“Burglary? Embezzlement? Espionage?”

“Nothing as clever as that.”

“Then you’re stuck with me liking you.”

She didn’t answer, only went on looking at him with her silvery eyes, moving him to put his hand on her face and stroke her cheek.

“I do like you, Asta,” he said softly.

I think I might love you.

She turned her head and kissed the heel of his hand.

“So,” he said, “is this a walking conversation, a driving conversation, or a boat conversation?”

“It’s a bar conversation.”

The World Wasn’t Enough

For the first fourteen years of Kennet’s life, the bar at the Fisher Hotel was closed in compliance with Prohibition. When the ban on booze was lifted in 1933, Kennet still wasn’t allowed in the bar without permission—Ingrid’s ruling superseded the Constitution—which of course made it a tantalizing and irresistible place. Dark and masculine with mahogany wood, the high stools with the spinning seats, the long mirror reflecting the lines of liquor bottles. Low, deep murmurs of conversation punctuated by boisterous laughter. Sometimes the radio turned to a ball game or a boxing match. Cigarette smoke and beer. And holding court behind the bar, Kennet’s beloved uncle.

No doubt Ingrid understood the allure, for she kept her kitchen dry and when she needed bourbon for a pecan pie, or sherry for a sauce, she dispatched a well-behaved son into the inner sanctum.

“Well, look who’s come to have a drink with us,” Major would call. “Kennet, we thought you’d never get here.”

Caught between shyness and the desire to be one of the gang, Kennet would shove his hands in his pockets and keep eyes on Major as he approached. “Ma needs a little whiskey for cooking.”

“Sure she does,” Major said with a wink. He’d fill a shot glass, then take one of the bar’s square napkins and fill it with maraschino cherries, twisting the ends together. “Share those with your posse. And here’s for you, sourpuss.” And he’d hand Kennet a wedge of lime. Like Kennet, Major preferred sour to sweet, and if Kennet had been able to linger, Major would’ve poured him a little bubbling glass of quinine water to go with the lime.

When Kennet turned eighteen, Major brought him into the bar for some serious lessons on consumption and etiquette. Kennet learned the subtleties of distilled liquor and how to properly pull a draught of beer. How to order drinks for himself, for a lady, for a group of friends.

“Nobody likes a sloppy drunk,” Major said. “Fiskare men have no heads for booze, so know your limit and stay within it. If your date is getting soused, all the more reason for you to keep a clear head. Nothing funny about a drunk woman, and a fellow who takes advantage or worse, leaves her to fend for herself, is a fellow who doesn’t know his onions.”