He looked up from the picture into Camille’s face. Studying the self-portrait of her grandmother, she seemed haunted, too.

She tapped the screen to enlarge the other images. “I’d like to understand what I’m seeing in these shots. I thought, with your knowledge of France during the war, you could help me figure out the context.”

“I’m glad you got in touch.” This, in fact, was his passion—uncovering the mysteries of the past. He studied the set again. “See this stone hut? It’s called a capitelle or a borie, common in the area, usually in far-lying fields. They’re used for shelter, like a shepherd’s hut, or to store tools. This next one—the hut’s been destroyed.” He studied the poignant image—scattered rocks and debris around a ruined foundation with a pit in the middle. “That might have been caused by a bomb strike.”

“I wonder why she took that picture. It’s a nice composition, with the scrubby trees and some kind of stream in the background.”

“Yes. And . . .” A detail of another picture caught his attention. “Hello.”

“What?”

He zoomed in on a pile of rubble. “See this bridge?”

“It’s been ruined, too. In the war?”

“Probably. I’m going to have to check my facts, but I’m pretty sure there was an Allied operation here in 1944.”

“It was in Lisette’s village? In Bellerive?”

“Like I said, I’d have to check.” He summoned a map image on his phone. “The town was close to the DZ—the drop zone—of an Allied invasion called Operation Dragoon, when the area was liberated from the Germans. It was a major airborne operation, but most people have never heard of it, because it was overshadowed by D-Day, which took place a couple of months before. These pictures are quite a find.”

A gentle smile played across her lips. “Some days I love my job.”

The waiter came by with the dessert menu, but Camille declined, settling for another glass of sweet tea instead. She showed him a prayer card and a cloth badge. “These were in the trunk along with the camera. Any clue?”

“This is the Sallman Head of Christ,” he said, recognizing the image on the card. “The USO printed millions of them to distribute to soldiers during the war.”

“I wonder how it ended up with my French grandmother’s things.”

“This badge might explain it,” he told her. “The torch with wings—it could have been sewn on a pathfinder’s jump jacket—the jacket of an American paratrooper.”

“You mean a guy who jumped out of an airplane? That would be incredible. An American?”

“Yep.” Something occurred to him. He touched the screen and scrolled to the self-portrait of the young woman. “Look at this pin on the shoulder of her dress.”

“I thought it was a brooch or something.”

“Look closer.” He zoomed in on the object.

“It’s the pathfinder badge.” She leaned back in her chair, her gaze moving from the badge to the picture of her grandmother.

“I think I’m in the middle of a family mystery.”