It was the first glimmer of enthusiasm Camille had seen from Julie in ages. And it wasn’t a mere glimmer, but an actual spark. Julie seemed to love the old things, even mundane objects like a pair of sewing scissors and a cap with a feather in it, a fountain pen and inkwell crusted with old turquoise ink.

Camille spotted something tucked into the pages of one of the Sherlock Holmes books—not a bookmark but a prayer card, about the size of a playing card, depicting the head of Christ. It was a familiar image, a portrait with an incandescent glow around the face and flowing hair. She knew she’d seen it somewhere before. She turned it over, and was surprised to see a printed prayer in English, not French, and Chicago Offset Printing Company in tiny letters at the bottom. Next to that: Distributed by the USO.

On the edge of the card was a handwritten phrase, but the ink was so faded she couldn’t decipher it. She put the card aside to research later.

Then something else in the trunk caught her eye. Bending down, she moved aside a folded linen doily and a pair of dusty women’s shoes. Under these lay a dark-colored oblong case or box of some sort, about the size of a shoe box, its lid held in place with tarnished buckle latches. The box was not ostentatious but homely, the textured faux-leather board filled with creases of dust. On the top of the box was a symbol that tweaked her memory. A stylized letter E with a curlicue flourish next to a lightning bolt. Where had she seen that before?

A slight ripple of awareness skimmed over her. It was like the feeling she sometimes experienced when she was working on an old picture and realized she was on the verge of a major find.

“Papa,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she handled the case. It felt substantial in her hands. “Do you recognize this?”

He gave a Gallic shrug. “Open it.”

She set the box across her knees and passed her hand over the lid. It rattled softly. Its weight was substantial. Attached was a small brass plate with the letters CT pressed into it.

“Someone’s initials?” she asked.

“Not that I know of,” he said. And then, “Ah. That name is in the front of these books.” He indicated the Sherlock Holmes set. “Cyprian Toselli. I have no idea who that might be.”

“Mom, what’s in the box?” Julie bounced up and down, acting like her younger self. It was refreshing to see her showing something besides attitude.

“Let’s find out.” She released the latches, lifted the lid, and moved a moleskin cloth aside.

“It’s a camera,” Julie said. “Cool. Looks really old.”

Camille was amazed. “It’s an Exakta. I’ve never seen one this old before.” She picked it up, turned it over in her hands. Then she looked at her father.

He held out his hands, palms up. “Monsieur C.T.?” Then he rubbed his jaw, looking at the camera. “Or perhaps my mother was fond of taking pictures.” He offered a wistful smile. “Maybe that is where you get your talent in photography.” He leaned back, watching as Camille inspected the remarkable find. “My mother has always been a great mystery to me. I wish I had known her.”