The waiter glanced at Liv and then nodded, whisking the champagne away and hurrying toward the bar.

“Well?” Liv asked.

“This was an important place in many lives,” Grandma Edith said after a long pause. “Lives that were saved. Lives that were lost.”

“Edouard, you mean? Did he die after the war?”

The waiter arrived again, silently setting down a martini with a single green olive on a spear and then hurrying away. The older woman took a sip. “The war was a long time ago, Olivia. We all made our choices.”

“Grandma Edith, please! What are you talking about?”

“I—I want to tell you. But it’s very hard, you understand.”

“You wanted to tell me what? Is that why you brought me here? Were you here during World War II?”

Grandma Edith didn’t answer. Instead, she swirled her olive around before popping it into her mouth and then draining the remainder of her martini in one long swallow. She opened her handbag, withdrew two twenty-euro notes, and placed them on the table. “It seems I’ve lost my appetite. I’m sorry. Please feel free to stay and enjoy lunch without me.” She rose, and not waiting for an acknowledgment, began to hurry toward the exit.

“Grandma Edith, wait!” Liv grabbed her own purse and rushed after her grandmother, but the older woman was moving surprisingly quickly and was already out the door by the time Liv reached it. Just before Liv followed her outside, though, she noticed something on the wall to the right of the entryway, an old framed black-and-white photo with a plaque beneath it. She hesitated, the words engraved there catching her eye: Edouard and Edith Thierry, 1939.

Her heart thudding, Liv looked to the grainy image of a tall, handsome man with thinning black hair, and his small, dark-haired wife, both of whom were posing in front of the Brasserie Moulin with proud smiles on their faces. The woman was Grandma Edith, Liv was sure of it. The photograph was eighty years old, and not terribly focused, but her diminutive size was just right, and her slightly mischievous smile matched Grandma Edith’s exactly. Liv stared in awe, reaching up to touch the young Edith Thierry’s face, before reminding herself that it was the older Edith Thierry, the one who was ninety-nine and stubborn as a mule, who needed her now.

She pushed out the door, scanning the street for her grandmother, who had nearly been swallowed up by the crowd on the sidewalks. But Liv could still see her, a block down to the left. “Grandma Edith!” she called. “Wait!”

But her grandmother didn’t slow, and after pushing through a cluster of tourists, Liv reached the door to their hotel at the same time Grandma Edith did. “Grandma Edith!” Liv cried, and finally the older woman turned as Liv opened the hotel door for her.

“Olivia? What are you doing here? I thought you were going to stay and have some lunch.”

“It was you, wasn’t it? You were Edouard’s wife! What happened, Grandma Edith?”

She sighed and walked into the hotel lobby. Liv hurried after her.

“Grandma Edith? I saw the picture. You and Edouard, outside the brasserie in 1939.”

“What picture?” Grandma Edith stepped into the open elevator and held the door for Liv, but she avoided eye contact.

“It was just beside the front entrance. The plaque said Edouard and Edith Thierry.”

“Well, then, it seems you already have your answer.”

The elevator doors slid open on the sixth floor, and Grandma Edith got out. Liv scrambled after her but stopped short as she rounded the corner toward their suite and saw Grandma Edith’s attorney standing in front of their door, clutching the same manila envelope he’d had yesterday.

“Madame Thierry!” he said, his face brightening. “Just the woman I was looking for.” He held up the envelope, but his smile fell as Grandma Edith snapped it from his hands, bustled past him without a word, and breezed into the hotel room, slamming the door behind her. He turned to Liv. “Is she all right?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” When Julien gave her a puzzled look, Liv added, “We just came from the Brasserie Moulin, which was apparently owned during World War II by my grandmother and my long-lost grandfather. But she won’t tell me a thing.”

“Ah.” Julien glanced at the closed door once more and then back at Liv.

“Do you know her story? About whatever happened at Brasserie Moulin?”

Julien hesitated. “Some of it.”

“And?”

“And . . . Liv, I cannot tell you, I’m afraid. But, ah, I would just remind you that things are not always what they seem.”

“Oh good, more cryptic statements,” Liv muttered. She dug through her purse, searching for her own key. “It’s not just her story, you know. It’s mine, too. My father died when I was just a little girl, and my grandmother refuses to talk about the past. She’s ninety-nine. If I don’t start putting the pieces together, they’ll be lost forever.”

“And I think that is why she brought you here.”

“To dance circles around the truth while drowning herself in gin?”

Julien laughed. “Perhaps.” His expression softened, and he added, “She hasn’t spoken of the past in many, many years. It must be painful.”

“But—”

Julien held up a hand. “But you’re right. You deserve to know. And so I suppose there is no harm in telling you at least that your grandmother did live for a time here in Champagne. In fact, she met my grandfather here many years ago, during the war.”