The champagne was always cold in summer. That was the rule at Long Island salons, whether you liked it or not. Cold champagne, cold conversation, and cold eyes watching you from across the room, calculating whether you were worth knowing.
Thomas Bryant stood on the terrace, a glass in his hand he had no intention of drinking, watching the moonlight dance on the sound. Behind him, the party was in full swing—jazz spilling from the gramophone, laughter rising like smoke, the kind of laughter that was always a little too loud, a little too bright, the laughter of people who were trying to convince themselves they were happy. Thomas...
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