The taller one points to the older one. “He was on an off-Broadway production based on the children’s book series. Chicago Tribune called it subversive and funny.”

“Very far off Broadway,” the older one says with a wink. “Oliver Morrison at your service. And this is my brother, Lucas. Nothing the blogs write about us is ever true. We’ve tried emailing them, but they insist on snapping unflattering photos of us at Walgreens.”

“Our claim to fame is our parents, really.” He names a super popular actor and actress.

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t even know they were married.”

They exchange another look. “They weren’t. Anyway, we don’t want to talk about ourselves. We’ve done that lots of times already. We want to talk about you.”

“I’m not interesting. No famous actors or actresses in my family line. No off-Broadway plays. No tabloids or blogs or Instagrams or anything really. I’m just a regular girl.”

“A regular girl who Beau Rochester can’t stop staring at.”

I glance at him, and sure enough, he’s staring right at me. Our eyes meet across the room. Zoey is practically in his lap, which I think can’t be good for his leg, but I’m certainly not going to move her. There are invisible strings that pull me toward him, even as I’m standing still. I can feel the gravity from him, though whether he’s the planet and I’m the star or the other way around, I don’t know. In his dark eyes I see his frustration with the dinner party small talk, the lingering pain from his leg, his intense desire to get a whiskey neat.

The only person I actually recognize is a famous Latino actor, but I would never want to presume. What if I’m wrong? What if I think it’s him just because he’s ridiculously good looking? Everyone looks different in a Maine sitting room compared to a red-carpet photo.

Mrs. Fairfax appears in the doorway. “Dinner’s served.”

The group makes their way to the dining room. I gather Paige from the bar cart where someone’s been mixing elaborate drinks. She’s fascinated by the striations in color, one drink full of sunset oranges and yellows with a hint of purple, another with alternating blue and green layers. It’s probably not the best part of her education that she learns about cocktail mixing, but at least she’s not drinking them. She just wants to rest her chin on the cart and watch them the same way you’d do for a lava lamp.

“Come on,” I tell her. “Time to eat dinner.”