The Salty Dog, on Decatur Street, was a dilapidated black house with a dim light by the door. It looked forlorn, but inside was a lively murmur, and a fair crowd of weekenders in their linen shirts and V-neck sweaters. There was a bar along one wall, and in a corner a trio of musicians—a guitarist, a violinist, and a man with a ukulele—was playing what sounded like a sea chanty, or an Irish ballad. The air was smoky and smelled of fried fish.

“This must be everyone in town,” Effie said.

They were seated at a small bench table near the bar. Henry and Effie took one side, Max and Clara the other. Alma sat beside Max—as far from Henry as possible. The room was warm, so she took the cardigan off. She crossed her arms over her chest, and focused her attention on the trio. Her smooth, bare shoulders, her long neck, the soft line of her jaw, her chin, her lips that he’d kissed only last night. Her features were familiar to him now but she was new enough to him that every time he saw her they took him by surprise, the particular arrangement of forms, suddenly remembered, that made her herself and no one else. Her beauty was startling. He even loved the careless, messy way she tied up her hair. He studied the menu, which was printed on loose, weathered paper, so as not to stare. The choices alarmed him. Squid. Octopus. Swordfish. But also fish and chips, thankfully.

The conversation was subdued. They mostly watched the musicians. Max seemed distracted. Effie asked if he was all right, and he said he’d been too cavalier with the whiskey. “Also with Maggie,” Clara added pertly, and Max waved her away and said, “Nothing happened. I’d have told you if it did.” Effie made a face to Henry—Okay!—but said nothing. Max held up the mug of beer he’d ordered and said it would restore him to health. Henry had ordered a mug of beer too, and clinked glasses with him. That was a Viking tradition, Max said: you clinked mugs so your drinks would slosh together, and that way you could be sure your host wasn’t trying to poison you.

Their food came. Alma had ordered the swordfish. It looked like steak. She dug into it, eating steadily and methodically: first a cut of the fish, then half a baby potato, then a piece of asparagus, and then back to the fish again. She always cleaned her plate. That, too, he found charming. Like Effie, who ate as well as any good Southern girl. Clara picked at hers. Max was thorough but slow.

The fish and chips were delicious. Fresh cod. Henry devoured it.