The Book That Matters Most (10 page)

Ava smiled, warming to Penny's propensity for quoting writers.

“So what do you think he had to say that made him write
The Great Gatsby
?” Cate asked.

“That the American dream is illusory,” Jennifer offered.

“At the end,” Honor said, “everybody's life goes on as if there never was a Jay Gatsby.”

“A Jay Gatsby reaching for that green light,” Luke added.

“It's a masterpiece,” Ruth said. “That's good enough for me.”

This time, Ava stayed for the wine and snacks and conversation that followed.

“How come the wine is in teacups?” Ava asked Cate.

“The book takes place during Prohibition,” Cate said with a smile. “It was Emma's idea.”

“You know,” Ava said softly, “I had forgotten how a book can affect you.”

The cover of
From Clare to Here
popped into her mind, the thick paper with muted greens and grays and browns.

“I had forgotten,” she said again.

John came over and put a big hand on Ava's shoulder.

“How are you holding up?” he asked her.

He looked so sincere, so earnest, that she couldn't bring herself to explain. Instead, she just nodded vaguely and asked how he was doing.

“I have my moments,” he said. “It's lonely. That's for sure.”

“It is lonely,” Ava agreed. She hesitated, then said, “John, at the last meeting, I gave the wrong—”

“But reading makes the time go by, doesn't it?” John said, as
if he hadn't heard anything she'd said. “I look up and an hour or two has passed.”

“Absolutely,” Ava said. “But John . . .”

Ava swallowed hard as John stared at her, waiting.

“My husband didn't exactly die. I mean, he isn't dead,” she said, feeling her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“I don't understand,” John said.

“He left me. For another woman. I didn't mean to mislead everyone. You especially.”

John cocked his head, as if he was trying to see her better.

To her surprise, he nodded. “After my wife died,” he said, “I went to this grief counselor. I'd never even thought about something like that before, but she helped me. She did. And she told me that there's all kinds of grief. Not just when people die, but all kinds.”

“Thank you,” Ava said, her embarrassment fading into gratitude.

Penny interrupted, grabbing John's arm.

“John, you and I need to make a date. I'd like to buy you dinner at the Hope Club one night this week,” she said, leading him away from Ava.

Immediately, Luke stepped into the space John had left empty.

“What do you say we go for a real drink?” Luke asked.

Ava looked around to see who he was talking to.

“Me?” she asked, since no one else was around.

“I'm thinking of bourbon, maybe even a Manhattan. Some real food.”

Both sounded good to Ava, even though the idea of spending more time with Luke and his porkpie hat didn't.

“Okay then,” he said, surprising her by already having her coat and bag in his hands. “Let's go.”

L
uke seemed to know everyone at the Eddy, the small bar downtown where they walked through the snow, which fell steadier and heavier now.

He ordered two drinks called Appalachian Trails from the bartender, Louie, who high-fived and fist-bumped Luke as soon as they arrived. Ava and Luke sat at the corner table near the window, and before they even had their coats off the drinks arrived, followed by deviled eggs, oysters, and salmon crostini.

“Pathetic 1920s' snacks tonight,” Luke said, popping a deviled egg in his mouth, whole.

Uncomfortable—what was she doing with this guy?—Ava sipped her drink, which was strong with bourbon and the faint taste of apple.

“I was hoping for caviar, right?” Luke said, eating another in one bite. “Very Gatsby.”

She nibbled on a crostini as Luke slurped down two oysters in rapid succession. He polished off his drink and motioned to Louie for two more.

“How old are you anyway?” Ava asked him.

“Thirty-one.”

Ava grimaced. But she quickly reminded herself that they were just having a drink together. Jim was actually in a relationship! Wasn't she allowed to have a drink with someone? Even if he was slightly—all right, a lot—younger?

“You're . . .” Luke began. He swallowed down another oyster. “Enigmatic,” he finished finally.

“I've been called worse,” Ava said.

The second round arrived just as she finished her first drink. There was an awkwardness to the night that suited her. At least she was out somewhere, and not alone.

“Where's your wife?” she asked.

This was later, after two more Appalachian Trails each and pretzels with maple butter. Ava was pleasantly drunk. The snow was accumulating.

“Wife?” Luke said, surprised.

“Roxy.”

He laughed, showing perfect teeth. His parents must have gone broke on his orthodontia bills.

“She's my on-again off-again girlfriend. Presently off.”

“Not your Daisy Buchanan?”

“No,” Luke said, shaking his head wistfully. “But that girl? Molly?”

“In high school?”

“Yup. That's who took my virginity.”

“Really?” Ava said, surprised.

“I told you, the book changed me.”

The cover of
From Clare to Here
drifted through her mind again, the drawing of stones, the girl peeking out.

“I understand,” she said softly.

“See? An enigma! Not telling me what you mean.”

“I mean, I understand,” Ava said.

Luke grinned. “One more? Then we'll mush back up the hill.”

Two Appalachian Trails later, they emerged into a full-blown blizzard.

The streets were deserted. Several inches of snow already on the ground and more falling fast.

Luke skated down Eddy Street on his shoes, sliding along the slick snow and falling at the end.

Before Ava could make her way to him, he was up, laughing, shaking snow off. He'd told her he was a metal sculptor, and he'd explained his projects—gates and trashcans and benches. To be
thirty-one, Ava thought. With an on-again off-again lover. With confidence and nothing holding you back.

At the corner, he grabbed her arm and pulled her through the snow.

“Peggy Fleming's mother used to sew all of her costumes, you know,” he said.

“I know.”

“My mom loved Peggy Fleming,” he said, shaking his head.

“Is this a mother complex or something?” Ava asked. She pointed to him and then to herself.

“Today's her birthday,” he said. “She would have been sixty-six.”

“Oh!” Ava said. She stopped walking and looked him in the eye. “I'm sorry, Luke.”

“God! I hate when people say that.”

“So do I! I can't believe I just said it.”

Luke cocked his head.

“I'm going to kiss you,” he said.

“Oh no you're not,” Ava said. Was she actually flirting with this guy? This kid, she reminded herself.

But then he leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth.

“Wahoo!” he screamed into the snowy night, embarrassing her.

“Mine,” he said, pointing to a metal trashcan with an intricate geometric pattern.

“Prettiest trashcan I've ever seen,” Ava said.

“Yes!” Luke said happily.

“So, you make trashcans? For a job?”

“I'm a metal sculptor. Went to RISD and never left.”

They slipped and slid some more in silence.

“I have the most awesome idea,” Luke said.

“Awesome?” Ava said, groaning.

“Let's go ice skating,” he said.

“Now?”

“No time like the present. Carpe diem and all that.”

“But the rink will be closed,” Ava said, even as he pulled her in the opposite direction.

“So?” Luke said, with the confidence of a thirty-one-year-old.

Of course it was closed, but he lifted her over the railing and onto the ice. The snow obliterated everything around them.

“We need skates,” Luke said. “Size?”

“Eight. But everything's locked up,” Ava said, pointing to the little building that housed all the skates.

Luke walked off, leaving her alone in the swirling snow. Then he reappeared, on skates, another pair dangling from his hand and a lopsided grin on his face.

“How in the world—”

“My criminal past,” he said, bending to take off her boots and slowly tie up her skates.

He put his arm around her waist, 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.

“I feel like we're the only people in the world,” Ava said.

“We 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.

“I borrowed that from somebody,” she explained.

“It's going to get wet.”

“I know,” Ava said.

At her door, she paused.

“Wait. Where's your car?” she asked Luke.

He was leaning against her doorframe, looking down at her.

“I 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.

“Hello?” she asked into the receiver.

“Is this Ava North?”

Ava frowned. Who would be using her maiden name, which she'd abandoned so happily, so foolishly, when she married Jim.

“Who is this?” she asked sharply.

“My 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.

“I'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.

“I . . . I don't,” Ava said.

“Ava,” 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. A fork beating batter in a ceramic bowl. The hiss of butter on the griddle. Her husband's voice, steady, firm—“It's coming”
—
then her daughters' high-pitched little-girl voices: “I want mine with blueberries!” “I want mine plain!”

She pulled a comb through her wavy, still wet hair, and as she lifted her arm to do it she smiled at the soft hair under her arm. How he liked that she didn't shave there! He would press his nose to it and breathe her in.

The smell of pancakes and bacon filled the air, the sounds of plates slammed onto the counter, of juice being poured. “I hate blueberries in mine! Daddy, I told you!”

Her hand hesitated over the can of deodorant. She wouldn't use any today, she decided.

“Hon?” her husband called to her. “Breakfast is ready.”

She slipped on her white Dr. Scholl's, and made her noisy way out of the bathroom to her family already sitting at the kitchen table, waiting.

“Sorry,” she said, “I'm going to pass today. I have to meet with a sales rep first thing.”

Her older daughter, Ava, frowned over her juice glass. It was always unnerving how that girl seemed to see through her, even at just ten years old.

But Lily's face contorted. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Mama. They told us that at school.”

Absently, she tousled Lily's hair.

“That seagull book,” Charlotte said, deliberately meeting her husband's gaze and holding it. “Full of wisdom like, ‘Find out what you already know and you will see the way to fly.'”