“Hey,” said Billy. “She was cute.”

“All twenty-year-olds are cute.”

He sent her a fake-resentful look. “Since when are twenty-year-olds too young for me?”

“We’re thirty-six,” she reminded him.

“In that case, you should take me up on my offer to marry you. I’d make an honest woman of you.”

“Where to next?” she asked, ignoring the suggestion. “Ooh-La-La?”

“Lead on,” he said. “I haven’t seen your mom in a while. Plus, Rhonda always serves those little crab croquettes. They taste like an angel farted in your mouth.”

“No wonder I’d never marry you. You’re too obnoxious.”

“Let’s get over there before the angel farts are gone.”

The shop looked bright and twinkly and inviting, as always. Located in a vine-clad brick building that used to be a milliner’s shop a century before, it had twin display windows facing the street. As always, the display was gorgeous, a blend of beach style and continental chic. Despite the kitschy shop name, Camille’s mother had exquisite taste, and her half sister, Britt, had a keen eye for design.

Cherisse filled the place with supremely interesting things—unique home goods, sommelier tools, glass rolling pins, printed toile curtains, Clairefontaine writing paper and pens that felt just right in the hand. Camille had practically grown up in the boutique, listening to Edith Piaf and Serge Gainsbourg while helping her mom display a set of crystal knife rests or a collector’s edition of Mille Bornes or the Dutch bike game of Stap op.

In the 1990s, the first lady was photographed in the shop, buying a fabulous set of Laguiole cutlery, and business kicked into high gear. Socialites from D.C. and even a couple of celebrities became regular customers. There were write-ups in national magazines, travel articles, and shopping blogs touting the treasures of Ooh-La-La, designating it as a must-visit destination.

Camille owed her very existence to the shop. Although she never realized it growing up, her parents had married for reasons of cold-blooded commerce. Her father, Henry, was looking for a marriage path to citizenship. Cherisse, who was fifteen years younger, needed a backer for the shop she’d always dreamed of opening. They both wanted a child, desperately. Desperately enough to believe their shared desire for a home and family was a kind of love. What they eventually had to admit—first to themselves privately, then to each other, and finally to Camille—was that no matter how much they loved their daughter, the marriage wasn’t working for them.

When Camille was eight years old, they sat her down and told her just that.

Their divorce was, as the mediator termed it, freakishly civilized. After a couple of years, Camille adjusted to dividing her time between two households. A few years after the divorce, Cherisse met Bart, and that was when Camille finally learned what true love looked like. It was the light in her mother’s eyes when Bart walked into a room. It was the firm touch of his hand in the small of her back. It was a million little things that simply were not there, had never been there, between her mom and dad.