The Summer We Read Gatsby: A Novel
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When two estranged sisters inherit a Hamptons beach house, they search for fortune but find love instead.
Cassie and Peck are half sisters with little in common beyond a shared last name--that is, until their beloved aunt Lydia bequeaths them equal shares of her ramshackle old cottage in the Hamptons with instructions to "seek the thing of utmost value" within it. Cassie and Peck fantasize about discovering a lost Jackson Pollock, or a first edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, as they revel in one last summer of fabulous parties and nostalgia.
From the author of Lulu Meets God and Doubts Him, Danielle Ganek's The Summer We Read Gatsby, a perfect beach read, captures the spirit of New York's most glamorous resort town, and will captivate readers with its spellbinding blend of romance, mystery, and charmingly eccentric characters.
porch. We had picked four bottles of expensive aged scotch, he was pleased to see. “I’m a terrible snob about the stuff,” he said. When we’d gone out to stock up on provisions for the evening, Peck had smacked my wallet out of my hand when I attempted to pay. “Your mussels are no good here,” Peck had said to me, as though she were the duchess of Fool’s House buying out the entire liquor store. “Mussels” was one of her oft-used euphemisms for money, a word she went out of her way not to use. “I
“Actually,” Peck said as we followed them out of the dining room, “we wanted to ask if you noticed anything unusual at our party last night.” Hamilton gazed around in comic distaste as we moved into what was presumably a family room, decorated in primary colors that made the room look like a nursery school classroom. “Unusual?” Bethany repeated sharply. “What do you mean?” “Something strange happened in our house,” Peck explained, deliberately sounding mysterious. “And we thought you might
already been reading and handed us each a paper cup of coffee. “Hamilton took me to a place called Ye Olde Bake Shop. Isn’t that charming?” “Where’s Lady Pecksland?” Hamilton wanted to know. I repeated that she wasn’t home but I didn’t offer any more information than that. This, of course, would never work with Hamilton, who liked to know everything and wasn’t ever too British to ask. “Not home on a Sunday morning?” He raised his eyebrows in comic fashion. “Well, we know she’s not at church.”
of the two of them . . . or their shoes,” Miles added, “I’ll have you killed.” “He will too,” Peck chimed in. “He has a phone number in his wallet for just that purpose.” Peck took the canvas from me, shoved the chair over to the fireplace so she could stand on it, and placed the painting back on its hook above the mantel. Then we all followed Biggsy out to the garage and up the stairs to the studio. His camera equipment and a couple of packed bags were piled neatly by the door, and the mess of
took a cocktail and wandered through the lawn, as evening fell, catching snippets of conversation. There seemed to be a reckless glamour to the people gathered under the lanterns among the trees and crowded together on the porch, as though anything could happen, anything at all. Or that may have just been my perspective as I catalogued the scene, committing it to memory. I stood out on the grass, looking up at the ramshackle house Lydia had loved for so many years, and I wondered how the Bosleys