Map of the Heart

“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.

After Julie came along, she had only added to the fun. She and her grandfather—she called him Papi, like a French kid—had a special bond. The two of them lit each other up, and always had. Thanks to Henry, Julie now spoke excellent French. He read her all the books Camille remembered reading as a child—Babar, Astérix, Le Petit Prince, Mon Petit Lapin—and they laughed themselves silly over the zany French movies he brought back from his travels. He was the father figure Julie had lost, and he reveled in the role.

There were two rules of Friday-night dinner, and the rules never varied. First, they had to speak French and listen to Papa’s music selections. And second, they had to cook together at home. No sending out for pizza or getting a corn dog at the Tastee-Freez.

The promise of summer lingered in the evening air when Camille and Julie arrived for their weekly visit. They found Henry in the garden, gathering greens for the salad. His straw hat and gardening clogs might have looked funny on anyone else, but on Camille’s father, they only made him seem more French.

“Ah,” he said, setting down his basket. “There you are, my lovelies.” He gave them each a hug and three kisses, one on each side and a third for good measure in the French way. “It’s such a fine evening, I thought we would have our aperitif on the patio. We can make socca on the grill.”

“Sounds perfect.” Camille set down her bag, grateful to have reached the end of a trying week. Socca was comfort food—a simple flatbread made of chickpea flour baked on a grill with caramelized onions and finished with flaky salt.

“I bet you’re the only guy in town who owns a socca pan,” Julie said in French, taking down the flat copper pan that hung near the outdoor grill.

He set it over the flame. “And you are the only young lady in town who knows what socca is. I learned to make it by watching the street vendors in Nice when I was about your age. I need a few snips of rosemary.”

Julie went to the flourishing bed of herbs to find it.

“What can I do?” Camille asked.

“Take the salad greens inside and give them a wash. And bring the wine when you come. There’s a bottle of Apollinaris for Julie.”

She picked up the basket and headed inside. The kitchen smelled amazing—something simmering in wine. Her father had bought the historic colonial house the year he’d married her mother. Bearing a historical plaque, it was a classic of architecture peculiar to the shore, once known as a “big house, little house, colonnade, and kitchen.” The original dwelling had begun life centuries before as a simple home—the little house. As the family and fortune grew, the colonnade and kitchen were added, and finally the big house, a two-story structure with three lovely bedrooms upstairs. There was a porch set on an east–west axis to catch breezes from the shore.

Together, Henry and Cherisse had restored the place, staying faithful to the traditional style. But after Camille came along, the family didn’t grow, and most of the rooms in the house sat empty. In the wake of the divorce, Camille had spent most of her childhood with her mom, stepdad, and two half sisters, setting aside Fridays for Papa.

Her mother had declared that she had enough of drafty rooms, creaky floors, and the like, and she and Bart moved to a modern townhome near the beach. It had been an unusual childhood for Camille, shuttling between Mom and Papa, but she’d always felt loved and supported. When her half sisters came along, she never felt like the odd one out. It was her normal. And it was a good normal, right up until she had lost Jace. After that, finding normal was impossible.

So she did what was possible. She took care of Julie, spent time with friends and family, worked at the shop, and rescued other people’s pictures. It wasn’t the life she’d once envisioned for herself, but it was the only one that made sense to her.

She placed the greens in the sink and turned on the water. The plumbing shuddered and groaned. A house this age was a constant repair project. More than once, she’d asked him why he needed such a big place.

“It’s too much house for me,” he readily agreed, “but I do love old things.”

Camille did, too, and she was glad he’d kept it. Sometimes, though, she worried that the upkeep was getting to be too much for him. She didn’t like to think of him all alone in his historic, too-large house, tending his garden and cooking beautiful meals for friends. Though he was retired, Henry often poured samples at the Grand Crew Tasting Room on busy summer evenings. People loved him, with his quick, expert way of pouring and his in-depth knowledge of wine.

Camille liked knowing he got out every once in a while, especially now that his cancer had gone into remission. Still, she worried about what would happen to him when he grew too old to manage the big house.

When she was young, she expected her father to meet a woman and bring her home. She used to envision what it would be like to have a stepmother, which caused her some apprehension. As she grew older, she wanted him to find someone, the way her mom had found Bart, wearing her new happiness like a glistening mantle.

Henry was good-looking even now, at seventy-two. He was stylish and interesting … and so very French. He was also a master gardener and an excellent French country cook. He was creative and sure of himself, and totally resourceful. Sometimes when they worked in the kitchen side by side, he would give her a wink and say, “I would make someone a wonderful wife, eh?”

Every few years, she would ask him the same question. “Papa, why have you never remarried?”

After Jace died, her father had asked her the same question. “Why have you never remarried?”

That shut her down entirely. After that conversation, she never asked her father again why he went through life alone. Because now she understood. After Jace was gone, everyone had expected her to move on, including Camille herself. It hadn’t happened. Five years later, there didn’t seem to be room in her heart for anything but grief. It was the one constant in her life, and she knew there was a part of her—admittedly irrational—that didn’t want to let go of her grief, because that would mean losing him completely. Holding on to sadness kept him from fading away forever. She knew—on an intellectual level—that this was not the healthiest way to grieve. She’d gone to months of therapy to arrive at that realization. Yet knowing this hadn’t helped her move on. She had never remarried because she’d come to believe that no love was worth the pain of loss.

After emerging from the fog of shock and grief, she had put together a life for herself and her daughter that made sense—most of the time. Except for those moments when she felt so lonely that her heart felt like a bottomless well.

Her dating life was mostly ridiculous. Her relationships had been short—mercifully short—until Drake Larson. She’d stuck with him for six months before admitting defeat.

People said she was attractive. She had her father’s dark hair and eyes, and her mother’s dramatic cheekbones and full lips. But when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see a beautiful woman. She saw a woman who worried constantly, who lived inside a sadness she couldn’t manage to climb out of, and who regretted how daring and incautious she had once been, long ago.

Perhaps in matters of the heart, she took after her father. Perhaps she was only meant to have one shot at marriage.

She spun the greens in the colander, at the same time trying to shake off a wave of melancholy and the residue of a rotten week—Julie’s accident, and ruining Professor Finnemore’s film. Then she found the wine and sparkling water, and brought a tray outside.

“The garden looks wonderful this year,” she said, surveying the oblong patch on the south side of the house.

“I put in two more rows of tomatoes this week,” he said, pointing out the staked plants on the end. “Brandywine and Belgian Giant. One can never have enough homegrown tomatoes, eh?”

“Exactly. Yours are the best, Papa.”

“Come, let’s sit,” he said, gesturing at a small café table on the brickwork patio. The socca was done, crunchy around the edges and fragrant with the onions and herbs. He poured a chilled rosé wine from Provence, the traditional pairing with socca, and sparkling water for Julie.

“Santé,” they said together, lifting their glasses.

“Any day aboveground is a good day,” her father declared.

“I’ve never been fond of that one,” Camille said. “So grim.”

“After my year in hell,” he told them, “it has never been truer. Now that the treatment is done, I am determined to live my life.”

His diagnosis had been a devastating blow. The ensuing chemo and radiation had been grueling, but the goal had been attained—the cancer was in remission. A year ago, when he was in the throes of his illness and treatment, Camille had wanted to move in with Julie to help him through the ordeal, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He valued his privacy and independence too much.

He insisted that they keep their regular Friday schedule. Often, during that terrible time, Camille and Julie prepared a croque monsieur or an omelet with pesto and spinach while Henry lay shivering under a woolen blanket. For Julie’s sake, Camille tried not to show how sick with worry or how terrified she was of losing her father. They got through it with stubborn determination, and the help of a caregiver named Lamont Jeffries. Lamont had stayed with Henry while he was ill. He’d proven to be invaluable, keeping the household and garden running, looking after Henry, and taking care of all the painful indignities of cancer treatment. He still came around every week to visit and to do a bit of housekeeping and gardening.

Henry went to shut down the grill, moving with cautious deliberation, a leftover from his disease and treatment. Before the illness, he’d been gloriously youthful—as slender and fit as a man ten years younger, his abundant hair peppered with a distinguished sprinkling of white. After the chemo, his hair had grown back a dramatic snow white. He was still as handsome as ever, though he was no longer the spry, robust man she remembered. There was something fragile about him.

“How are you feeling?” Camille asked.

“I’m well,” he said with a satisfied smile. “I feel well. Have you ever studied the term ‘in remission’? In French, it is the same. It means an abatement of symptoms, but also, forgiveness.”

“That’s good, Papi. I’m glad you feel good again,” Julie said.

“I always feel best when I am with you, choupette,” he told her, putting their glasses on the tray. “You are the most beautiful part of my week.”

Julie offered the special smile she seemed to reserve just for him.

“What a fantastic evening,” he said. “Julie, I miss seeing your friends. Where have they been lately? You used to bring a friend or two over.”

She stared at the ground, scuffing her foot at the brickwork. “Busy, I guess.”

“You must tell them to come around more often now that the summer weather is here.”

Her shoulders hunched up slightly. “Sure.”

“Madeline’s ducklings will hatch next week,” he said, gesturing at the wire enclosure in a corner of the yard. “Bring your friends around to see the babies.”

“All right. Maybe. Let’s go inside to dinner.” She picked up the tray, and they went to the kitchen together.

“I’m pretty sure that incredible smell is bouillabaisse,” Camille said.

“You are correct. The seafood from the local docks was excellent this week.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Every time I sit down with my two lovely ladies is a special occasion.”

Julie plunked herself down on the sofa and took out her phone.

“What do you look at, so fixated on that small screen?” he asked.

Julie shrugged without looking up. “There’s a whole world in here. That’s why it’s called the World Wide Web.”

“The world is out there,” he said, gesturing at the view out the window. “I am an old man, but I do know the difference.”

“I’ve known that world all my life and I’m bored with it.”

“Put the phone away,” said Camille. “Screens off during mealtime.”

“I know. I know.”

Camille, too, wondered what Julie studied with such absorption in that small rectangle of light. There were new apps and games all the time, and her daughter was a known techno-wizard. No wonder real life seemed boring. In the screen world, all a person had to do was watch. Participation was optional—the screen created a shield or barrier. You could observe things at a safe distance. If your world inhabited a tiny screen, you didn’t have to be scared or out of control. You didn’t have to deal with the real world around you.

“How can we help?” she asked her father.

“You can toss the salad and lay the table. I will show Julie how to make the rouille.” The two of them made a spicy mayonnaise of olive oil, garlic, saffron, and cayenne pepper, spreading it on slices of grilled bread to float in the fish stew. Then he ladled the fragrant broth and fish onto soup plates, topping them with the bread slices.

Camille sighed with pleasure over the dinner of casual elegance. The broth was made of fresh tomatoes and olive oil, fennel, and onions, bright with saffron. “Papa, you’re the best. This is delicious.”

“The secret is to wash the fish in seawater,” he told them. “When I first came to America, I worked at a restaurant in Cape May, and every Friday night, my job was to wash the fish. It was a good restaurant, but the wine list was pathetic.”

“Is that when you decided to become a wine importer?” Julie asked.

“Yes, but it took some time. I was very young and quite ignorant. But I studied my craft and worked very hard, and founded my little enterprise.”

“Did you grow up liking wine?” she asked. “Because I can’t make myself like it.”

“Ah. You will, eventually. You’re the granddaughter of a Frenchman. You have no choice.”

She grinned. “Got it.”

They finished off the meal with the salad. Henry pressed the palms of his hands to the table and pushed back. “Tonight, I’m glad it’s just the three of us here,” he said. “There is something to discuss.”

Camille’s stomach clenched. Was there a dire note in his tone of voice? Was his latest checkup not a good one? “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Stop worrying. You worry far too much. I have something to show you,” he said. “I had a special delivery today.”

He led the way to the front room, with its fireplace and grand bay window projecting out over the laurel hedge. It was decorated in a spare, chic style that somehow worked with the architecture of the rustic old house. Over the mantel was a painting Camille had always admired, depicting a region in the south of France called the Calanques—the towering, rocky inlets along the coast of the deep blue Mediterranean. The painter had managed to capture the deep, golden quality of light Camille had always associated with Provence, even though she’d never been there. What had Finn said? No one’s life is complete until they’ve gone to the south of France. Camille had to admit that loneliness did make her life feel incomplete, but going to Provence wasn’t the answer.

In the middle of the room was a large cardboard shipping crate plastered with customs forms.

“What’s this?” she asked her father.

“It arrived late this afternoon from France. Madame Olivier had it shipped to me.”

“Wait. What?” Camille was confused. “Who is Madame Olivier, and why is she sending you something?”

“She lives at Sauveterre—my family home in Bellerive. It’s an ancient house, and a section of the roof caved in. While clearing the attic for the renovation, she came across a trunk full of my mother’s old belongings, and she thought I might like to have it.”

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