Read Chapter 17: The Father's Shadow

The village square at dusk was a study in gold and shadow. Café chairs clattered against tile, lavender sprigs wilted on market stalls, and the church bells had just finished their six o'clock toll when Camille saw him.

She'd stepped out for air—Julien had gone upstairs to take the lawyer's call, and the kitchen walls had begun to close in. The lavender festival was twelve days out, the insurance lapse was still unresolved, and her father's possible resurrection sat in her chest like a stone she couldn't swallow. She needed three minutes of nothing.

Three minutes of nothing lasted exactly nine seconds.

The man stood at the far end of the square, half-hidden by the butcher's awning, his silver hair catching the last amber light. He wore a charcoal blazer despite the heat, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid. He was studying the fountain—or rather, the plaque beside it, the one that named the Morel family as benefactors of its restoration in 1987.

Camille's breath snagged.

She'd only ever seen Étienne Morel in two photographs. One was the faded wedding portrait in Julien's office—a man in his thirties with a lean face and serious eyes, standing stiff beside a smiling bride. The other was newer, a newspaper clipping from Julien's mother's funeral that Claire had left on the desk, showing an older Étienne at the graveside. The man across the square had the same widow's peak, the same sharp jawline, the same way of holding his shoulders as if bracing for an argument.

Her feet moved before her head caught up.

She crossed the cobblestones at a half-run, dodging a woman with a baguette and a pair of teenagers on scooters. The man turned—not toward her, but toward the rue des Remparts, stepping into the narrow side street with a gait that was unhurried, deliberate, as if he knew his way.

"Excuse me," Camille called. Her voice came out thinner than she wanted. "Excusez-moi!"

The man didn't stop. He rounded the corner. By the time Camille reached the mouth of the rue des Remparts, he was gone—vanished between the laundry lines and shuttered windows, or into one of the three doorways that lined the street. She stood there, breathing hard, scanning.

Nothing.

"He looked just like him," she said to no one.

She was still standing there, hands on her knees, when her phone buzzed. A text from Julien: *Lawyer's off the phone. Where are you?*

She didn't answer. She walked back through the square, past the fountain, past the plaque he'd been studying, and let herself into the B&B through the kitchen door. The smell of thyme and olive oil wrapped around her like a false comfort.

Julien was at the counter, two glasses of rosé already poured, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair pushed back. He looked tired—more tired than he'd looked even during the festival prep talk, the one where he'd spread fabric samples across the table and asked her opinion on fuchsia versus coral.

"Crisis averted," he said, sliding a glass toward her. "For now. Maître Bernard thinks Monsieur Laurent might be open to a settlement conference before the deposition. Says it shows good faith."

Camille took the glass but didn't drink. "Julien. I need to tell you something."

His face tightened. He'd been doing that lately—bracing himself whenever she opened with those words, as if every piece of news since she'd arrived had been a grenade with the pin already pulled.

"I was in the square. I saw a man." She paused, turning the glass in her hands. "He looked exactly like the photograph of your father. Same build. Same hair. He was looking at the fountain plaque, the one with your family's name."

Julien's expression didn't change. He picked up his own glass, swirled it, set it down without drinking. "Camille."

"I know what you're going to say. But I got a good look at him. It wasn't imagination."

"The PI told you your *father* might be alive in Switzerland," Julien said carefully. "You're looking for fathers everywhere now. It's understandable."

"This wasn't about my father. It was about *yours*."

Julien exhaled, long and slow, and moved around the counter to lean against it, arms crossed. The evening light caught the lines around his eyes—lines that had deepened over the past month, lines that Claire had put there and the lawsuit was deepening further.

"My father hasn't set foot in Saint-Martin in fifteen years," he said. "Not since my mother's funeral. He hates this village. He hates the B&B. He hates everything my mother built after he left. The only thing he wants is to tear it down and sell the land to a developer who'll put up a parking lot."

"Then why is he suing for ownership?"

Julien's jaw tightened. "Because it's the one thing he can't control from a distance. But showing up in person? Walking around the square like a tourist? That's not his style. He does everything through lawyers. Everything. He didn't even come to tell my mother he was leaving—he sent a letter."

Camille stared at him. The conviction in his voice should have convinced her. It didn't. She'd spent a lifetime around kitchens, learning to trust her instincts, and her instincts said she'd seen something real.

"Maybe he's changed."

"Men like him don't change." Julien picked up his glass finally, drank half of it in one swallow. "They just get better at hiding."

The words hung between them, heavier than they needed to be. Camille thought of Antoine, of his lawyer's letters and court summonses, of the way he'd once promised her forever and then filed for divorce by email. Maybe Julien was right. Maybe men like that didn't change.

But the face she'd seen in the square had looked lost, not predatory. A man standing alone, studying his own family's name etched into stone.

"When's the deposition?"

"Friday." Julien rubbed his eyes. "Maître Bernard wants me to go over the property records before then. Make sure I can walk the judge through the ownership chain without stumbling."

"Want help?"

He looked at her then, something softening in his expression. "You've done enough. You've done everything. The lavender sachets arrive tomorrow, the centerpieces are still unmade, Maurice still needs to be booked—"

"I can handle Maurice," Camille said. "I met his wife at the market. She mentioned he's got a new accordion, he's been dying to show it off."

Julien laughed—a real laugh, the kind that had become rarer over the past week. "You're a miracle, Camille Roux. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Once or twice." She finally took a sip of her wine, the rosé cold and crisp on her tongue. "But I'm still going to check the property records with you. The insurance lapse has me nervous. If Claire knew about it, who else might?"