The final prospect on Finn’s list was Corporal Henry “Hank” Watkins, ret. He had answered the phone himself, and when she’d explained the reason for her call, a long pause had ensued. Just when she thought the call had been dropped, he’d said, “How soon can you come?”

Two days later, they were here—a small town in Vermont. Julie navigated them through the pretty New England village and then out along a country road to a snug wooden house where Hank Watson, a widower, lived with his daughter and her husband.

When they drove up to the house, the ninety-year-old veteran came out on the porch and down the steps. He had a crooked leg and walked with a cane. When Papa got out of the car, the old man set down the cane and opened his arms. Under his breath, Papa said, “Mon dieu, it’s him,” and strode forward. Two strangers, and yet they connected instantly, the recognition palpable. The two embraced, and everyone within fifty feet of them burst into tears—Camille, Julie, Hank’s daughter Wendy, and his son-in-law Nils.

“It’s a miracle,” Hank said in a rough, wavering voice. “Thank you,” he said, looking at Papa with wonder in his eyes. “Thank you for finding me.”

After further hugs and introductions, Wendy herded everyone to a deck overlooking a pretty garden surrounded by orchards and maple groves. The table was set for afternoon tea, with cloth napkins and good china, cookies and iced maple bars made, she explained, from their own maple syrup. There was a selection of sandwiches, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon in a bucket of ice.

“I can’t stop looking at the two of you together,” Camille said, unable to stop the tears of joy. “This is . . . oh my gosh.” She embraced the two of them together.

“We can probably skip the DNA test,” Wendy observed.

The family resemblance was obvious to them all. Both Hank and Henry were tall and slender, with dark brown eyes and strong jaws and faces and hands so similar they looked more like brothers than father and son.

“This is so, so cool,” Julie said softly.

“I have something just for you,” Hank said. He took something from his pocket and handed it to her.

She held it in her palm. “Is this a Purple Heart?”

He nodded. “Awarded to me after the war. I want you to have it.”

“You’re kidding.” Julie gaped at him.

“Your grandfather told me you did a very brave thing,” Hank said. “You rescued a friend from drowning. Perhaps saving lives runs in the family.”

“But—”

“I don’t need it, young lady, but you have many adventures ahead of you. Keep it for me.”

She clasped her hand around it, stepped forward, and gave him a hug. “I don’t know what to say. I’ll take good care of it.”

“That’s all I ask. Now we’ll always know where it is.”

“Can I get a picture?” Camille asked, blinking away tears of happiness and pride. Julie and Wendy had captured everything on their phones, but Camille wanted a special photo. Very carefully, she took out Lisette’s Exakta. Bonjour, grand-mère, she thought, feeling a peculiar kinship with a woman she’d never met, a woman whose hands had cradled this very camera just as Camille was doing now. A woman who had photographed the man standing before her, seventy-three years ago. When she lifted it to her eye and took a picture, capturing his expression, Hank gasped.