“But not Nalle.”

“No. He’d be a gentleman about it. He’d even think it was wonderful. Because if war does anything, it makes you appreciate little, wonderful, serendipitous moments.”

“So you wrote in your last letter.”

A damp strand of hair had come loose from behind her ear. Kennet reached and tucked it back.

“Did you ever get your boat?” he asked softly.

She looked at him as if he were witless. “Of course.”

“Do you still have it? Not that I thought you’d be wearing it, but I wondered if you kept it.”

Now Astrid’s incredulous gaze grew bright and damp at the edges. “Oh you big, dumb, darling fat-head,” she whispered.

Her hand went to the neckline of her dress. She grasped a bit of fabric between her fingers and turned it out. Pinned inside the bodice was the golden Hildur. Like a piece of shrapnel Astrid wore on the inside.

The moment shimmered between them like a single soap bubble.

Kennet sat and looked at it.

And looked.

And just sat and looked some more.

Minor Mine

During Astrid’s magical visit in 1941, Kennet had stayed on the sidelines, waiting for everyone else to have their turn with the alluring guest. Frustrated and impatient, catching Astrid’s eye and thinking, I need to talk to you.

Now Kennet was the one in constant demand and Astrid who kept herself apart. She had a child to raise, a house to keep, two invalids to tend and, with the three youngsters back in school, a hotel to run. She rushed about, here, there and everywhere, but her gaze on Kennet was serene and gentle. Sometimes, when their eyes caught and held, she touched the neckline of her blouse or dress, reminding him what was pinned there.

When we have the time, the gesture said, we’ll talk. No rush. I’m just sitting and looking.

September was typically the month the Thousand Islands shut down for the season. Not this year. The weather was gorgeous, gas rationing was over and everyone was keeping their boats on the river. The hotel marina was clogged with craft and Emil’s workshop inundated with orders. Not only engine tune-ups and routine repairs, but inquiries about restoring old boats. The lucrative offers backlogged after Emil broke his ankle, and the old man was increasingly anxious about losing the business.

Thus Kennet had barely unpacked before he took over the marina. Minor worked with him. He moved slow and tired easily, but insisted the mechanical tinkering was good therapy for his wounded arm. When Kennet suggested they go out on the river during their lunch hour, Minor shook his head. “The noontime sun on my scars hurts like hell.” He hesitated, then went on, “I find intense sun makes everything hurt like hell. Know what I mean?”