“She should have.” His voice is tired. “How many babies have a Jewish star tattooed on the bottom of one foot?”

Sharon walks around the château. She would skip like a little girl if it were not for the guide in costume. Claudette Pelletier, her heart sings.

Early dusk casts the fields beyond in a purple haze. On the open ground in front of the château, the helicopter is waiting, its engine thrumming. Félix Amiot and Christine come out of the guest quarters.

“I’m bored.” Christine yawns. “Can we leave now?”

Sharon is so close, she can taste her success. She’s annoyed at the spoiled teenager who’s gotten what she wanted from the trip. Muster chutzpah, she tells herself. A motor is revving in her head. Somewhere around here, there must be someone who knows more about Claudette Pelletier.

“I truly apologize for holding you up, but it’s important,” Sharon says. “You’ve been so generous. But I haven’t been to the church, which was my destination in the first place.”

“I knew you were a spy,” Christine says.

Sharon smiles to placate her. “Only a private detective.”

“We promised,” Amiot tells his granddaughter. “How about if we take an after-lunch walk?” He gestures to the helicopter pilot to kill the engine and asks the guide to drive them.

The car exits the château grounds through a stone gate, and the village’s main street stretches out before them. Sharon wishes she could make small talk, be polite to her host, who has been so accommodating. Instead, she stares at the double row of houses and stores. The name Claudette Pelletier hums in her head. She peers at a middle-aged woman at an intersection, then at two women chatting in front of a house. Could one of them be Danny’s mother?

Claudette was not Jewish. The magnitude of this discovery takes Sharon’s breath away. That means that Danny, according to Jewish law, is not Jewish. If that is entered in his military or government records, the rabbis will not allow him to marry a Jewish woman without first converting to Judaism, a rigorous, lengthy process. The secular kibbutznik would never give in to such Orthodox tyranny. The irony is that he broke up with Dominique because she didn’t share his vision for the Jews’ life in their own country.

More important, what will this crucial piece of information do to his sense of himself? A man who, for as long as he has lived, has sported a tattoo of the Star of David but who is not, in fact, Jewish.

Learning about her mother anchored Sharon’s identity. It will do the opposite for Danny. He would be better off never knowing. She should stop her investigation.

“You are both so tired. Sorry to test your patience,” she tells Amiot. “Let’s head back and not waste more time.”

His eyebrows raise quizzically and Christine groans just as the car stops in front of the church. Not wishing to seem even more flighty, Sharon climbs out. What has she done?

At this late hour, the door is locked. Her heart racing, Sharon knocks, then waits, hoping no one will open it. Time to abort.

“Knock again,” Christine calls to her.

A man wearing a priest’s collar opens the wicket door. He has smiling eyes; their corners crinkle down into grooved crescents. “Mademoiselle? I’m Father Hugo.”

“I am Sharon Bloomenthal. May I bother you for a few minutes?”

Inside, he motions to a tall wooden box that she figures is a confession booth. “No, no,” she says. “I just want to ask you whether you knew a parishioner by the name of Claudette Pelletier. A seamstress to the duchess.”

“Certainly. She came back after the war looking for her son.” With a grimace, the priest sits down on the nearest pew. “Sorry, my knees are acting up.”

A second person who knew Claudette Pelletier! Sharon’s excitement percolates in her chest, mixed with dread.

“The poor woman was seriously crippled, couldn’t walk much. For a while we all tried to help her find her boy. We knew he had been adopted but not where or by whom. Then she moved away.” The priest raises his eyes to Sharon. “Obviously, you know something.”

Sharon can’t keep herself from smiling. “He is an Israeli naval officer.”

“Jewish after all,” the priest mumbles. “She wanted her Benjamin to belong to the Chosen People. That tattoo . . .” He lets his words trail off.

Seriously crippled? “Is Claudette Pelletier still alive?”

“Last I heard, which must be at least two years ago, she was still living with her blind friend, that woman who sells woven baskets in markets. I don’t know where their home is.” The priest presses his forehead as if racking his brain. “Solange. That’s the blind girl’s name. A big talker. She was young when she lost her husband, so Claudette helped her raise her children.”

“You say the boy’s name was Benjamin?” Sharon asks.

“Benjamin-Pierre Pelletier.”

This final confirmation of the name in Evelyne Niquet’s letter causes something inside Sharon to quiver. She presses her palms together. “Would you happen to know the name of his father? I’ve been told that some churches keep records. Maybe you know his date of birth?”

“I’ll have someone look through old files in the basement and I will call you.”

How amazing would it be if Danny’s father survived? Her quest has taken on a life of its own.

*  *  *

“This has been one of my best days ever,” Sharon says to Félix Amiot on the flight back. As the plane flies over the clouds, the stars seem near enough for Sharon to touch them. The droning of the engines that bothered her in the morning is soothing now. Her nausea has evaporated, and she can’t stop smiling.

Curiosity sparkling in his gray eyes, Amiot asks, “What was it all about?”

Christine giggles. “You’re so full of secrets.”

Sharon laughs. “Thanks to your patience, I learned that the mother of someone I care about may be alive.”

“Is he a new boyfriend?” Christine asks, and Amiot’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Just someone special.”

Amiot reaches inside a leather-upholstered compartment, withdraws a bottle of cognac, and pours it into three crystal glasses. He hands one to Sharon and one to Christine. “L’chaim. I like being an accomplice to a conspiracy.”

Christine chirps, “Pépère, speaking of a conspiracy, I read in the paper that the defense minister hinted that the Israeli boats might be sold to another country. Will you finally get your money?”

“The politicians must know something we don’t.” He swishes the liquid in his glass and tosses a glance at Sharon as if she might be privy to some confidential information.

Except that she’s not. Kadmon shares with her only what she needs to know at her civilian level. She sips from her glass, and the velvety liquid burns pleasantly as it slides down her throat. “Monsieur Amiot,” she says, “I have no words to thank you. Once again, you’ve shown me such generosity.”

The sides of his mouth rise in a smile of acknowledgment, but a cloud traverses his face. He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. In the dim yellow light of the plane, his features are slack with age and fatigue. Sharon is surprised by the wave of fondness that washes over her.

“Pépère will do anything for the people who work for him,” Christine whispers. “Half the French aviation industry used to be his. He risked it all for them.”

Not wishing to discuss World War II and Amiot’s regrettable share in it, Sharon says, “I’ve heard that he invented a hundred patents.”

“There were many Jews among his workers. He hired people with no skills solely so he could arrange fake papers for them,” Christine continues. “You may have heard how he rescued Chanel for the Wertheimer brothers. But did you know that he gave millions of francs to the Résistance and financed the smuggling of Jewish children to Switzerland?”

“I had no idea. You are blessed to have such a grandfather.”

Christine grins. “My mother thinks he spoils me. What about your family? Are your parents still married?”