{"product_id":"the-maze-at-windermere-isbn-9780735221932","title":"The Maze at Windermere","description":"\u003cb\u003eNamed one of the best books of 2018 by \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post, The Seattle Times, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Advocate\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Staggeringly brilliant . . . You’ll start \u003ci\u003eThe Maze of Windermere\u003c\/i\u003e with bewilderment, but you’ll close it in awe.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Pitch perfect.”\u003ci\u003e —\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When a drunken party guest challenges him to a late-night tennis match, Sandy Allison finds himself unexpectedly entangled in the monied world of Newport, Rhode Island. A former touring pro a little down on his luck, Sandy has nothing to stake against the vintage motorcycle his opponent wagers. But then Alice DuPont—the young heiress to a Newport mansion called Windermere—offers up her diamond necklace.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e With this reckless wager begins a dazzling narrative odyssey that braids together four centuries of aspiration and adversity in this renowned seaside society capital. A witty and urbane bachelor of the Gilded Age embarks on a high-risk scheme to marry into a fortune; a young Henry James, soon to make his mark on the world, turns himself to his craft with harrowing social consequences; an aristocratic British officer during the American Revolution carries on a courtship that leads to murder; and, in Newport’s earliest days, a tragically orphaned Quaker girl imagines a way forward for herself and the slave girl she has inherited.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Gregory Blake Smith weaves these intersecting worlds into a rich, brilliant tapestry. A deftly layered novel of love, ambition, and duplicity, \u003ci\u003eThe Maze at Windermere \u003c\/i\u003echarts a voyage across the ages into the maze of the human heart.\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e Editors' Choice\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e Book We're Talking About This Summer\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eSouthern Living\u003c\/i\u003e Book That We Can't Wait to Read\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eLitHub \u003c\/i\u003eUltimate Summer Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eWashington Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e Best Novel to Read This Winter\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eBookRiot\u003c\/i\u003e Book You Should Mark Down Now\u003cbr\u003eWinner of the 2019 New England Society Book Award in Fiction\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An intricate creation you'll happily lose yourself in.”\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—People\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Staggeringly brilliant . . . An extraordinary demonstration of narrative dexterity. Moving up and down through the strata of history, Smith captures the ever-changing refractions of human desire . . . The cumulative effect of this carousel of differing voices is absolutely transporting . . . Looking up from this remarkable novel, one has an eerie sense of history as a process of continuous erasure and revision. You’ll start \u003ci\u003eThe Maze of Windermere\u003c\/i\u003e with bewilderment, but you’ll close it in awe.”\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Smith sprinkles James’s distinctively fresh early style with just the lightest pinch of turgid fussiness—the language is pitch-perfect—and his insights into James’s character and mind are flawless.”\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Once you read Gregory Blake Smith’s \u003ci\u003eThe Maze at Windermere\u003c\/i\u003e, you’ll understand why Richard Russo calls it ‘a dazzling high-wire act.’ It’s a labyrinthine, layered novel that spans three centuries while following the exploits and experiences of a compelling cast of characters.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e —Southern Living\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“The best of the year . . . [\u003ci\u003eThe Maze at Windermere\u003c\/i\u003e] is historical fiction unlike any I’ve read. . . . Each narrative voice Smith invents is pitch-perfect, and the book offers huge formal pleasures as he peels back successions of communities like archaeological layers, connecting them in ways their inhabitants don’t necessarily register.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smith’s vibrant mix of beautiful writing, clarity of voices, flow of history and storytelling, and philosophical reflections had me slowing my pace to stretch out its pleasures.”\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eStar Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A modern-day epic spanning three centuries and five time periods. It weaves together multiple storylines set in the past and present, handing off each story from one era to the next. . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Maze\u003c\/i\u003e features gay characters, freed and enslaved African-Americans, a Jewish-Portuguese immigrant, and a diversity of others mingling together to produce this dazzling novel.”\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Advocate\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is timely, it is important, it made me cry and sit very still when I finished it, and it is among the best American novels I’ve ever read.”\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Lit Hub \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“The Maze at Windermere\u003c\/i\u003e is a dramatic and interesting look into the past of a town and the lives of those who’ve dwelled in it.”\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—New York Journal of Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dazzling . . . an impressive achievement.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—The Emerald City Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A breath of fresh air . . . \u003ci\u003eWindermere\u003c\/i\u003e succeeds in delivering a full-bodied portrait of the evolution of our very definition of status and what it really means to make it in the New World.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—BookBrowse\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This novel is, in a word, excellent. . . . Beautifully drawn . . . Gossamer filaments connect these plotlines; duplicity in all its dismaying forms is a major theme, along with the brilliant contrast between substance and shadow, superficiality and depth. There are moments of wry humor, suspense, gut-wrenching human exchange. And through it all, an honesty—capturing life as people live it—that is made to appear easy, but is very, very difficult to actually achieve in fiction.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Historical Novel Society\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is just so vibrant, so fun, so mesmerizing.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e —“Bill's Books” on NBC New York\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gregory Blake Smith’s \u003ci\u003eThe Maze at Windermere\u003c\/i\u003e is a dazzling high-wire act. I turned every page with a sense of wonder and excitement.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Richard Russo, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of \u003ci\u003eEmpire Falls \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eEverybody's Fool\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Maze at Windermere\u003c\/i\u003e is thrilling. This novel restored my faith and made me laugh out loud. It’s rare that a novel comes along that is broad ranging, so very funny, profound, provocative, literary, and page-turning, and also word perfect. I went right back to the beginning when I’d finished, marveling again at the radiant mind of Gregory Blake Smith.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Jane Hamilton, author of \u003ci\u003eA Map of the World\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Excellent Lombards\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Not since \u003ci\u003eBeautiful Ruins\u003c\/i\u003e have I read a novel with such breadth of imagination or depth of heart, nor a cast of characters so real, so varied, so compelling. In five exquisitely braided tales spanning nearly four centuries, Gregory Blake Smith illuminates the everlasting power of our passions and the hazard of our follies—in essence, the many ways we mortals strive and yearn toward the center of the maze we each call life. This book is a tour de force: gorgeous, suspenseful, cunning, and wise.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Julia Glass, author of \u003ci\u003eThree Junes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Maze at Windermere\u003c\/i\u003e is an astonishing book—prismatic, continually surprising, daring not only in structure but in its investigation of the human heart. Somehow it manages to be both ruthless and tender. On top of all that, it’s wildly, hurtlingly entertaining.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eLeah Hager Cohen, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Grief of Others\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling . . . The changing language, landscape, and mores of three centuries of American history are depicted with verisimilitude, highlighting what doesn't change at all: the aspirations and crimes of the human heart.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Intricately designed and suspenseful . . . Though references to James’ work, particularly \u003ci\u003eThe Portrait of a Lady\u003c\/i\u003e, abound, readers don’t have to be familiar with his novels to relish the well-differentiated voices and worlds or to enjoy the way the novel’s five story lines subtly shift and begin to merge.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Taken individually, each story is dramatic and captivating, but as the author makes ever-increasing connections among the stories and shuffles them all into one unbroken narrative, the novel becomes a moving meditation on love, race, class, and self-fulfillment in America across the centuries.”\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling . . . Award-winning novelist Smith moves nimbly among his tales’ various settings and diverse characters within the confines of Newport. . . . [An] intricate tale.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eGregory Blake Smith\u003c\/b\u003e is the award-winning author of three previous novels, including \u003ci\u003eThe Divine Comedy of John Venner\u003c\/i\u003e, a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book. His short story collection, \u003ci\u003eThe Law of Miracles\u003c\/i\u003e, won the Juniper Prize and the Minnesota Book Award. He has received a Stegner Fellowship at Stanford University and the George Bennett Fellowship at Phillips Exeter Academy and grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Bush Foundation, and the Minnesota State Arts Board. Smith is currently the Lloyd P. Johnson-Norwest Professor of English and the Liberal Arts at Carleton College.¥ Summer 2011 ¥\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was trying to explain to her how he'd gotten to be where he      was. The condition he was in. His state of mind, the state of his      bank account. His heart, his soul, whatever. They were in the      Orangery at Windermere, Aisha newly naked beside him, the salt air      coming in through the window, and this was the sort of moment when      he somehow felt compelled to \u003ci\u003etell all\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What had gotten under his skin, he found himself saying, was the      way the guy kept bringing up the \u003ci\u003eTennis Life\u003c\/i\u003e article. \"Lacks the      killer instinct to break into the top fifty,\" he kept saying,      drunk, obnoxious, smiling that smile that men smile to show      they're just kidding even when they're not just kidding. Who was      this bozo anyway?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At which Aisha leaned over and kissed him like \"poor you,\" her      dreadlocks spilling across her lovely shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This had been last August, he told her, a real low point in his      life. His knee was shot and he'd just retired . . . or was on the      verge of retiring . . . or wasn't sure whether he was retiring or      not-but his right knee was messed up, his life was messed up, his      ranking had dropped below two hundred for the first time in eight      years, and the only options were to drift back down into the      Challengers circuit, or pack it in and try to land a college      coaching job, or failing that a gig at some luxury resort      instructing Fortune 500 types on how to hit a slice backhand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sandy Alison,\" he imitated the guy, the bozo, the guy with the      motorcycle last August. \"Out of Duke, a great shotmaker but lacks      the killer instinct to break into the top fifty.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Thing was, that past August was the second year running he hadn't      qualified for the US Open. It had been the beginning of the end.      And even if he \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e qualified, he wouldn't have been able to      play—his knee again—so he'd come to Newport to the Hall of Fame      Champions Cup as a hitting partner for Todd Martin. (A tagalong, a      hanger-on: was that his future?) His money was beginning to run      out and he knew he had to make a decision, and soon, but in      Newport a little of the old life beckoned, and after the      semifinals he'd gone to the Champions Ball with the idea of      catching on with some of the local wealth (this was \u003ci\u003eNewport\u003c\/i\u003e, he      didn't have to remind Aisha), but the evening had degenerated from      the waltz to the bossa nova to the Watusi until the surviving      couple dozen partiers—the Champions had left a long time ago—had      gone off barhopping down along Thames Street and ended up at this      . . . this . . . he couldn't even remember where they'd ended up      but the bozo, the guy with the antique motorcycle, just wouldn't      let up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What he didn't tell her was how that phrase—\"lacks the killer      instinct\"—had eaten at him for nearly a decade. It came from a      year-end issue of \u003ci\u003eTennis Life\u003c\/i\u003e, a Future-of-American-Tennis sort of      thing about the new crop of guys making the transition to the pro      tour. This was back in 2002 and he had just made it, as a freshman      no less, to the NCAA Semifinals, and some of the things they had      to say were cool. They called him \"the Southern Gentleman,\" said      he had an artistry on the court, was well liked in the players'      lounge. But that last summing up had seemed to doom him to the      hinterland of Almost But Not Quite, which, if he was completely      honest, was exactly where he'd spent the decade of his pro career.      He \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e in fact cracked the top fifty (Sandy Alison, 2006, #47 in      the world, you can look it up), had made it once to the third      round of Wimbledon, twice to the second round of the US Open, had      a dozen Challengers titles to his name, the courts back at his      Charleston high school named in his honor, but somehow none of      that was good enough. He was, somehow, in spite of all that, a      loser. It didn't matter that in 2006 he could beat \u003ci\u003eall but      forty-six freaking players in the whole freaking world\u003c\/i\u003e. It didn't      matter that whatever town he drove into he could beat whoever      their best tennis player was, could beat him left-handed for      Pete's sake (and he \u003ci\u003ecould\u003c\/i\u003e too; he used to mess around on the court      playing left-handed when he should have been doing drills)—none of      that mattered. He was—even while people wanted to know him, wanted      to hang out with him because he was a professional athlete—somehow      he was still a loser. He hadn't been a winner—\u003ci\u003ehe lacked the killer      instinct—\u003c\/i\u003eand therefore he had to be a loser. That was how it \u003ci\u003efelt\u003c\/i\u003e anyway, although he didn't ever tell that to anyone. Certainly not      to the woman lying beside him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So yeah, the motorcycle. Maybe all it was, was just that the guy      was a bad drunk. Maybe he was just a bad drunk and it just      happened to have been Sandy who had gotten in his way. But the guy      started calling shit at him across the room the Casino party had      settled into, the women in their cocktail dresses and the men in      their dinner jackets with their ties undone. It got bad enough      that everyone started getting embarrassed for Sandy. The women      wouldn't look at him, or they'd shush the bozo—there was this one      British woman there who kept saying, \"Oh, what rot!\"—and the men      had that look men get when one of them is being singled out. The      challenge, the appraisal, the      are-you-just-gonna-sit-there-and-take-it? look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Earlier in the evening the motorcycle guy had been friendly      enough. Sandy had stood with him on the sidewalk in front of one      of the bars down on lower Thames Street and they'd talked tennis.      The guy knew who Sandy was, knew his career, had himself played      for Williams twenty years earlier, and Sandy had complimented him      on his motorcycle parked alongside the curb—an antique red Indian      Chief with those deeply valanced fenders and the whole Steve      McQueen look—complimented him not because he cared about      motorcycles but just because he was a nice guy, right? Hadn't      \u003ci\u003eTennis Life\u003c\/i\u003e said so?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anyway, inside the bar it got to a point where Sandy had to answer      the guy, had to say something, \u003ci\u003eanything\u003c\/i\u003e, so he called back over      the tables and chairs that separated them: \"Dude, I could beat you      left-handed!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"\u003ci\u003eDude\u003c\/i\u003e?\" the guy had said. \"\u003ci\u003eDude\u003c\/i\u003e?\" Like it was the sorriest-ass      thing anyone could say. And he had this way of spreading his hands      about himself, gesturing toward the others as if to include them      on his side, as if it was the lot of them who'd paid a thousand      dollars a plate against the tennis pro who lacked the killer      instinct. There was no way Sandy could beat him left-handed, the      guy said, and when Sandy challenged him again, the guy had said      okay, he was on. One set. Sandy left-handed. Him right-handed.      He'd put up the Indian.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No Indian,\" Sandy had said. \"We just play.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The bozo went \"\u003ci\u003epfft\u003c\/i\u003e,\" like what kind of loser was this? Of course      they had to play for something. That's how it was done. \"The      Indian,\" he said again. \"You were drooling over it an hour ago,      pretty boy. It's yours if you can beat me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He had tried to keep his own nonchalance, but the faces on either      side of him began to swim at the edge of his vision: the low-cut      necklines, the pearls and spaghetti straps, the men with      expressions of wanting to look away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"\u003ci\u003eLacks the killer instinct\u003c\/i\u003e,\" the guy said and gazed around the      room with an easy gesture like \u003ci\u003evoilà\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Okay,\" Sandy had said. He tried to make his own easy gesture,      like okay if that's what you want.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The guy turned back to him. \"\u003ci\u003eOkay\u003c\/i\u003e.\" He mimicked Sandy's accent,      making the word sound like it had three syllables, and then after      a few strategic moments had passed: \"And what're \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e putting up,      champ?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And that, he told Aisha, was when he got it. When he understood.      The motorcycle was appraised at 30K, the guy was saying. What was      Sandy going to put up against it? He had walked right into it, he      told her. It hadn't been about tennis. It wasn't even the      drunk-former-college-player-who-thought-he-could've-been-a-pro      thing. He'd seen that before. No, this was about something else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"\u003ci\u003eDude\u003c\/i\u003e?\" the guy mocked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He could feel the heat coming into his face. The whole room began      to swim. He had enough presence of mind not to smile, but that was      about it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What rot!\" the Brit tossed out again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thirty K,\" the guy repeated, \"give or take a couple. I'll accept      stocks, bonds, traveler's checks\"—he was having fun now—\"a new bow      thruster for my thirty-meter—\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And that was when Margo had saved his ass, he told Aisha, who      propped herself up on her elbow like this was the part she wanted      to hear about. This classy-looking woman who stood up and      ring-tossed a necklace down on the table in front of the bozo.      Sandy had noticed her earlier in the evening, tight black dress,      super-short hair, maybe available if it weren't for this girl      with—what? cerebral palsy?—this girl who was always at her side.      Who was even now staring at him with her pale, strained face. The      guy looked at the necklace like it was a grenade that had just      landed in front of him. The classy-looking woman had turned to      Sandy with that hard face he would come to know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You \u003ci\u003ecan\u003c\/i\u003e beat this asshole, right?\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So there had been no other way out. He had stood up and the whole      room had broken into a buzz. They had loaded into their cars (the      Brit lady on the back of the Indian, it turned out), and because      there was no way to get into the Casino now, had driven out to the      high school, where there were lighted courts, but of course it was      two in the morning and the lights were on a timer so they had to      maneuver some of the cars alongside until their headlights lit the      courts. Half a dozen racquets came out of various trunks. Someone      popped a new can of balls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And what could he say? He had destroyed the guy. There was a big      difference between a drunk forty-year-old former Division III      player and a drunk thirty-one-year-old international touring pro      even if the international touring pro was playing left-handed in      his stocking feet and lacked the killer instinct, you tuxedoed      douche-bag. The guy had a big first serve that was a bitch      returning left-handed, but it became clear after the first couple      of games that everything else he had was strictly 4.5. And once      the freaky nerves were gone, Sandy had started totally messing      with the guy, moving him back and forth along the baseline and      then drop-shotting him, moon-balling him just for fun, spinning      the ball, cutting it, slicing it like a Harlem Globetrotter. He      even pulled out this hilarious serve he'd learned from Jimmy      Arias. He'd toss the ball up and swing at it like he normally      would do, only he'd miss it—a total whiff!—and then all in the      same motion, just when the ball was about to touch the ground,      underhand it right into the service box. Only he had to do this      right-handed, but by then nobody cared, not even the bozo      douche-bag who Sandy had to admit had carried the whole thing off      better than he would have expected. When it was over, they met at      the net. The guy was holding out the key to the Indian, telling      him something about how it had a suicide shifter so he'd have to      watch out. The Brit lady was saying she'd always hated the bloody      thing anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Forget it,\" Sandy had said. \"You're drunk. I'm drunk. Everybody's      drunk. Forget it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But as soon as he'd said it he knew it was the wrong thing. Margo      took the key and threw it into his chest, gave him a look like      don't be a loser. (Cripes, he said to Aisha—he said things like      that: cripes, geez, smart aleck—it was part of being a Southern      Gentleman—cripes, it was like he couldn't get anything right that      night!) He'd at least had the good sense to wait until people were      out of earshot before he admitted he didn't know how to ride a      motorcycle. Margo had rolled her eyes, held out her hand for the      key, and Sandy had followed her home in her SUV with the thin,      intense-looking girl sitting silently beside him in the passenger      seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And that's how he'd met Margo. That's how it'd all started, if      \"all\" was a word he could use for an affair that was more off than      it was on. Or rather, an affair that was only on when Margo said      it was-a phone call, a meeting place, and then nothing for days.      Or months, as it turned out once he'd left Newport that past      September. Not a text or a phone call or an e-mail the whole      winter while he was down south at Saddlebrook.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300763226341,"sku":"NP9780735221932","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735221932.jpg?v=1767740448","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-maze-at-windermere-isbn-9780735221932","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}