She was delighted by our game. I could see the little surges of excitement coming over her as we introduced ourselves to the other artists.

“I’m Lonnie,” I said. It became more natural with practice.

The couple we were speaking to, an attractive pair in their thirties, nodded. Lonnie’s hand fluttered on my back. I could see, from the corner of my eye, her smile overwhelming her face. She could hardly contain herself. “Have you ever read Lonnie’s writing?” she said.

“I haven’t yet had the pleasure,” the woman answered for both of them.

Lonnie’s other hand was fluttering now, moving up and down like she was about to alight. “Well, how do I describe it? It’s subtle, but there’s something dark about it. She has amazing attention to detail.”

“What’s the title of your book?” the woman asked.

Lonnie and I looked at each other. “Woman in a Double Frame,” I said quickly, stealing the title of Carlow’s painting.

“It’s a sort of mystery,” she added.

“I think I’ve heard of that,” the woman replied, to Lonnie’s obvious delight.

“It was a small press,” Lonnie said. “Word didn’t get around too much, but it had a lovely review in Nylon.”

“That’s not true,” I said, thinking about how grateful I was there was no Internet service up there, so at least we wouldn’t be caught in this lie right away. “They said it got a little carried away with itself.”

“That’s just like you, to focus on that one sentence. Anyway, they meant it in a good way. They meant the text was having fun.”

THERE WAS ONE OTHER WOMAN AT THE COLONY WITH A CHILD, a little boy, about five years old. The woman looked more like his grandmother; she was probably in her fifties. They arrived after us, and as soon as they walked in the boy took off running, across the room and back again, dodging the legs of guests, nearly tripping a waiter carrying a tray of fried pickles on little spears.

The woman watched him go, but said nothing about it. Lonnie whispered, “One of those couples that spends a lot of money and time trying to get pregnant—a last-ditch effort—and so the child can do no wrong.”

“Oh no, do you know them?” I asked, my stomach sinking at the prospect of being found out.

“Of course not,” Lonnie said. “I know about her. She writes horrible plays.” She led me to the woman, her hand on the small of my back again. We were doing a terrible job of acting like each other. A nanny would never be leading her employer around like this. “Really, really, atrocious,” she said through her smile as we approached.

“Gigi Harrison,” the woman said. “Playwright.”

“Lonnie Bernard,” I said, finding it difficult to not ironically mirror her disaffected tone. “Writer.”