“I’d like that. I like…” She stopped and turned in a slow circle, taking in Clayton’s waterfront and its little downtown. “I like everything about this place. It feels good here.”

“It feels good to have you here,” he said. Blurted, rather, and felt foolish. But she was still looking past him, her expression thoughtful.

“You know my last name is Virtanen.”

“I know.”

“Virta is Finnish for river.”

“Well, no wonder this place feels good to you.”

“But it is a wonder,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “Rio means river in Portuguese. So why doesn’t it feel like this?”

He had no answer. He bit his tongue to keep from saying the fish in him wanted to swim in her river. She’d slap his face.

Or maybe she’d say to come on in. The water was fine.

They’d reached the hotel and were mounting the front steps. Astrid stretched up high and touched the tail of the carved wooden fish.

South American Way

That night, the temperature dropped and it rained fish hooks and hammer handles. Undeterred, the Fiskare kids built a fire in the sitting room and brought out a box of Campfire Marshmallows. Minor was in charge of the record player—he guarded his vinyl collection even more fiercely than his wardrobe. Nalle brought down his ukulele and played along by ear. Marta was roundly beating Emil at backgammon. Major and Johnny MacIntyre dropped by. “Just for a splash,” they insisted, which meant they’d park in armchairs with whiskey lowballs and stay at least two hours.

“You speak such good Swedish,” Astrid said to Johnny.

Johnny flipped a thumb toward Major. “He taught me everything he knows.”

“Which is why I have so little left,” Major said.

“Rubbish,” Marta said. “You had enough to fix my Swedish good and proper.”

Major waved a hand. “I merely polished your rough edges.”

“Modesty, uncle?” Minor said wryly. “Are you perhaps running a fever?”

“Kennet, tell Astrid your poem,” Trudy said.

“No thank you,” Kennet said.

“What poem?” Astrid said.

“He wrote a poem about Swedish when he was in school. He won a prize.”

Astrid raised her eyebrows. “Was this in college?”

Kennet laughed. “In second grade.”

“Recite, brother,” Minor said, taking Kennet’s toasting stick. “Sing for your supper.”

“You all have it memorized,” Kennet said, grabbing it back. “One of you recite.”

“It should come from the master.”

“Don’t make him,” Astrid said. “Poetry should be spoken voluntarily or not at all.”

“Hear, hear,” Major said.

Nalle, quiet all this time, put down his ukulele and stood up. He put a dramatic hand on the mantel and cleared his throat. “A Slöjd of Swedish,” he said. “By our esteemed laureate, Kennet Fiskare.”

“Cripes,” Kennet muttered.

Swedish slurps and slurs (Nalle said)

Slip-slop up and down the slopes of speaking.

Sentences that slalom.

Or slingshot.

Slow like a sloop, then slap happy like a slipstream.