Several beats of silence passed. She didn’t know why she’d admitted that to this guy. Maybe because she missed it. She used to take pictures, wandering for hours on her travels, a favorite camera thumping against her sternum. She used to disappear into the act of capturing an image, exposing its secrets, freezing a moment. That was all in the past. These days she didn’t go anywhere. She’d photographed Bethany Bay so many times she was numb to its charms and beauty.

“From what I can tell, you’re really talented,” he said. “Why’d you stop taking pictures?”

“Busy with other things, I suppose.” She couldn’t decide how much to elaborate, because she didn’t really know what this was—a social call? An apology? “Mostly contract work in digitizing services.”

“So you work with Billy Church—he’s the guy who referred me to you?”

She wondered about the way he asked the question. Was he curious about whether or not she was available? No. Guys like him didn’t wonder about the status of women like her.

“We’re associates,” she said. “We grew up together here in Bethany Bay. There’s not a lot of money in doing this, so we both have day jobs. Billy is with the National Archives, and I’m the co-owner of a shop in town.”

“You have a shop?”

She nodded. “My mom started a boutique years ago, and we’re partners now.” She noticed that he hadn’t moved his arm from the back of the sofa. “I really wish I could have helped you today,” she added.

“It was a long shot.”

“I specialize in long shots.” She eyed him, wishing fervently that she really did look more like her website photo instead of a worried mom whose day had unraveled. “Did you have an idea of what might be on the film?” She assumed it was something related to his work as a history professor.

He was quiet for a few moments. She started to feel awkward again. Should she not have asked?

He took a swallow of wine. “The initials on the film roll?”

“RAF,” she said, recalling the writing on the yellow-and-black barrel. “Royal Air Force?”

“Richard Arthur Finnemore. My father.”

“Oh. Old family photos?” She winced. In her experience, the most poignant projects were the personal ones. People brought her their mysterious canisters of found film, desperate for one last glimpse of a departed loved one, or an almost forgotten time of life. Restoring those memories gave her a sense of mission, even though, when she showed the results to the client, it often led to tears.

Finn set down his wineglass. He pressed the tips of his fingers together. He had good hands, strong hands, not the sort of soft, manicured hands she pictured for a university professor. “We think it was the last roll he shot before he was listed as missing in action in Cambodia.”

She took a moment to digest this. “Missing . . . You mean he was fighting in the Vietnam War?”