Everyone descended on the church’s basement for punch and cookies. Halfway down the stairs, Julian felt a sick, little wave of deja vous—a sea of patent leather shoes; floral dresses and forced conversations; the slick hair of men who last night bet on horses and staggered home.
But when she reached for a mug to fill, Natalie gave her a little elbow. “Dip down to the bottom,” adding in a whisper, “That’s where the rum swims.”
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