Out on the water, an oyster dredge circled the seeding beds while baymen raked clams in the flats. Beethoven on Sonos, cicadas in the trees, pugs at his feet. It was a brilliant cloudless September afternoon. He had chosen the seating area under a trellis in front of the house, his house, a brick Tudor colossus set on a rise on the southeastern tip of a peninsula called Centre Island, on Long Island’s North Shore. Billy Joel sat smoking a cigarillo on a patio overlooking Oyster Bay.
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