His uncle shook his head, expression puzzled, but he took the phone, sat down and cleared his throat. “This is Major Fiskare, with whom am I speaking? Hello, Boyd O’Hara, what seems to be the trouble?”

Thrumming all over, Kennet leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. Fingers rubbing the little nugget of gold and feeling he was doing something good right now.

Erik

O’Hara stepped off the train at Clayton sporting a black eye and a sheepish expression. “I should’ve stayed two feet from your hip,” he said as Kennet ruffled his head.

“Then we wouldn’t have a funny story to tell.”

“Well, I live but to amuse you.”

“Come on. You must be worn out. When did you eat last?”

“I’m all right. I could use a wash.”

Knowing O’Hara would balk and protest at a suite, Kennet had secured him the finest of the standard rooms at the Fisher. Small, but it had river views both north and east and on a clear day, you could see the Thousand Islands Bridge.

“Take your time getting settled,” Kennet said, setting the key on the dresser. “How about we meet in the bar and have a drink?”

“I’d like to meet your uncle,” O’Hara said.

“The bar is where he’ll be.” With a half-ass salute, Kennet left and went downstairs, whistling “Colonel Bogey.”

The bar was in the lull between lunch and cocktail hour. A few salty dogs were bellied up to the bar, jawing with Major. A single couple occupied the window table that Kennet had always thought of as his and Astrid’s. Astrid herself sat at the far end of the bar, folding napkins while listening to the radio.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked.

“Unpacking,” Kennet said, sliding onto a stool. “He’ll come down for a drink.”

“Oh, good. He’s from your unit?”

“Mm. One of the few left from my squad.”

She nodded with a smiling glance, and then gave Kennet a longer look. “Hello, you.”

“Hello, you.” He put elbows on the bar and his chin on his fists and stared back. Letting the moment yawn and stretch between them.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Astrid said.

“I do?”

“You have a smug, accomplished air right now. What are you up to?”

“Nothing.” He put his foot on the rail of Astrid’s stool and made her swivel a bit. “Used to be whenever I was feeling smug and accomplished, I’d go look at your picture and ask what you thought of me.”

“What would I say?”

“That you knew I could do it. You knew me.”

She smiled up to her eyes, rivaling the sun. He pretended a strand of her hair had come untucked, and drew a fingertip along her cheek, into the secret place behind her ear. “All my life,” he said softly. “I’ll never get tired of looking at you.”