Unaware of the honor, O’Hara sat. He had Johnny MacIntyre on his other side and Major directly across. This meant an unavoidable third degree and Kennet was interested to see how O’Hara would handle it.

What followed was a performance worthy of a tennis pro. O’Hara was a master at the graceful, bare minimum return to a served question. He offered that he was from Wyoming—born in Laramie and raised in Cheyenne. His family were all ranchers, except those who were livestock veterinarians. He was the middle of seven kids, but hadn’t been back home since enlisting in 1941 and was in no particular rush, for no particular reason. After a polite volley, he effortlessly lobbed the ball into someone else’s court. Usually Major’s, having grasped that Major was a superb raconteur.

As dessert was served, Minor caught Kennet’s eye and shook his head the tiniest bit. “I like my still waters a little less deep,” he said quietly in Swedish.

Kennet gave a humble, conciliatory smile. “Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, et cetera. It was worth a shot.”

Minor patted the back of Kennet’s chair. “You’re a good egg.”

Well, that’s that, Kennet thought, and something in him relaxed. He rubbed the hard lump in his earlobe, smiling a little.

You can’t wish grunt metal into gold.

“Boyd, how long are you staying?” Little asked.

“Long enough to make a few lists and sketches.”

“Be careful,” Trudy said. “Marta came to us when I was a baby and stayed forever. Astrid came four years ago, tried to leave, but then she came back, too. People who come to visit Clayton once always come back forever.”

O’Hara’s expression was serious. “Always? Forever?”

Trudy blushed under his intense gaze. “Most of the time.”

Now O’Hara smiled, breaking his cobra spell. “Thanks for the warning, kiddo. I’ll try to resist your town’s charms.”

“Don’t try too hard,” Little said. “If it feels good here, then stay a while.”

“It’s an open-ended invitation,” Marta said. “Make Clayton a base and venture around. See if New York fits you. If not, we’ll be happy to see you off to your next destination.”

“That’s nice of you, ma’am. Thank you.” The words were courteous, but Kennet could see the old defenses making O’Hara’s muscles twitch. The distrust of good intentions, the fierce and justifiably fearful guarding of his private life. The pervasive thought that nobody really wanted him, a man who loved men. A distasteful mess people preferred were swept under the carpet and ignored. Happy to see you off might just as well mean a mob to run him out of town.