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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