"The great unwashed of Little Lost Island don't seem to recognize a goddess in their midst," he said. "Do you suppose they've never seen you in a film?"

"They saw me disgrace myself at the Oscars," said Caroline. "And they don't like a bad sport."

"Were you a bad sport at the Oscars? I haven't watched it since they snubbed Gorsch for Best Song."

Good old Beverly. "Maybe it was that time in Montauk with the SUV. They've decided they don't trust me around any summer colony."

"That wasn't you, was it?" asked Beverly, and Caroline smiled.

"No, it wasn't me."

"Maybe they are afraid of their island being discovered."

"But I love it here." She surprised herself with that declaration.

"The hat party will reveal all," said Beverly. They had arrived at the Whyte cottage. It was not quite as grand as their own. This one was painted white, with dark green shutters and green trim. It may have been older than their place-it was clapboard, and looked more like a farmhouse than a summer cottage.

"Oh, look at the windows," said Caroline. She loved old, irregular glass-glass made by hand, not by a machine set to Olde. The window boxes bloomed with petunias, and something that smelled like honeysuckle grew up the sidewall. An oak tree loomed over the roof. There was a refrigerator on the back porch that anywhere else would look tacky, but here looked sensible. Beverly took his time climbing the few steps. This island was not easy terrain for a seventy-eight-year-old New Yorker. "Be careful of those shoes," she said. There were at least seven pairs of sun-bleached Keds and Tretorns on the side of the porch, and a full complement of gardening clogs. "They're all eccentric in their own way, aren't they?" she observed.

"The islanders or the cottages?" asked Beverly.

"Both, I suppose."

All at once, Lottie appeared hazily through the screen door. "I thought I heard the Caroline voice," she said. "Come on in! They have mushroom melts!"

Despite the current trend of Kobe beef sliders and lobster mac and cheese in shot glasses, English muffins slathered in butter with canned mushrooms and Velveeta had not made an appearance in Caroline's hors d'oeuvres circuit. They were fantastic.

"I suppose we'd better do this," said Beverly. "We're here."

"That hat is gorgeous on you," said Lottie. "Where did you find it? Oh, this is Bill Keating-I met him playing tennis. Say hello to Caroline, Bill."

"Hello, Bill," said Caroline in the voice she knew from her accounting firm was worth a fortune.

The affable Bill looked startled, and then shot out his hand. "Nice to meet you but I was just getting a drink for the matriarch. I'll be back in a bit."

"Super," Caroline said, but she was sure he would not return.

Her eyes scanned the room. The hats were impressive. There were indeed a few matrons in their tennis visors, but most people there had made an effort. The hats all fit the faces pretty well. A lot of women don't know how to wear hats in the modern era, Caroline thought, but these women seemed to have the knack. Probably because their hats all came from similar attics and were originally made for similar gene pools.

She looked around for Rose. She was deep in conversation with one of the island matriarchs, a very old, very wrinkled lady with brilliantly clear eyes and a permanent smile. Rose was nodding, intent on the conversation. She towered over the tiny woman. Caroline ventured over but Rose did not notice her, and she was loath to interrupt, so she became absorbed instead in her surroundings. There was a Whyte family crest over the mantelpiece, a relic of the fifties, probably. The white Whytes of Whyte.

But Caroline supposed these people couldn't help being WASPs any more than she could. She was to the manor born and they were to the cottage born. She reached for a deviled egg on the weighty Victorian table and made up some pedigrees for the guests before her.

"You're very smiley," said Jon. "I hope you're not still thinking of that episode on the beach."

"I wasn't," said Caroline. She somehow felt as if Jon were an old pal, since she had seen the precise size of his penis (average, though of course she would exaggerate its size if asked; all women were actresses in that regard). "Lottie's making friends over there," she said. They both noticed Lottie standing alongside a fireplace mantel made from what looked like beach stones. "She's very lovely up here, isn't she?" Caroline remarked.

"She is," said Jon. He smiled at Caroline. "And Ethan is easier to take up here. Even when he almost throws himself out of a moving boat, like he did yesterday."

"I take it you rescued him?"

"Rose rescued his hat, which meant no one needed to rescue Ethan. Now he's at this party and he's fine with playing with the big kids outside." Caroline looked where Jon was gesturing. Her young thespians were playing Wiffle ball and making dandelion chains. They had another rehearsal on Saturday morning, though right now she didn't much feel like extending herself for their island parents.

"Little Lost Island is working its magic, I guess." She tried not to sound too down.

"But not on you," he said quickly. "Where are the hordes that should be surrounding you? Lottie says she heard there was another big movie star or a movie mogul or someone trying to buy up a whole island community somewhere south of here. I bet that's why they're all shunning you."

Caroline blinked as she said, "I did come here to be away."

"It's still weird how they don't flock around. I'd flock around you if I didn't have Lottie." He said it in such a friendly way that it didn't sound creepy.

"They don't like people who make spectacles of themselves here." She took off the cloche and shook out her hair, in as far from a stagey way as was possible with that gesture. "Would you be a dear and get me a Ketel One with a twist, Jon? I'll see if Beverly needs taking care of."

Caroline need not have worried about Beverly. He was talking with two earnest young men, who weren't in the least WASPy. One had a sleek, polished Eurasian look; the other was surely Indian. They were handsome and well dressed and were entranced by Beverly.

"They're called the Gay Blades," said Lottie, coming up behind Caroline suddenly and diving into her thoughts as she tended to do. "A cappella. They sing Gorsch's songs at college. They were about to bust out that 'Blue Willow' song for him here but he wouldn't let them. None of them can believe that there's someone here who knew him."

"Knew him intimately," said Jon. He had arrived, plastic cup with vodka in hand. "No Ketel One. They're not great believers in brand-name alcohol at this cottage." He kissed Lottie on the lips. "You look gorgeous in that hat," he said.

"I'll have to take it off when we go back-it's raining," said Lottie. "The weather never stays still here. Ethan's coming in. I guess the game broke up. How was the game, lovey?"

"I won and I got new friends," said Ethan. He looked vastly pleased with himself. "This is my lucky hat."

"You are our lucky kid," said Jon.

Caroline did not want to be around such happiness, even if they did not mean to exclude her. She would have spoken to Rose, looking ethereal in the garland of flowers she'd made for a hat, but she was still intent on the elderly woman with the bright eyes and Caroline did not have the heart to wade in.

"I'll duck home, I think," she said. "The hat party has not been a success for me."

With the twins at their aunt's and his manuscript begging for yet another twist and possibly a new location (Lake Toba?), Fred was more than happy to leave the apartment. It had taken some doing, but he was on his way to his film producers' office for a casting consultation. He felt rather sheepish, as the casting decisions were supposed to be based on videos. Holly had to go to such lengths to make this happen. She was a good agent.

He had chosen his outfit the night before-something he never did, but he wanted to strike the right note, since he was posing as his agent's assistant and Holly would be at the meeting as Mike McGowan's agent. It was a thin ruse, but he had to get in front of Caroline Dester somehow. He needed to know if he'd be as obsessed with her in the flesh as he was with her on his laptop. Holly figured there was an ulterior motive for his tagging along incognito-"Are you going to reveal yourself at last?" she joked-but she didn't pry. Danny Lowenstein generally liked to please authors and their agents (he had literary pretensions), and the meet and greet was confirmed. "You could just say you're Mike McGowan," Holly had told him. "They're not going to recognize you as Fred Arbuthnot from the MacArthur website, that's for sure. I'd make you get a new photo if you actually wanted to be known. You look like a young Franz Kafka in your genius picture, and not in a good way." Holly always knew how to cut to the chase, also not in a good way.

He gave himself a last glance in the mirror, decided to ditch the tie. Writers are supposed to be the worst-dressed people in the room, he remembered someone-Charlie Kaufman?-saying. Maybe I'll wear the tie after all.

The office wasn't as glamorous as he'd thought it would be, and he'd thought it wouldn't be glamorous. The Lowenstein Company clearly believed the framed lobby-sized movie posters were impressive enough. And they were: all the big blockbusters and a whole bunch of Oscars had been conjured out of this office. His movie almost paled in comparison with the rest of them. But it had been Danny Lowenstein's baby, and he knew how to make a cash-cow franchise. The Pentagon Conscription was a clear moneymaker in the U.S. and had brought in a lot of gravy overseas, so Fred congratulated himself on deserving his place on the wall. He allowed himself to stare at his poster-he felt suddenly legitimized in this context-with "Based on the novel by Mike McGowan" in the same point size as the screenwriter's credit, per his contract.

A soignee assistant, doubtless unpaid, smiled mechanically as Holly and he took the three or four footsteps to the reception desk. "We're here for the Mike McGowan meeting," Holly said.

"The meet and greet," the assistant replied. "You must be Holly Stampler. And you are . . . ?"

"This is my assistant, Fred Rose," said Holly. It was the alias they had decided on; it sounded wistful now.

"Please wait here. Can I get you some water?"

"Please," said Holly. She had warned Fred to say nothing.

"Cold or room temperature?"

"Either," Holly said.

Two ostentatiously humble glasses of tepid water were produced in an instant.

"I love when they pitch to us," she said to Fred and clinked glasses with him. She was the type of agent who hovered over every deal, saying whatever everyone wanted to hear and then agreeing to nothing until she got every single thing she wanted. Fred had made Holly rich, and she him. He had barely put his glass to his lips when the assistant said, "Follow me, please."

They wound down a narrow corridor festooned with more posters, to a nondescript windowless conference room. "Danny will be with you in a few moments," said the assistant. Fred named her Montana in his head. Four or even six years in the liberal arts and now poor Montana was a dogsbody to a reputed bully and ingenue fucker. He wondered idly where the economy would be when Bea and Ben were her age.

It was a lot more than a few moments.

Holly was texting, so Fred picked up The Hollywood Reporter and started to read the self-aggrandizing ads that proliferated even now, in the dead of August. He loosened and tightened his tie.

"Should I keep the tie?" he asked, stupidly.

"You are very needy today," Holly said without looking up.

Had she guessed his obsession with Caroline Dester? If she had, she was refusing to acknowledge it. His plan was not quite clear, but he was scripting it in his head. Caroline walks in; something pulls her gaze to his undeniably manly presence, which cuts through the pretense of Hollywood to the intellectual superiority of the literary world and all it carries with it. Their eyes lock. The meeting proceeds, with Holly and Danny bluffing their way through it while he and Caroline screw with their eyes. She suddenly excuses herself, giving him the glance that unmistakably means I want you to fuck my brains out. He follows her twitching ass into a beige office with a large couch made for the purpose, and before they even get to the couch, he does exactly that.

"Holly!"

Danny Lowenstein's gravelly voice crushed the fantasy to pieces. Holly rose to shake his hand but Fred did not dare rise. He hoped his failure to stand would be taken as deferential-as Holly's assistant I am too inconsequential to be acknowledged, was his message. It seemed to work. He was unnoticed, as was Danny's assistant, who had shrunk into a corner when Danny came in.

Danny and Holly's exchange of pleasantries was actually a pissing match: his movies versus her books that spawned his movies. Fred barely registered. Would Caroline follow through the door Danny had come in? Or from the door behind him? Was she usually this late? (Their meeting, scheduled for four thirty, was already running forty-five minutes behind and it hadn't actually begun yet.) How late could he be to call the twins if she wanted him more than once?

Jesus, Fred. Get a grip. Listen up.

"Mike sends his regards," said Holly. "He loves you. He loves the movies. He can't wait to see what you do with the next one. And he's so pleased that you were able to get Caroline Dester set up for this." She glanced ever so swiftly in Fred's direction. Oh, she knows, he thought. "Will she be joining us soon?"

"I love Caroline but Caroline's out of town," said Danny. "I set up this meet and greet with you and she skips out."

Fred caught his breath. What a stupid fool I am. Of course she is not going to show up for the author's agent. Much less for the author. The walls felt more windowless than they already were. Let me get out of here. What a schoolboy.

"It's August, Holly. No one's working except you and me."

"Oh, that is too bad," she said, "when we came down here especially. Mike said specifically I should meet her face-to-face so he could feel comfortable with her in the part."

"Mike will feel comfortable when he cashes the checks," said Danny, "if Caroline is attached."

"She did have that unfortunate moment at-"

Danny cut her off. "You know she's good for the franchise; she'll kill this part. It'll stretch her." He grinned.

Fred imagined Danny with a bleeding, broken nose.

Holly proffered the autographed "commemorative" edition of the new book that Fred had signed for Caroline. It was one of the hundred clothbound boxed copies Random House had had printed for collectors-an easy way for the publisher to make more cash in the age of e-books, and nice for movie stars.

"This was our leave-behind," Holly said with her don't-deny-me smile. "It's for Caroline."

"I'll make sure she gets it," said Danny. "Nice to see you, Holly."

The assistant rose to accept the book from Holly. She'd be pretty if she didn't look so scared, Fred thought. A young, scared Liv Tyler.

"Oh, I don't want to burden you with that. We'll send it to her," Holly said. "If you let us know where she is."

"All we know is she's on an island somewhere," Danny said. "We can't reach her."

Fred was defeated and humiliated. He signaled to Holly. "Your drinks date is next," he said in a quiet assistant voice. Montana gave a tiny smile of solidarity.

"Mike asked me to put this into Caroline's hands today," said Holly. "I'll fly it to Tenerife if I have to."

"If I could tell you where she went, I would," said Danny. "I'd do anything to get Mike's blessing on this casting decision; you know that. But I really don't know where she is. She texted me her coordinates before she left. My assistant is supposed to keep all my texts but she's an idiot and she deleted it." Montana blinked twice. The kid must be new, Fred thought with sympathy. "Too bad, Holly. It was great to see you. I'll let you get to your cocktails. Anyone I know?" He gave Holly the requisite air kiss. "The kid will take you to the elevator," he said and left the room. "If she hadn't screwed up, we could have helped," he said with utmost fake sincerity, and closed the door.

Holly and Fred wound through the long corridor back to the tiny entryway to the elevator. That's when Montana, bless her heart, spoke up. "I didn't screw up," she said, with something of a pout. "Here it is."

Fred's pulse raced. "Oh, well done," said Holly. "Fred, take it down, will you?"

Montana showed him her screen. Not only was Caroline's cell number in evidence; she had given Danny Lowenstein her precise location. Fred thought he could memorize the address of anywhere Caroline might be, but he couldn't memorize this.

44.333640 N, 68.049994 W.

He took a snapshot with his own phone. The elevator door closed.

"She'll never work in this town again," said Holly. Fred, staring at his phone, did not reply. "Careful what you wish for, Fred Rose," she added. Fred barely heard her.

Holly's car was waiting but Fred elected to take the subway so he could search the jumble of numbers as he walked. He stood on the sidewalk outside Tribeca Grill and willed his hands to stop trembling. "If she's not in Maui, I'm going," he said. And she wasn't in Maui, that much he knew from the 44th parallel. "Come on, come on," he said as his phone churned. "Shit."

He must have entered the numbers wrong. Google was not showing an island. Would he have to wait till he got home to figure this out? He couldn't.

He took a deep breath, got himself onto the Google Earth site: much more accurate. He found it at once.

Little Lost Island, Maine.

Jesus Christ, she's on an island in the same state as Rose, he thought. Why can't I catch a break?

He Googled "number of islands in Maine" and the second site gave him his answer. God bless mainethingstodo.com, he thought.

Maine's coast is sheltered by as many as 4613 islands.

That was enough. He looked up from his screen and thought of having his way with Caroline on the soft moss of the forest floor as she begged him for more. He was going up there, if he had to row the whole way. He sighed a deep sigh. Maine is a very big state. Forty-six hundred thirteen is a lot of islands.

He whistled as he took the subway steps two at a time and planned his trip. "What are the chances?" he thought.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.