The magnolias were blooming in Savannah in the way that Southern flowers bloom—with an obscene
Maggie Beauregard stood on the porch of her family's decaying mansion and watched the blossoms fall, one by one, onto the cracked marble steps, and thought about how they looked when they hit the ground—white turning brown, perfect becoming rot, the way everything does in the South, where beauty is abundant and durability is not. She was twenty-four years old, and she had been in New York for...
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