It was a perfectly elegant early summer night. The night was full and bright with flickering starlight, high up in the New England country sky. All of her closest friends and family had gathered together, about twenty or so perfectly posh people, to celebrate her thirtieth birthday with cheerful glee and calamity. After the rain had washed out the party at the lakeside gazebo, the caterer had delivered doubled the hors d’oeuvres and no entrées, and TiTi Lucy’s dog had devoured the cake; everyone simply congregated into the main dining hall of the extravagant summer cottage, which had been purchased by her, once again, absent father.
There Rebecca stood straight and tall, as tall as she possible could being only five feet and five inches. She wore her simplistically long and plainly elegant black dress as usual, with her hair pulled back perfectly, into a single straight ponytail.
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