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reluctant to ask of you but one I dearly hope you can achieve.
    I have spent many nights over the past sixty-five-plus years thinking about that painting, and what I did or was planning to do. I could never bring myself to tell the Noels about the fortune I found in their barn. I sent them money after the war, but I was too ashamed to do anything more. If I told them my secret, they would know I had wanted to deceive them, that I had wanted to keep the money for myself. But now, after my death, the truth can be told, not just to you, but to them.
    Please, Adam, go to France and find them or find where their children or grandchildren live and tell them what I never had the courage to tell them myself. Their little farm is likely long gone now, along with the painting. They lived in the countryside, ten miles or so northwest of Arles, halfway to Nîmes. The closest place was a village called Bellegarde.
    I know this is a very difficult assignment, and not just because the family will probably be hard to find after all these years. But if you can do this for me, I know I will rest much easier…forever.
    And then you can go on to try the next task.
    We weren’t far from the border. The US officials always asked you lots of questions when you crossed over—everyone was a suspected terrorist these days. I was wondering if I would even be able to speak if they grilled me. But inside, I had no doubts. The contents of the letter had thrilled me. I knew I would do everything I could to accomplish this first task. I had to. I had to be the one who restored my grandfather’s honor.

FIVE
    VANESSA ENCHANTED
    I could hardly wait for school to be over for the year so we could go to France. The only thing that made it bearable was Vanessa Lincoln. I remember that first day back at school, after I’d received my task, as if it were yesterday. It started out the way it always did: I took the long way to my locker, making sure I passed by hers. I’m sure many guys did that. I moved quickly so Shirley wouldn’t catch up to me. I don’t think she knows why I take that particular route each morning, though sometimes I wonder if she does. Girls seem to know a lot of things.
    And there was Vanessa, wearing those tight jeans (as usual) and a form-fitting sweater (she seemed to have a boatload of them). Her blond hair was doing that blowing-in-the-wind thing in the dead air of the hallway, and she was ignoring everyone except her few close girlfriends and that guy who looked like that tennis star, Rafael Nadal, and played in the school’s coolest alt band. I hated his guts. His locker was only about five away from hers. She seemed to adore him and he barely talked to her. There was something wrong with him.
    Anyway, I walked by and she didn’t even notice me. But then, something occurred to me.
    â€œVanessa,” I said.
    No response.
    â€œVanessa, my grandfather is sending me to France.”
    She looked up. Those blue eyes were the color of the sky on a perfect summer day.
    â€œI thought he died. It’s so sad.”
    â€œYeah, well, he was ninety-two.”
    â€œAnd a war hero.”
    â€œThat’s, uh, kind of why he’s sending me to France.”
    She looked around, as if she were gauging whether or not she wanted to be seen talking to me for this long.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    I can tell a pretty mean story when I want to. Must be something I inherited from Grandpa. It’s the only thing I do well around girls. I laid the basic idea out for her, told her many of the things I wasn’t even supposed to tell my parents. But I had to. It was the only truly effective ammunition I had with her.
    I could see her falling for it as I moved into the more dramatic stuff, so I gave it everything I had. I shaped things so that Grandpa didn’t look so bad, because if I killed off his reputation in the process then this just wouldn’t work. I said that he had intended to sell