We found several rolls of undeveloped film from the war years.” She scrolled through the images, showing him the town and landscape through Lisette’s eyes. “According to Papa’s cousin, Lisette’s parents were killed the day of the Allied invasion in August of 1944. Petra says they were here, at this café.” She showed him two shots—before the bombing, and after. “It was hit by Allied bombs that were meant for the bridge over the river.”

Michel studied the pictures. “I already knew this, because they were sitting with my own grandmother, drinking ersatz coffee, when the bomb hit. My grandfather was spared only because he had left the table to fetch something, but he was never the same afterward.”

She stopped. “My God. That is incredibly sad. Even though it happened before either of you was born, it seems like such a terrible loss.”

“One can only imagine,” said her father.

“And this,” said Camille, “is the most interesting and mysterious picture I found.” It was the soldier photo. “We think he might have been an American paratrooper.”

Michel studied the picture for a long time, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ve brought some old photos of my own,” he said. “They are printed on paper, though, rather than digital ether.” With a wink, he reached into his breast pocket and brought out two deckle-edged black-and-white pictures. “Here is a picture of Henri and me in 1959, our first year at the lycée.”

Both boys wore school uniforms. Her father looked abashed in the ill-fitting dark blazer over a wrinkled white shirt. Michel, on the other hand, faced the camera with a proud grin. His blazer fit perfectly and his shirt was pressed to perfection.

“We were a mismatched pair, eh?” Papa said.