Lame, Camille, she thought. He’s going to think you’re so lame. He probably thinks so already.
Imakepesto: You sound like my granny . . .
Stewardess: Ouch.
Imakepesto: . . . but you look like a stewardess.
Stewardess: Double ouch. What decade are you from? The 1960s?
Imakepesto: You’re trying to change the topic. What’s so bad about coming to see me?
Stewardess: I’m not coming to see you.
Imakepesto: Ouch.
Stewardess: I’m coming to help my father deal with his property. And maybe some things from his past.
Imakepesto: So how did they shanghai you? In case I need to do it myself one day.
Stewardess: They renewed my passport without my permission OR my signature. Total forgery. Federal offense.
Imakepesto: How’d they get a passport photo?
Stewardess: Too easy. I have the whole setup at my house. My friend Billy and I had an instant passport-photo service when we were first starting our business. Julie found one in the right format on my computer.
Imakepesto: Julie sounds clever. Like her mother.
Stewardess: Then my father got the tickets. First class on Air France. I’m sure it cost him the moon.
Imakepesto: Oh, the torture. Tell your dad to PLEASE shanghai me.
Stewardess: Anyway . . . It’s my long-winded way of telling you we’re spending the summer in Bellerive.
Imakepesto: You have no idea how happy that makes me.
Stewardess: Really? Why?
Imakepesto: Because I kissed you, and it was cool, and I can’t stop thinking about you.
Stewardess: I never know when you’re being serious or kidding around.
Imakepesto: Then you’ll have to get to know me better and find out.
Stewardess: Or you could just tell me.
Imakepesto: Where’s the fun in that? Okay, let’s tell each other one fact about ourselves. I’ll start. I know how to ride a bicycle backward. Really well.
Stewardess: I’m impressed. My turn: I haven’t been on an airplane in five years.
Imakepesto: Whoa, why not? Fear of flying?
Fear of everything, she thought, already regretting the turn the conversation had taken.
Stewardess: Yep.
Imakepesto: There are pills for that.
Stewardess: I already have a prescription. Julie’s really excited. Now I feel guilty that I’ve never taken her on a big trip like this.
Imakepesto: She’s gonna love it here. How’s her French?
Stewardess: Fluent. Or nearly. She had a rough year at school, so it’ll be good for her to get away for a while.
Imakepesto: Rough in what way?
Stewardess: Run-ins with other kids. I’m not clear on whether she’s the bully or the bullied.
She hesitated. She was telling this man a lot about herself. She wondered why it was so easy to open up to him. The distance, she thought. The shield of her computer screen.
Stewardess: So here’s something else—not about me. My father was bullied as a child in Bellerive. He was vilified because his father was a collaborator.
Imakepesto: Yikes. The war was very personal in small towns like Bellerive.
Stewardess: I keep thinking about the pictures I’ve seen so far. My father has dark hair and dark eyes. Olive-colored skin. Both his parents seemed to be fair. I even thought about DNA testing.
Imakepesto: Curiouser and curiouser. I’ve done plenty of DNA testing associated with my work.
Stewardess: Really? Why?
Imakepesto: Identifying remains. Grim stuff. But it’s helped with repatriation of lost soldiers. Hey, listen, I’ve got a class to teach. Talk online again later? Or better yet, in person?
Camille felt a little flip of excitement. Simmer down, she told herself. This was about Papa and Julie and putting things to rest. Not about flirting with Finn.
Stewardess: Okay, I’ll let you know when we’re en route. D.C. to Paris, then on to Marseille.
Imakepesto: Can’t wait to see you.
Armed with antianxiety drugs, relaxation sound tracks, and any other gimmick she could find to survive her own neuroses, Camille boarded the plane at Dulles Airport with her father and her daughter. Despite all the preparations and support, she couldn’t escape the memories of the last time she flew, returning home from vacation a widow, having to tell her young daughter she’d never see her father again. Julie had begged to go on the trip with them, but Jace had declared that it was to be a romantic holiday, a second honeymoon. Though they hadn’t told Julie, they were going to try getting pregnant again. Julie’s first words on hearing the news were, “It wouldn’t have happened if he’d let me come.” Camille wondered if her daughter remembered saying that.
Julie and Henry were the opposite of anxious. They were bright-eyed with excitement, settling in for the long flight to Paris. Papa had indulged in seats that reclined into flat beds and came equipped with mini–movie screens and far too many offers of drinks and snacks. Though she appreciated the creature comforts, Camille worried that he was too freewheeling with his spending because he knew time was short. She didn’t know how to talk to him about it, though.
Julie was fascinated by every detail of the flight. She seemed more like the Julie from before, a girl who faced the world with a sense of wonder. Despite her trepidation, Camille had to admit to herself that this adventure might be just what both her father and daughter needed. And maybe, she thought, feeling drowsy from the pill she had swallowed at takeoff, it might be what she needed—a change.
Can’t wait to see you.
She’d spent far too long trying to figure out what Finn had meant by that. Was it because he was excited about digging into the mystery of her father’s past? Excited to see her? Or was that just something he said?
She thought about Finn and she thought about their kiss, reliving the moment over and over again in her mind. It had been the kind of kiss that caused everything to stop—even time. Even fear.
But time marched on, worry kicked in, and after the kiss, they’d parted ways. Finn had moved on with his life, a life far removed from Bethany Bay. Now they were going to see each other again. And then what? More kissing? A fling? She didn’t consider herself good with flings. She usually ended up being the one who got flung.
The slow, soft music playing on her noise-canceling headphones, combined with the sleeping pill and the bone-deep buzz of the jet, lulled her into a strange twilight zone—not quite sleep, but not wakefulness either. She felt every bump and jostle of the flight, alternately cringing and tensing every muscle. She was vaguely aware of her father and Julie watching a French comedy film on the in-seat monitors. She ignored the muffled announcements, and most of the time she ignored all the negative fantasies playing through her head—the possibility of a plane crash, the thought of landing in a huge, foreign city and heading into the unknown. But throughout the flight, her mind kept circling back to the one thing she never stopped thinking about—the “and then what?” with Finn.
In the midst of a dreamy repeat of that kiss, she came groggily awake as lights went on and window shades went up all through the cabin. She shifted in her seat and rubbed her eyes. Julie was looking right at her. “That was pretty fun, wasn’t it, Mom?”
Camille straightened up, wondering guiltily if some remnant of the dream lingered in her face. “What?”
“The flight. Jeez.”
Camille tried to shake off the groggy feeling. She remembered then that Julie had never flown in a plane. They had gone traveling by car and by train, but they’d never flown anywhere. Flying was one of those things that made her sick with anxiety. And so, every summer, she dutifully planned a tame, predictable, relaxing trip to places like the Smoky Mountains, or Gettysburg, or Atlantic City, or Savannah.
Now that they had arrived in France, she felt a twinge of guilt for letting her own fears place limits on Julie. “What did you think?” she asked. “Did you like it?”
“Totally, are you kidding? Best night of my life.”
Papa smiled and patted Julie’s arm. “You didn’t sleep much.”
“I know. I was too excited.”
Camille breathed a sigh of relief when the plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
“We’re in Paris,” Julie whispered, her eyes shining as she waited her turn at immigration.