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She woke before the sun and made coffee the way her husband used to, too strong, with a pinch of salt. She carried it to the garden, where the tomatoes she'd planted in April were finally red. She ate one standing up, still warm, juice running down her wrist.
The sun sank over the water. The champagne on the table had gone warm. Neither of them cared. It was that kind of beach. Staff came only when needed. Neither had touched a phone in an hour.
From the publisher's feed