STEWARDESS: Cool you have an assistant.

IMAKEPESTO: Had an amazing salade niçoise for lunch—Bandol tuna, fresh off the boat—and for dessert, honey ice cream served in this insane cone made from a sugared croissant.

STEWARDESS: Sounds lethal.

IMAKEPESTO: You’re missing out. You need to see this place.

STEWARDESS: You sound like my father.

IMAKEPESTO: That’s a bad sign. I don’t want to sound like your father.

Oops, thought Camille. That came out wrong.

STEWARDESS: I mean he keeps saying he wants to go back for a visit.

IMAKEPESTO: He should. What’s stopping him?

Me, she thought, but she didn’t want to share that with him.

STEWARDESS: He just finished cancer treatment. The doc cleared him to travel, but I worry . . .

IMAKEPESTO: Then come with him. Bring your daughter.

STEWARDESS: Now you REALLY sound like him. He’s been saying we should go with him.

IMAKEPESTO: You should. I bet he’d love to show you this part of the world. I know I would.

Quick, change the subject, Camille.

STEWARDESS: Hey, did you send those pictures you took?

IMAKEPESTO: Yep, just now.

She heard the rocket blast of an incoming e-mail. Swoosh.

STEWARDESS: Excited! I’m going to have a look right away . . . I shouldn’t be keeping you up.

IMAKEPESTO: I like staying up late with you. It’d be even better if we were having this conversation in person.

STEWARDESS: I’m looking at the pictures now . . .

He was right. The town was utterly charming—old stone buildings, narrow streets, a grand Gothic church. The weather looked gorgeous—crystal-clear blue sky, everything drenched in sunshine. Grapevines and hollyhocks everywhere.

There was a young woman in a few of the pictures. She had silky-straight hair, oversized sunglasses, and was effortlessly dressed in a flowy top and capri pants. She looked like a high-end fashion model. The assistant?

Camille was not surprised that he had an assistant who looked like a model. “Move on, Camille,” she muttered. “Look at the pictures.”

IMAKEPESTO: When you get here, remind me to take you to this museum in the Vaucluse. It has an extensive collection from the war years.

“When I get there?” Camille asked the empty room. “You mean, never? And why would you assume I’m coming to France?”

She drew her attention back to the pictures he’d sent. The most arresting image was a hand-colored, vintage portrait of a man with pale blond hair and steely blue eyes.

IMAKEPESTO: Recognize this guy?

STEWARDESS: No. Should I?

IMAKEPESTO: Found it in the town records. Didier Palomar, mayor from 1937 to 1945. The label says “Maire de Bellerive.”

STEWARDESS: Wait. What?

IMAKEPESTO: Pretty sure it’s Lisette’s husband. Which would make him your grandfather, right?

STEWARDESS: I’ve never seen a picture of him.

IMAKEPESTO: Say hi to grand-père.

She felt a chill as she gazed at the picture. Every hair was in place. His eyes, thin lips, bony face, chin held at a haughty angle.

STEWARDESS: Ick. According to my father, he was a collaborator. The most hated man in the village. Did you find out if he was really shot in ’45?