“When he was dying, you made a promise. You gave him your word you’d always take care of your mother. And when he died, you still felt like you hadn’t made it right in his eyes. Hadn’t earned his forgiveness. And that promise took on more meaning.” He held up his cupped hands. “And more weight. It’s the heaviest thing you’ve ever carried.”

She pressed his balled-up handkerchief into the corner of her eye and nodded harder.

“I understand. Asta, listen, I let my father down once. I did something really stupid. Not just stupid and disobedient, but stupid and dangerous.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you another time. I just need you to know this: the look on my father’s face made me want to die. It was the one and only time in my life I literally wished I were dead. It was crushing. I got the worst hiding of my life, and it didn’t do shit to make me feel I’d atoned, pardon my French. Even when Paps forgave me, when he said to my face I was forgiven, it took a long time to believe. I carried his disappointment around for months. It shaped everything I did ever since.”

He took the handkerchief away from her, refolded it into something more robust, and wiped her face himself. “I know,” he said. “I understand how heavy it is. I know it wasn’t a promise you made lightly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Bushwa,” he said. “Being a lady of your word is nothing to be sorry about. But tell me, has seeing this bit of the world helped make a decision about marrying him?”

“It did. Until I got here.” A smile broke through her trembling lips and she gave her head a little toss. “Everything was fine and I thought I’d be satisfied with what I’d seen, until I got to Clayton. Until I stepped off the train and a young man put out his hand and said, ‘I’m Kennet Fiskare.’ And all at once, the world wasn’t enough.”

“Why, that lousy punk. He ruined everything.”

She put her palm on his cheek. Stroked it once. “Everything.”

Pass the Salt

Her troubles safe in his pocket, Kennet went on offering Astrid a host of entertaining activities, but mostly she wanted to go out on the boat.

“Just her and him on the Hildur,” she said. “Unhurried hearts harkening to the…”

“Hushed history of…”

“Helping hands holding hard to happiness.”

“Holy hell.”

As he sped them along the southeast side of Grindstone, Astrid quizzed him on every island name, consulting her trusty Thousand Island guide to keep him honest.

“What’s that,” she said, pointing.

“Whiskey Island. So named because it was one of the main drop-and-load points during Prohibition.”

“Your first job?”

He laughed. “I was a kid. But Major and Johnny made quite a decent, if unrespectable living running booze across the river.”