A Stolen Summer. Allegra Huston

feels with her foot: it’s just a high lintel. She steps across it.

      “Keep them closed, okay?”

      “Okay.”

      Micajah lets go of her hand. Behind her the door creaks closed. She hears the long rasp of a zipper, things being pulled from the backpack.

      “You can open them now.”

      They are on a wide expanse of roof, punctuated by little towers that enclose the various vents and chimneys of the building. The rooftop itself is paved with terracotta tiles. It’s the tallest building in the vicinity; all around them, the sky is a haze of pink.

      Micajah squats next to a spread-out blanket. On it are a couple of miniature alcohol bottles, two conical glasses, and a rather battered cocktail shaker.

      “I hope you like martinis.”

      “I haven’t had a martini in years.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Eve regrets them. The decade since she’s drunk a martini makes her feel old. Even worse is the thought that martinis are what older people drink, and that must be why he is making her one.

      “Retro chic,” he says. “Actually, it’s just because I’m showing off. I won an award for my martini when I was bartending in Berlin a while back. I brought a bottle of white wine too, if you’d like that better.”

      “I’ll stick with the martini,” she says. “It goes with the sunset.”

      “Lemon or olive?” he asks, holding up two Ziplock bags.

      “Both.”

      “Live wild,” he says, bending over the drinks. His shirt has come untucked and Eve longs to tuck it back in, to feel the knobs of his spine, the vertical ridges of muscle flanking it.

      He hands her a glass. She takes a small sip. Alcohol will only dull her senses, which are on fire.

      He leads her to the crenellated parapet that rings the roof. She knows the architectural style: Strawberry Hill Gothic, which was used in New York only occasionally, about a century after it was popular in England. She’s been studying classic English gardens for a project at the Trenton Country Club. Her mind races to those houses: Strawberry Hill, Cholmondeley Castle. Small square windowpanes. Banks of lavender. Ranunculus. Agapanthus. She distracts herself with the complicated words, steady things to hold on to.

      “Blows your mind, if you let it.”

      His voice brings her back. She’s never considered wonder to be her choice before. Okay, she thinks: I’ll let it. Right here, right now, I am on a rooftop with a crazily handsome young man who is holding my hand and showing me the view of Central Park as if he is Arthur and this is his kingdom.

      Eve stares out at the expanse, a thousand colors of saturated green after a rainy spring. The sprawl of the Metropolitan Museum. The vast amounts of time and effort and imagination and ingenuity that created this city. The largesse that placed an enormous public park at its heart.

      “Thank you for bringing me here,” she says.

      He sets his glass down on the parapet. It is a sign which, despite the decades since a man has flirted with her, she can read perfectly.

      This is the time to run away, she thinks, to call it a mistake, to race back to home and safety. If I don’t, home will never feel safe again.

      Then that’s the way it will be, she decides. Recklessness is giving her a rush more thrilling than anything she’s ever felt. And there’s a certainty about it, a total lack of fear. The horse is galloping, and she cannot fall off.

      She sets her own glass down on the next crenellation over. Those glasses had better not fall, she thinks. They could kill someone.

      Micajah’s mouth meets hers. His lips are soft and strong, pressing hers open then pulling away, an invitation to her mouth to push back against his. Instead, she draws back.

      “You’re young enough to be my son,” she says.

      “So?”

      He covers her mouth again, his tongue reaching just the tip of hers, caressing her and then withdrawing, seeming to pull her tongue back along with his. She thinks: I am inside him. She has never thought that before, kissing a man. It feels delicious to follow him so closely. Her instincts flow with an ease she never knew was in her. The lead and the follow of their kissing is seamless. She feels their breath merge, the air flowing between them warmed by their bodies. He is breathing me in, she thinks. I am breathing him in. His DNA is in my veins.

      His thumbs stroke her wide cheekbones, his fingers tangle in her hair, finding the edges of her ears, the tender spot where jaw meets neck, the soft indentation underneath her chin. Suddenly his lips leave hers and she feels them on the plate of bone in the center of her forehead, pressing it smooth, then tracing down the ridge of her nose, her upper lip, and dropping a chain of kisses around her mouth. She imagines a circlet of pearls that his kisses have left on her face.

      She has never felt anything like this before. His lips, his tongue, his fingers, are caressing the fibers of her mind.

      The stone is warm against her back, through the thin cotton of her shirt. She leans against it, freeing more of her energy to kiss him, to concentrate on the sensations of him kissing her.

      What am I doing? she thinks. I am kissing this boy, this man, and soon I will be . . . fucking him? She’s only ever used that word to swear with—and even then, not very often. She and Larry didn’t fuck: nothing so gleeful and direct. They “had sex”—though not recently, not for years. When they were first married, less impersonally, they “made love”—though Eve had always felt rather uncomfortable with that phrase too. Did they really make anything together? They made a child, of course, but it was a long time between the making and the evidence of it. On that night, and every other night, Larry would climax and roll away, averting his eyes. Nothing remained that was made.

      So, then, she thinks, slashing thoughts of Larry adrift, we will fuck. Maybe. It sounds good. She thinks, This should not be happening. This is not my world. But it is: his tongue is running down the cords of her neck, digging into the hollows of her collarbones. His hands are moving up under her shirt, searching for bare skin.

      She trails her hand down his ribcage and back behind her, to push away from the wall and press up into him. She feels an edge, a corner—above it, empty space. The gap between the crenellations. A three-foot-wide shelf of stone.

      She edges to the left, settles herself against the edge of the parapet, half sitting, and raises one knee, resting her foot against the wall. Her bent leg presses on the outside of his thigh. She puts her hands on his hips, feels the bones beneath the denim, and pulls him toward her. He stops.

      Her heart flips. I don’t know what I’m doing, she thinks. I’ve gone too far.

      He draws back just far enough that she can focus on his face, see its oval shape, the tousled dark hair, those beautiful lips, dark brows shadowing green eyes like mossy pools lit by rays of sun. His eyes search hers. Here I go, she thinks, and feels herself slipping in.

      He picks her up and sets her on the wall. “Eve,” he says.

      Her name sounds different in his voice, firm and definite. That is who I am, she thinks. Eve. The Eve who is here, hearing her name. From the mouth of this man who is about to fuck me. Under the sun and the wide sky, on a roof overlooking New York City.

      She lets her sandals drop and curls the arches of her feet over the muscles of his calves.

      His hands are under her skirt now, fingers tracing the lace edges of her underwear across the ridges of the tendons, then further down, further in. His thumbs press on her: a question. The energy inside her body jumps toward him.

      “Yes,” she says.

      The lowering sun is warm on her face, glinting on the top of his dark head. She presses her hands against the parapet to lift her weight as he draws her underwear down, and gives quick silent