“We have a south-facing room for you now,” Madame said cheerfully, showing him a bright, clean suite with a comfy-looking bed, fresh flowers, and a grand fireplace. “I know you must be tired, but please join us for an aperitif.”
Everyone trooped out to a lovely garden surrounded by bougainvillea and shade trees, the perfect gathering spot for their aperitif. Jacques made a gracious toast, and trays laden with olives, cheese, tapenade, and crostini were passed around. A little boy of about eight or nine went up to Papa, giving him a sideways glance. “You are the landlord of Sauveterre,” he said.
“That’s right, I am,” Papa replied.
“Are you going to take it back?”
“Don’t be rude, Thomas,” warned his mother, Anouk.
“No, little one,” Papa said easily. “This has been your family’s home for many years, and it wouldn’t be right to put you out after all this time. Besides, I am too old to keep a big farm like this running. I just wanted to come for the summer. Is that all right with you?”
The little boy gave this a moment of solemn thought. “Do you know how to play soccer?”
“I do. When I was a boy, I was always the tallest on the team, and I made a good goalie. I might like to try it again while I’m here. Do you know how to play?”
Thomas nodded.
“Then I think you and I will be good friends,” Papa said. He beamed at the little boy in a way that made Camille wish she’d given him more grandchildren. He loved being a grandpa and was so good with kids.
She looked over at Julie, and to her surprise—and delight—she saw Martine slip her arm through Julie’s and say, “Timid and tired. Not a perfect combination.”
“No,” Julie admitted. “Is it that obvious that I’m timid?”
“Just a guess. I would be timid in this situation. Don’t worry, though. You can get to bed early tonight. Your French is fantastic.”
“Thank you. Papi taught me, ever since I was a baby.”
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go up to my room. Aspro, come.” Martine patted her leg, and a small terrier dog scooted out from under the table, eagerly following the girls.
The lavish French aperitif, with everything freshly made from the farm, imparted a sense of timelessness. In this self-contained world, they still produced their own fruit and vegetables, wine, meat, and even silkworms and honey. After her second glass of vin maison, Camille started to feel . . . comfortable. Almost relaxed.
Until she sneaked a peek at her phone. Unlike Julie’s, her phone worked fine here, as she had added an international usage plan.
The pop-up on the screen said New Message from Malcolm Finnemore.
Thirteen
As Camille watched Finn get out of his car—a disreputable old Citroën known as a deux chevaux thanks to its gutless horsepower—she felt ridiculously nervous. Jet lag had turned her first few days at Sauveterre into a dreamlike fantasy. Today, she had been wide-awake since four in the morning, and waiting for him to arrive had been an exercise in self-restraint. He was Christmas and school’s-out and her birthday all rolled into one.
She felt like a girl Julie’s age with her first crush, which was utterly silly, but she couldn’t tamp down the confusing and undeniable flutters. She kept reminding herself that he was not for her, but her ridiculous self didn’t listen.
“So this is the one who is going to look into your father’s mysteries,” said Anouk. She was about Camille’s age, and like the rest of the family, seemed intrigued by the story of Lisette Palomar. When not tending her two little ones, Anouk was an avid reader. She read a different romantic novel every day, the paperback kind with attractive people on the cover, executing impossible, yoga-like embraces. “You chose well,” she added. “He’s gorgeous.”
I know. Camille shrugged. “He’s very knowledgeable about this region during the war years.” She could feel a flush rising in her cheeks, and even though she tried not to smile, she couldn’t help herself.
“Love looks good on you,” said Anouk, studying Camille’s face.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Camille said.
At that moment, a squabble erupted in the back garden, the sort of sibling dispute that sounded the same in every language. Anouk went to investigate, and Camille hurried across the courtyard to welcome Finn.
Behind her, she heard Anouk’s all-knowing sniff. L’amour te va très bien. What did she know? Camille thought defensively.
“Welcome to Sauveterre,” she said to Finn.
And then there was that awkward moment when she didn’t know what to do next. Hug him? Offer the French-style air kiss on each cheek? Jump his bones and worry about the consequences later?
He offered her the same devastating smile she’d been dreaming of since the day they’d parted ways. “Nice to see you in this part of the world.” He didn’t seem to feel awkward at all as he pulled her into a hug. He smelled amazing—fresh air and male sweat, something she’d never found sexy before, but which now inspired wildly inappropriate ideas. She wanted to press her cheek against his chambray shirt and stay like this for the next week or so.
“How was your trip?” he asked, letting go of her.
“It was fine. Julie loved it.”
“That’s good, but how was your trip? You said you didn’t like flying.” He grinned at her expression. “I know all your secrets, remember? We’ve been e-mailing and chatting online, and I’ve been studying our conversations like it’s my job.”
“Why would you do that?”
He looked at her for a long moment, and a shiver of awareness passed through her. “You know why,” he said.
She decided to make light of the comment. “Come and meet my father. And no, that’s not as scary as it sounds.”
“Good. Because fathers usually scare me.”
“You’re funny.”
“It’s true. No man wants some strange guy hitting on his daughter, even when the strange guy is me, and I’m awesome.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Hitting on me?”
“Is that what you want?”
Yes. No. “Do we need ground rules?”
“Never been fond of rules.”
“Let’s go find Papa. I think he’s in the vineyard with the Oliviers, being all lord of the manor.”
“I like the manor.” He looked around at the abundant gardens. “What a fantastic place.”
“I think so, too, but we’ve only begun to explore it. The foundation dates back to Roman times, and the main house was built in the eighteenth century. It’s definitely showing its age.” She indicated the blue tarp over the damaged section of the roof. “No one has cleaned out the attic in a hundred years or so. I swear they found a species of bat that’s now extinct. It’s like being in a time warp.”
The vineyard was on a trapezoid-shaped slope outside the stone wall. The end of each perfectly straight row was marked by a blooming rosebush, like a bright exclamation point. Workers in straw sun hats were tucking the new growth of the vines into the guide wires of the trellising, and Camille’s father seemed happy to pitch right in.
Henry and Madame came to greet them. “It is as if I’d never left,” her father said, wiping his hands on a red handkerchief. “They are making me work like a rented mule.”
“Go on with you,” said Madame. “You insisted.” She beamed at Camille. “Your father has won me over with his skills in the garden and the kitchen.”
Papa extended a hand to Finn. “Now, remember your manners, and introduce me to your young man.”
“He’s not—”
“All right. I do not want to start sounding like your mother.”
“Papa, this is Professor Finnemore. Finn, my father, Henry Palmer.”
Finn smiled and shook Papa’s hand. “Camille shared the photos from your mother’s camera,” he said. His French was smooth and charming, more formal than the local dialect. “With your permission, I’d like to find out more about her.”