“You and your ‘sophisticated palate,’ as your mom put it.” Maura clucks. “And, yes, I couldn’t stand the stuff. Thought it was an awful waste of sugar and cream. In pure, liquid form, however…don’t know how I’d write books without it!”

“Cocaine,” Suzanne suggests dryly. They laugh again.

I like their banter, their in-jokes. I want to be in on this, learn the easy beats of their conversations.

“And who are these friends you’ve made, Celia?” There it is again, but now I think I like the nickname. It’s special, something just for me and her.

“Oh, I only know their first names,” I say, just now realizing it for myself. You don’t exactly do full introductions at school. “Except for Amber Morrow—I caught that. Oh, and Luke Rinaldi. The others are Bronte, Natalie, and Morgan. Natalie’s dad is the mayor.” I remember that.

“Morrow?” Maura narrows her eyes, thinking. “Mom works at Quinn’s, father’s the sheriff. And Rinaldi is ubiquitous. Mrs. Rinaldi is the president of the university, and her husband’s family owns an award-winning vineyard. Only moved here a decade ago or so, but we like them, all the same.” She looks to the sideboard and frowns. “Suzanne, can you get my phone? I want to text Grace about the others. Want to know who my granddaughter is spending time with.”

I think she’s joking until Suzanne indeed retrieves a cell phone and her fingers start flying over the screen. “Austen?” she asks. “Bronte,” I correct before rattling off the rest of the names again.

I’m finishing up my meatloaf when Maura’s phone buzzes on the edge of the table. She holds it up close to her face, squints. “Bronte Escano, Luke Rinaldi, Natalie Bergen, and Morgan Quinn. Oh.” Her eyebrows rise. “Good job, girly. You’re in with the titans of industry.”

“What?”

She smirks. “Bronte Escano’s mom runs the Seaview Register. Quinn, as I’m sure you can guess, owns the diner, plus the grocery store and two gas stations. It’ll sound trivial to you, but it’s the beating heart of a place like this. And Bradley Bergen, Natalie’s father, is the mayor, as you know. Wife’s a prominent therapist, too. That’s a lot of power concentrated in one friend group. And my baby has a seat at the table.”

Maura beams, and I realize with a twist in my stomach that she is legitimately proud. Social cachet has value to her, and I’ve lucked into a winning friend group, one worthy of Maura Weston. Though a part of me wonders if that’s precisely why. Perhaps the only reason I was invited to that lunch table is because of who I’m related to. Even more reason to leave this town as quickly as possible.