The Last Great Summer
If you had told me in August that September would feel like a funeral, I would have laughed. We laughed at everything then—the rain that ruined the regatta, the pianist who drank too much champagne and played "The Blue Danube" in B-flat minor, the fact that Charles's father had caught him smuggling bottles into the boathouse and said nothing about it, only looked at him with that tired, knowing...
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