“He almost died, more than once,” Wendy told them.

“I later learned that the region was liberated in a matter of days,” Hank continued. “I’ve always believed Lisette’s photographs—the ones she took from the church tower at the top of the village—helped coordinate the invasion. Henri, your mother was truly remarkable. I’ve never forgotten her.”

He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “I returned to the family business after two years at the veterans’ hospital, but I never stopped thinking about Lisette. Finally, in 1950, I had saved up enough money to return to Bellerive. I was still a young man at the time, still unmarried, determined to find her again. I spent my life savings to get to France, and I actually paid a visit to the farm called Sauveterre.”

“What? You went to Sauveterre?” Papa stared at him. “In 1950? I would have been four or five years old that year.”

Hank nodded. “I had no idea. None, until Camille’s call. When I found my way to Sauveterre, I was greeted—very brusquely—by a woman in charge. Madame Taro.”

“Aunt Rotrude, Palomar’s sister. She was my guardian when I was growing up,” said Papa. “You needn’t be polite. She was never a pleasant woman.”

“She told me that Lisette had died in April of 1945. I verified this through public records at the town hall in Bellerive. There, she was listed as ‘morte en couches.’” He paused again. “My French is very limited. I knew this meant she died in childbirth, but I also assumed it meant the child died with her. I grieved for her, but in time, the pain faded. I came home and met Wendy’s mother, and started a new chapter with her. Lisette was my first true love. But for most of us, life is long, and loving again didn’t take away from the memories.”

Camille had a swift, unbidden thought of Finn. She wished he could be here for this moment.

With stark yearning, Hank studied Papa’s face. “Henri, it breaks my heart to realize I missed out on your life.”

Papa didn’t speak for a long time. “You walked with a cane,” he said.

“I have, ever since the war,” Hank replied.

“A cane with wings carved into the handle.”

Hank and his daughter exchanged a look. “I still have that cane,” said Hank, “but I don’t use it anymore. I carved it myself—the wings were from the pathfinder insignia. How could you know, Henri?”

“I remember you.” Papa’s voice wavered. “I told Camille it’s one of my earliest memories. A man came to the kitchen door one day, a tall stranger with wavy dark hair. The man had a crooked leg and a cane with wings carved into the handle, and he sounded funny when he spoke in a foreign language. Then Aunt Rotrude said something in the funny language, too—just a few words. I was very curious, but she shooed me away.”

Hank took Papa’s hands in his. The two of them locked eyes for a drawn-out moment. “Yes. Yes. I saw a small boy peeking from the hallway when I was inquiring after Lisette. Dear God, why didn’t she tell me?”