“Of course,” her father said.

They continued sorting through the contents of the trunk and came across a sketchbook of pen-and-ink drawings. The sketches were simple, but showed maturity and control, probably not the work of a child. They depicted a variety of country scenes—an old stone farmhouse, fields and pastures, stone walls and rocky meadows.

“Your artwork?” Camille asked.

“No. I don’t remember these drawings. Look how old the paper is. It’s practically falling apart. And here—more photographs.” He took a collection from a pocket in the back of the sketchbook. They appeared to be pictures from which the drawings were rendered.

“I think these were taken by the same photographer as the ones in the Lisette folder,” Camille said. “They’re in the same style.”

“Do you think these are pictures of a real place?” Julie asked.

“Certainly. This is Sauveterre—our farm near Bellerive. Sauveterre means ‘Safe Haven’ in English. It’s a type of farm called a mas, very common in that part of the world. It was my home until I came to America.”

“It’s beautiful,” Camille said, laying the photos in a row on the coffee table.

“A typical mas is a whole community unto itself, almost entirely self-sustaining. Everything the family needed was produced right there—crops, dairy, meat, grapes, olives . . . There was a winepress we used for making wine from our own grapes.”

“That’s so cool,” Julie said. “Do you think it’s still there?”

“I know that it is, though apparently the main house is in dire need of repairs. The Oliviers have occupied it on lease ever since I left.”

Camille frowned. “On lease? From your cousin?”

He shook his head. “From me.”

She heard the words, but they didn’t seem real to her. “Wait a second. You’re saying you own a farm in France.”

“I have the official deeds filed away in a safe-deposit box.”

She stared at the pictures. “You still own this place. Why didn’t you ever tell me about it?”

“I rarely think of it. Sauveterre belongs to me in name only, because truly, the Oliviers have a ninety-nine-year lease on the place. The rent provides only a modest income, just enough to cover the taxes and upkeep. Although with the roof caving in, I suspect it’ll run into some expense.”

“But you own it.” Camille was amazed.

“The property has been in the Palomar family for generations, and upon the death of my father, it was placed in trust for me until I reached the age of eighteen.” He passed his hand over a detailed panorama of the mas in the sketchbook. “Sauveterre will be yours one day.”

“Whoa,” Julie said. “That’s awesome—a farm in France. Papi, why didn’t you want to live there? Why did you come to America? And why don’t you ever go back for a visit?”

“All these questions. It is as if I suddenly matter,” he added in a teasing voice.

Julie grabbed his hand. “You’ve always mattered. And I think you’re awesome. This whole trunk thing is awesome. It’s like figuring out a puzzle about you, Papi.”