Whistling “South American Way,” Kennet walked into the kitchen, desperate for lunch and a cold drink. He was shocked to find Marta and Astrid at the table. Well, that wasn’t the shock. What threw him was Astrid was crying, her head on Marta’s shoulder, a wadded-up handkerchief in her fist. Marta had both arms around her cousin, a cheek against Astrid’s fair head.

“It’ll all sort out,” she said. “You’ll see.” She looked back and saw Kennet frozen in the doorway. “What are you, the butler?”

“I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

“Oh, sit down,” Marta said, nudging a chair out with her foot.

“I don’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Astrid said, picking up her head.

“When two biddies have a heart-to-heart over a cup of tea, it gets emotional sometimes,” Marta said. “Sit and be a biddy with us.”

She lifted the lid of the teapot and frowned at the contents. “Now it’s stewed.” She poured some of the ink-black tea into a cup and pushed it toward Kennet. “This one,” she said to Astrid, “he likes tea you can stand a spoon up in. I’ll fling the rest down the sink and wet another pot.”

“Don’t go to any trouble,” Astrid said, blowing her nose. Crying didn’t agree with her. Her voice sounded thick. Her cheeks were mottled, eyes damp and puffy.

She was lovely.

And upset.

Do something, you damn fool. Say something encouraging.

Caught in the awkward zone where compassion locked horns with minding one’s business, Kennet stirred a little sugar into his cup while considering and rejecting a half million overtures. Astrid squared her shoulders and gave him a wan smile.

“Homesick?” Kennet asked gently.

“Oh…” Astrid waved a hand. “I’m many things right now.”

He looked back at Marta. “I think our friend needs a little Christmas.”

“Brilliant,” Marta said. “Just the thing.”

Kennet got the stepladder and went climbing for a candy tin Marta kept in a high cabinet. Dutch blue with white lettering: Betty Anne Creamy Mints. Inside were cookies.

“But these are pepparkakor,” Astrid said. “Christmas cookies.”

“Illegal in summertime,” Kennet said.

“But just the thing for the dog days,” Marta said. “Especially if you’re feeling down. I always make a dozen and squirrel them away. When any of us are in a pickle and there’s nothing for it, we’ll say, ‘Well, have a little Christmas.’”

They all took one of the round, crispy cookies. Astrid held hers to her nose a moment, inhaling. Marta used Ingrid Fiskare’s recipe, heavy with all the spices evoking holiday time—cinnamon, ginger, clove and orange peel.

“Now make a wish,” Kennet said.

They put the cookies in the palms of their hands. This was tradition. You made a wish and pressed on the center of your cookie. If it broke into three clean pieces, your wish came true. If not, you still had a cookie.