He stepped to the boathouse window and with a fingertip, wrote in the dusty pane: Jacques’ Trap.

“He did have a famous trap,” Kennet said.

O’Hara nodded, tongue pushed into his cheek. “You’re a clever guy, Erik.”

“So I’m told.”

“Except someone will figure it out eventually.”

“Fuck ’em,” Minor said. “Play dumb. Be offended that their mind is in the gutter. How dare they besmirch the memory of your buddy. Pistols at dawn.”

“Reel it back a little,” Kennet said.

“Sorry. I have an inherited flair for the dramatic.”

“All right then,” O’Hara said softly. Then again, with more conviction. “All right. Jacques’ Trap. I like it. He’d like it. Her. It.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Minor said.

A week later, O’Hara fired a small split of champagne at the hull of his boat, then puttered out from the hotel marina, heading east. The Fiskares cut bait and with a few worried, wistful glances, they let their catch swim away.

“Just sit and look,” Astrid said, coming to be by Kennet at the dock, waving as O’Hara adventured off.

Kennet didn’t answer. He felt intensely bereft and his thoughts had gone back to the farmhouse in Chêne, and the misunderstood night he’d spent in Solange’s bed. He’d asked if she wanted him to leave.

“No, no more leaving,” she’d said. “No more going. Stay. Hold still. I just want things to stay still…”

Exploring the border between two countries, O’Hara would go off for two, three days at a time. But he always came back, tapping on the Fiskares’ kitchen door. The family learned to expect him when they saw him, and not to ask how long he’d be staying.

O’Hara seemed to thrive on benign neglect. Too much attention and he vanished. But just the right amount of disregard, and he sidled up, casually looking for company, wondering if he could help out with anything. It wasn’t unusual to find him drying dishes while Marta washed up after dinner. Once Kennet came up the back porch steps and, through the window, saw the two of them in deep conversation. Marta had taken her hands out of the suds and stood with crossed arms, listening to O’Hara, who held a towel and plate. His expression was so open and earnest, and Marta’s so rapt, Kennet backed down the steps, retreating as quickly as if he’d interrupted a church service.

If you didn’t actively look for O’Hara, you’d eventually find him tending bar with Major or playing cards with Emil. He’d be topping and tailing string beans with Kirsten, puzzling over math problems with Trudy, or washing the hotel windows with Little.

It was O’Hara who started calling Little “Emilio.”