Jo put his hands up. Guilty as charged. “You’ve got it, darling. Where’s your sister?”

“Feminist summer camp.”

“Ooh. Fun.”

“Not if I know my sister. Where’s the new boyfriend?”

At this Jo became serious. “Edvard sends his love. He’s trying to put a helicopter in the air.”

Vee said, “There are lots of helicopters.”

“Not a single one from the police,” said Jo.

We stared toward the town. Jo stood between us, an arm over Elsa’s shoulder.

“Edvard says no one died,” he said. “Can you believe that? Literally not one person. Come on, you.” He took Elsa’s hand in his and led her into the restaurant.

I hung back with Vee. “Well, that’s a result,” I said. “You okay?”

“Can I tell Julie?”

I looked at the ash cloud that hung above the town. It must be half a mile across.

“Don’t want to cause trouble for Edvard and Jo.”

Vee nodded. “All right. Got it.”

On the wooden steps outside the restaurant was Hedda, smoking a cigarette, a beer in her left hand. Tiny compared to Elsa, barely taller than Vee, in stacked heels and black knee-length dress, her dark hair hanging in ringlets around her face, watching the town.

“Love,” I said, “why don’t you go in, get Mum to get you set up with a table? I want a word with Hedda.”

“You don’t even like her.”

I laughed. “I do like Hedda.”

“I do like Hedda,” she mimicked through clenched teeth. “You always say that in exactly the same way. And anyway, I asked Mum if you liked Hedda—”

“See you inside, Vee.”

“Don’t you want to know what Mum said?”

“See you inside.”

Vee began to walk toward the bar. I put my phone in my pocket, walked toward Hedda, whose eyes remained fixed on the horizon.

“How was your night out?” I said.

She looked up at me, eyes twinkling. “Which night out?”

“With Elsa? Last night?”

“Oh, that night out.” She got to her feet, stood swaying slightly, examined her cigarette as if trying to remember something, then smiled again. “Nice, thank you. Why aren’t you asking Elsa?”

She hugged me demonstratively, as if making a point, then planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Elsa came home at four,” I said.

“Sounds about right. All those married men at Lorry, quietly slipping their wedding bands into their pockets, sending over trays of drinks, sliding in at our table, bumping hard against our thighs . . .”

I pulled away slightly, trying to read her expression.

A smile twitched across her face. “Obviously I’m joking.”

“Obviously.” I put my arm around her, patted her twice, then tried to step out of the embrace, but she held on to me, pulled me toward the restaurant, then pushed me gently through the door and into our anniversary party.

“Skål for Cal and for Elsa, everyone!”

“Skål!”

A toast. To us.