Emil’s children clustered in three distinct groups. The youngsters, Little and Trudy, stood close to the tracks, craning their necks down the line. They had put copper pennies on the iron rails, and checked frequently on their placement.

The eldest sons, Kennet and Minor, stood together, as they always did. Kennet was twenty-two that summer, Minor two years younger, yet they were alike as twins—trim, blond and amiable with blue eyes and suntanned skin. They were not tall men either, and from their father and uncle they’d learned how to arrange their posture and demeanor so they appeared bigger than they were.

Nalle, the middle fish, sat alone on a bench. He’d always stood apart from his siblings in looks: dark-haired among their blond heads, brown-eyed against their blue gazes. It was as if every gene of the Fiskares’ French-Canadian ancestors saw in Nalle a chance to survive, and swarmed his cells like ants on a melon rind.

When it came to character, the family regarded Nalle as their superlative: the smartest, the kindest, sweetest and finest. That day at the depot, he was also the saddest. He’d had a hard time of it since his mother’s death, six months prior. He’d been Ingrid’s favorite, and her loss shattered him. Even now he retained the air of one rebuilding from the ruins and wanting to be let alone as he did.

Standing in the middle of the Fiskares was Marta Toivonen. Not a Fiskare by blood—she’d come to them in 1931 as a cook and housekeeper, but then became so essential, she was considered family. When she told Little and Trudy to step far back from the tracks now, they obeyed instantly.

The train the Fiskares waited for was bringing Marta’s cousin, Astrid, for an extended visit. This distant relative had come a long way: steamship from Rio de Janeiro to Florida, then another ship to New York City, and finally the train journey to Clayton.

Trudy came by Kennet and took his hand, dancing lightly from foot to foot. “Will she speak English?”

“Only a little,” Kennet said. “But she speaks Swedish. She’ll fit right in.”

All the Fiskares spoke English in the world, Swedish at home, and French if they had to.

Unable to get Kennet to dance, Trudy next tried Marta, who wanted none of it. Marta was dressed in her best, quivering in both anxiety and anticipation. Excited to meet her longtime pen-pal in the flesh and eager to make a good impression.

“You’ll see to the baggage?” she said to Kennet and Minor.

“Of course,” Kennet said cheerfully, as if she hadn’t asked four times already.

“Don’t forget to tip the porter.”

“Marta, we’ve been meeting trains since we could walk,” Minor said. “We know how it’s done.”

“I know, but—”

“You want everything to be just right,” Kennet said. “And it will be.”