Perhaps in matters of the heart, she took after her father. Perhaps she was only meant to have one shot at marriage.

She spun the greens in the colander, at the same time trying to shake off a wave of melancholy and the residue of a rotten week—Julie’s accident, and ruining Professor Finnemore’s film. Then she found the wine and sparkling water, and brought a tray outside.

“The garden looks wonderful this year,” she said, surveying the oblong patch on the south side of the house.

“I put in two more rows of tomatoes this week,” he said, pointing out the staked plants on the end. “Brandywine and Belgian Giant. One can never have enough homegrown tomatoes, eh?”

“Exactly. Yours are the best, Papa.”

“Come, let’s sit,” he said, gesturing at a small café table on the brickwork patio. The socca was done, crunchy around the edges and fragrant with the onions and herbs. He poured a chilled rosé wine from Provence, the traditional pairing with socca, and sparkling water for Julie.

“Santé,” they said together, lifting their glasses.

“Any day aboveground is a good day,” her father declared.

“I’ve never been fond of that one,” Camille said. “So grim.”

“After my year in hell,” he told them, “it has never been truer. Now that the treatment is done, I am determined to live my life.”

His diagnosis had been a devastating blow. The ensuing chemo and radiation had been grueling, but the goal had been attained—the cancer was in remission. A year ago, when he was in the throes of his illness and treatment, Camille had wanted to move in with Julie to help him through the ordeal, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He valued his privacy and independence too much.

He insisted that they keep their regular Friday schedule. Often, during that terrible time, Camille and Julie prepared a croque monsieur or an omelet with pesto and spinach while Henry lay shivering under a woolen blanket. For Julie’s sake, Camille tried not to show how sick with worry or how terrified she was of losing her father. They got through it with stubborn determination, and the help of a caregiver named Lamont Jeffries. Lamont had stayed with Henry while he was ill. He’d proven to be invaluable, keeping the household and garden running, looking after Henry, and taking care of all the painful indignities of cancer treatment. He still came around every week to visit and to do a bit of housekeeping and gardening.

Henry went to shut down the grill, moving with cautious deliberation, a leftover from his disease and treatment. Before the illness, he’d been gloriously youthful—as slender and fit as a man ten years younger, his abundant hair peppered with a distinguished sprinkling of white. After the chemo, his hair had grown back a dramatic snow white. He was still as handsome as ever, though he was no longer the spry, robust man she remembered. There was something fragile about him.

“How are you feeling?” Camille asked.