“So are those pictures your work?” He indicated the two unusual, angular shots of the Bethany Point Light.
“One of them is. I found some old, undeveloped film in a camera, which is pretty much my favorite thing, coaxing images back to life. That shot was taken during a storm in 1924, and I found it so striking that I replicated it myself.” Then she blurted out, “I don’t take pictures anymore. I work in the darkroom on other people’s pictures.”
Her gaze flicked to the vintage Leica in its glass case by the fireplace mantel. It had sat there for five years. No one but Camille remembered the last time she’d used that camera—to take a picture of her husband, moments before he died. She had put the camera away and never touched it again. There was still film in the Leica, a partially exposed roll she had shot that day. Even now, she couldn’t bring herself to develop it.
Several beats of silence passed. She didn’t know why she’d admitted that to this guy. Maybe because she missed it. She used to take pictures, wandering for hours on her travels, a favorite camera thumping against her sternum. She used to disappear into the act of capturing an image, exposing its secrets, freezing a moment. That was all in the past. These days she didn’t go anywhere. She’d photographed Bethany Bay so many times she was numb to its charms and beauty.
“From what I can tell, you’re really talented,” he said. “Why’d you stop taking pictures?”
“Busy with other things, I suppose.” She couldn’t decide how much to elaborate, because she didn’t really know what this was—a social call? An apology? “Mostly contract work in digitizing services.”
“So you work with Billy Church—he’s the guy who referred me to you?”
She wondered about the way he asked the question. Was he curious about whether or not she was available? No. Guys like him didn’t wonder about the status of women like her.
“We’re associates,” she said. “We grew up together here in Bethany Bay. There’s not a lot of money in doing this, so we both have day jobs. Billy is with the National Archives, and I’m the co-owner of a shop in town.”
“You have a shop?”
She nodded. “My mom started a boutique years ago, and we’re partners now.” She noticed that he hadn’t moved his arm from the back of the sofa. “I really wish I could have helped you today,” she added.
“It was a long shot.”
“I specialize in long shots.” She eyed him, wishing fervently that she really did look more like her website photo instead of a worried mom whose day had unraveled. “Did you have an idea of what might be on the film?” She assumed it was something related to his work as a history professor.
He was quiet for a few moments. She started to feel awkward again. Should she not have asked?
He took a swallow of wine. “The initials on the film roll?”
“RAF,” she said, recalling the writing on the yellow-and-black barrel. “Royal Air Force?”
“Richard Arthur Finnemore. My father.”
“Oh. Old family photos?” She winced. In her experience, the most poignant projects were the personal ones. People brought her their mysterious canisters of found film, desperate for one last glimpse of a departed loved one, or an almost forgotten time of life. Restoring those memories gave her a sense of mission, even though, when she showed the results to the client, it often led to tears.
Finn set down his wineglass. He pressed the tips of his fingers together. He had good hands, strong hands, not the sort of soft, manicured hands she pictured for a university professor. “We think it was the last roll he shot before he was listed as missing in action in Cambodia.”
She took a moment to digest this. “Missing . . . You mean he was fighting in the Vietnam War?”
“He wasn’t fighting, but he was there with a strategy and comm team when he was captured. An intelligence officer and communications specialist.”
“Didn’t the war end in 1973?”
“The Paris peace ended the conflict in Vietnam that year. The cease-fire did not apply to Cambodia and Laos, so the losses there didn’t stop. So my father . . . he never came back. And I never met him. My mom was pregnant with me when he left.”
She set down her glass and turned slightly to look at him, seeing a different man than the angry stranger who had come blustering into her life this afternoon. What a horrible irony for a soldier to reach the end of a war, only to go missing while the others went home.
Now she realized it was probably no coincidence that Finn’s specialty was finding lost soldiers. Yet he’d never found his own father. “It must have been a nightmare for your family. That’s so sad. Finn, I’m sorry. Even more so now that you’ve told me the provenance of the roll.” She tried to imagine what might have been on that film—the last images Richard Finnemore had shot. “Do you have any other undeveloped film? I mean, I’ve given you no reason to trust me, but if there’s something else, anything, I’d be happy to help.”
He shook his head. “That’s it. My oldest sister found it in a box of his things that’s been in storage for about forty years.”
“Please tell your sister—and all your family—how sorry I am.”
A text message appeared on his phone screen, and he glanced at it. “Speaking of family. That’s my mom telling me to get a haircut tomorrow.”
She wanted to tell him to keep the ponytail. It was wildly sexy. Instead, she asked, “What’s the occasion?”
“My father’s going to be awarded the Medal of Honor.”
“The Medal of Honor. Isn’t that—doesn’t it have to be awarded by the president?”
He nodded. “It’s a White House ceremony.”
“That’s amazing. Finn, what an honor for your family. And I hate myself all over again for letting you down. I wish I could say I’ll make it up to you, but those pictures are lost.”
He offered a fatalistic shrug. “When the ER calls about an emergency with your kid, you get to drop everything.” Then he placed his hands on his knees. “I should probably get going. Big day for my family coming up.”
She walked with him to his car, making sure he had his sunglasses. “Thanks again for the wine,” she said.
“I’ll call you,” he said, turning toward her when they reached the car.
“What?”
“You know. On the phone.”
“Why?”
“So we can make a plan.”
“A plan?” Camille was talking like a monosyllabic idiot.
“We could go to dinner or something. I’m around for a few more days . . .”
“You mean, like a date?”
“Not like a date. Just a date.”
Her heart flopped over in her chest. “Probably not a good idea.”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“No, but—”
“Skittish, then?”
She smiled. “Right.”
“That’s okay. I’m a lot nicer than I was earlier today. I’ll call you.” He touched her arm. Not in a sexual way. Yet just that brief, casual touch ignited something in her that felt very sexual, taking her completely by surprise.
“Finn, don’t call me, okay? Don’t ask me on a date. I’m . . . I wouldn’t be good company.”
“How about you let me be the judge of that?”
“Don’t call,” she said again. “Sorry again about the film. Drive carefully.”
Five
Ever since Camille’s parents had divorced, she’d spent each Friday night having dinner with her father, unless he was away on business. What had started as a way to keep their relationship growing had turned into a cherished tradition—family time, even when they were just a family of two. Each Friday after school, she would go to her father’s house and they would make dinner.
She and her father spoke French together. Henry and Cherisse had agreed from the start that Camille should learn both languages, and she had grown up seamlessly bilingual. The rest of their weekends together were spent tending his extensive garden, going to the shore when the weather was fine, or touring the sights of Washington, D.C. Together, she and Henry had visited each one of the Smithsonians, the National Zoo, all the monuments and parks and fountains. He took her to Paris for two weeks every summer, and they stayed at a homey little pension on rue Bachaumont. During the week, Papa would meet with wine vendors, and Camille would explore the fascinating city with her host family.