Finn melted a little in that moment. The thing he found most sexy about any woman was passion—not just in the usual sense. That went without saying. But passion that lit her from within, when something fired her up. For Camille Adams, it was her excitement over old cameras and film. It transformed her, made her eyes sparkle and her whole being light up. She was already attractive. But when talking about her craft, she was . . . something more.

“. . . eight pictures,” she concluded.

He realized he’d been staring, and forced himself to listen.

“My father says they’re pictures of Bellerive, the town where he was born, and a farm called Sauveterre, where he grew up. He says the beach is in an area called the Calanques, but he doesn’t recognize this couple.” The coastline was starkly beautiful, flanked by towering cliffs, with soft-looking pale sand in the middle. There was a wicker basket and what appeared to be a makeshift stretcher that had been dragged to the surf. A man and woman were in the water facing each other, holding hands and smiling. “My guess is, one of them couldn’t walk and was brought into the water on the stretcher,” she said. “What I find striking is the quality of these pictures. This is a really good camera, but the shots are very professional. We thought they might have been taken by someone named Cyprian Toselli.” She indicated the initials pressed into the camera case. “There were some books with his name in them. But when I saw the final picture, it made me think someone else took these shots.”

She opened another image on her tablet. It was a beautifully composed shot of a very young, pregnant woman in an old-fashioned mirror. An oval window echoed the shape of the cheval glass, the curve of her belly, and the curve of her cheekbone. The play of light and shadow added drama and mystery to the scene. “This is the final one on the roll—and the most fascinating one to me. It’s a self-portrait of my father’s mother. I was so surprised and moved to see it. I think it means the pictures were taken by the grandmother I never knew. It makes me feel . . . a deeper connection, I suppose.”

“She’s . . . Wow. She looks like you. A blond version of you.”

“Well, that’s flattering, since she’s twenty years old in this picture. And very beautiful.”

“Like I said. She looks like you. Or you look like her.”

“Her name was Lisette Galli Palomar,” Camille said. “I think she looks sad in the picture. Haunted.”

She had the same delicate cheekbones, full lips, and fine skin as Camille. The eyes . . . yes, he thought. He could see a sadness there. “Do you know why?”

“The war had recently ended. She was a widow by then. And she died in childbirth shortly after taking this picture. Other than that, I know nothing about her. And neither does my father. But I know from experience that being widowed . . . yes, it haunts you.”