They went on shaking hands, and while Kennet had no immediate plans to move from this spot, he knew if he did, Astrid’s silvery gaze would follow, just as her photograph’s eyes tracked him from a frame.

She was here.

She saw him.

And she knew him.

Kennet turned a page in his heart, stepped from the edge and began the fall into love.

A Swell Dame

Kennet’s mother, Ingrid Fiskare, had never been a beautiful woman. Nothing was displeasing about her appearance, but nothing about it was memorable. She was tall and angular, more function than form. Hair of no particular color, not quite blonde, not quite brown (she herself used the word råttfärgat: rat-colored). Her eyes were a rather uninteresting, pale shade of blue, with no variation or depth, and framed by thin, almost unnoticeable lashes. Her mouth had the unfortunate habit of resting naturally in a downward curve. When she smiled, it was a tall smile that showed more gums than teeth. Handsome was the most generous term one could use for Ingrid Fiskare and even Kennet, who was a stickler for picking the right words and considered handsome to be a masculine term, had to agree.

Kennet observed all the mothers he knew, analyzed, compared and contrasted, and got a few things straightened away in his head. Ingrid was smart, shrewd, practical, frugal, industrious, generous and a host of other admirable adjectives that made her a pillar of the community and made the Fisher Hotel the heart of Clayton. Ingrid was not, however, outwardly affectionate, and her expression seemed completely devoid of any spontaneity or humor. She didn’t romp with her children or tease them, didn’t kiss and hug Emil, at least not in Kennet’s sight. Ingrid didn’t even joke around with other adults. Her laughter always seemed carefully measured out, as if she had only so many chuckles allotted per day.

Kennet loved her. But he often wished she were softer.

“Your mother’s a swell dame,” Major Fiskare said, one day in 1928 when Kennet was nine and Minor was seven. “When it comes to marriage, looks don’t mean bushwa.”

“How do you know?” Minor asked. “You’re not even married.”

Major snorted. “I don’t have to be hitched to know when a chick is berries.”

Much to their mother’s despair, Kennet’s and Minor’s vocabulary was peppered with words they’d learned from Major, who called wonderful things darb, swell, hotsy-totsy, jakes, the cat’s pajamas, or—Kennet’s particular favorite—berries.