The party was everything Fitzgerald had ever imagined and nothing he had ever wanted.
Thomas Warren stood on the terrace of a mansion in East Hampton and watched the lights of Long Island Sound glitter like scattered coins across the dark water. Inside, the music was loud and the champagne was colder than it had any right to be in July, and somewhere in the crowd his wife was dancing with a man whose name Thomas could never remember and did not wish to. He was twenty-seven years...
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