The Book That Matters Most by Ann Hood

and kicked off with his skate. Like that, the two of them glided, side by side, around the snowy rink. Ava found herself wishing he would kiss her again, then chastised herself for being ridiculous. Too soon, the snow made it impossible to skate, and Luke released her.
    â€œI feel like we’re the only people in the world,” Ava said.
    â€œWe are!”
    Then he did it. He kissed her again, quick and hard, before he left her to put the skates back.
    T hey struggled up steep College Hill, each of them slipping half a dozen times before they reached Benefit Street. The wind blew harder, making it even more difficult to see.
    At Williams Street, she tugged him around the corner. Jim’s car still sat there, covered in snow. Ava pulled the heap of tangled yarn from her bag and placed it on the hood.
    â€œI borrowed that from somebody,” she explained.
    â€œIt’s going to get wet.”
    â€œI know,” Ava said.
    At her door, she paused.
    â€œWait. Where’s your car?” she asked Luke.
    He was leaning against her doorframe, looking down at her.
    â€œI don’t own a car.”
    Before she could ask him if the buses were still running, he was kissing her. He was finishing turning the key she’d placed in the lock. He was inside her house. He was inside her bed. This man—this boy—whom she didn’t even like. But she had not been kissed in a year; not kissed like this, with passion and yearning and desire, for longer than she could remember. She was embarrassed by her body, her thickened middle-aged waist, her breasts that sagged. She wanted to tell him that she would read The Great Gatsby , that she would . . . what was the phrase? Run faster and stretch out her arms farther.
    Instead she said, “Oh my God, I cannot believe I’m having sex with you.”
    A va had forgotten.
    She had forgotten how younger men, men who are not your husband, do not finish making love, roll over, and go to sleep. Making love invigorates younger men.
    By the time he walked out her door into the still, white morning, they had made love three times. Her thighs still quivered.She considered calling Cate and telling her what had happened, but would Cate be angry at her? At least he’d removed that dumb hat, Ava thought with a smile.
    She poured herself a cup of coffee, and the phone rang. Early for a phone call. And in a blizzard. And on the landline, which no one even used anymore.
    â€œHello?” she asked into the receiver.
    â€œIs this Ava North?”
    Ava frowned. Who would be using her maiden name, which she’d abandoned so happily, so foolishly, when she married Jim.
    â€œWho is this?” she asked sharply.
    â€œMy name is Detective Hank Bingham,” a man’s gravelly voice said. “I’m sure you remember me?”
    Ava did. Of course. Which was why she couldn’t speak.
    â€œI’m retired now,” Hank continued into the silence. “And I want to put it to rest.”
    She thought she might faint. Her heart was beating too fast, she couldn’t catch her breath.
    â€œI . . . I don’t,” Ava said.
    â€œAva,” Detective Hank Bingham said gently, “you and I both know that you do.”

THAT MORNING
    1970
    Charlotte
    She wore a lavender dress that morning. Soft and sheer. She wore a nude-colored slip underneath it and put the silver necklace with the odd-shaped chunk of turquoise around her neck. She smoothed the thyme mint oil on her bare arms and legs, rubbing it into her elbows, callused from too much time spent leaning on counters and desks. Barely eight o’clock and already the day was hot and humid, the sun a hazy white ball in the sky. When she looked at it she thought of fire, heat. She thought of sin. Of sins. Of sinning . Despite the heat, a shiver ran up her back. And she smiled, running a pale lipstick across her full lips.
    From the kitchen: sounds of breakfast getting made. The gas flame catching.