Speakeasy Blues
Speakeasy Blues The Long Island Sound was black that night, and the Whitmore yacht had sunk without a sound. That was what the coroner said, at least. Clara Whitmore stood on the deck of her family's Long Island summer house and watched the same black water, holding a tumbler of gin that she had not taken a sip of in twenty minutes. "Clara." Her mother's voice came from the doorway. Beatrice...
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