How bad can it be waking up in 500-thread-count sheets in a secluded villa at Mar-a-Lago, Donald Trump’s private club in Palm Beach? Bad. Pit in your stomach, queasy, sleeping with the enemy bad.“How did this happen?” asked my husband, James.How indeed. A year earlier, we had agreed that James would perform at a benefit in Palm Beach for a leading Boston cancer research hospital. February in Florida, we thought. President’s Day weekend—the kids could come. A no-brainer. One of the organizers … (View original article)
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