Chris chimes in, eyes shining wistfully. “And now you get to live here in Seaview with her. Any of us would kill to be adopted by the queen of mystery.”

White heat flashes through me, rage racing up my esophagus like a herd of fire ants. I want to tell him exactly where to shove his envy of my situation, but Natalie proves a capable wingwoman, steering me away right on cue.

“Cecelia has better things to do than waste her time on pathetic cosplay. Go stalk some other Weston nostalgia site and stop creeping on kids.” Natalie practically sneers at the crowd, as though daring them to follow. “And enjoy your blog,” she tosses over her shoulder with a singsong derision.

Natalie may be harsh, but I find I don’t mind when she is on my side.

The Bergens’ town house is a two-story cream Craftsman trimmed in sage green, with a gorgeous oak in the front yard that fills it with shade. Natalie breezes through the front door ahead of me, dropping her purse onto a waiting side table, and gestures to a receiving room to my left before heading toward the kitchen. “Hit the button on the door over there and wait until she calls you. Come up to my room when you’re done.”

I’m left to guess where said room is, but that’s a later problem. For now, I do as instructed, pressing my finger to a doorbell to the right of a barn-style sliding door before stepping back to survey the sitting room. The house has been lovingly restored, dark walnut window frames and columns gleaming. There’s a built-in window seat next to recessed bookshelf panels boasting beachy knickknacks amid a collection of dry clinical tomes mixed in with pop psychology books. The title NurtureShock catches my eye, and I pull it off the shelf and flip to the front flap.

There’s a soft whir behind me, then a gently clearing throat; I whip around, fumbling the book in my hands, to find an older, somehow more attractive version of Natalie waiting. I didn’t study her closely at the party Saturday. It’s just unfair, that Natalie’s destined to become more attractive as time goes on, if her mother is any indication. Some people are so pretty their beauty acts like a balm to set you at ease, and Dr. Shelby’s is a soothing, perfectly symmetrical face I am fine to open up to.

I realize I’m still holding the book. “Sorry,” I say, sliding it back into its place with some haste.

“Don’t apologize. That’s what the books are there for. I’m only sorry to not have given you proper time to browse. There’s something lovely about the space in between things, when we can let our minds wander, take new ideas in.”