Susan Wiggs - Map of the Heart

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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