The piano sounded like rain on a tin roof—soft, steady, and just a little bit sad. Jay Gould IV played Rachmaninoff in the underground club on East 55th Street, his fingers moving across the keys w...
"She's singing," Clara said, pulling his hand from the piano bench. Jay looked up. At the other end of the room, beneath a single pendant light that made her look like she was standing in a pool of moonlight, Lily St. Clair was singing a song that sounded like it had been written by someone who knew what it meant to love someone you couldn't keep. "She's good," Jay said. "She's incredible,"...
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