“Thanks,” she said, and he nodded. As they climbed aboard, Graham produced a few bills for the driver, and they found a seat near the front, far enough away from the few other passengers, who gazed out the windows toward the back.

“So the next time that woman opens her computer,” Ellie said, leaning against the window, “her search history is going to say something like ‘Graham Larkin punches photographer.’ ”

He laughed. “I think it was actually ‘Graham Larkin clocks the idiot who got too close with his camera.’ ”

As they wound their way out of town, drawing nearer to Kennebunkport, the houses in the windows grew larger and more imposing, huge beachside mansions with porches that jutted out over the water, all of them topped with American flags that waved crisply against the cloudless sky.

Before she’d left this morning, Ellie had found the address of the house where her father was staying, a feat that hadn’t turned out to be all that difficult. The estate had a long history of being rented by important politicians, and there was a sizable paper trail left behind by the journalists who’d made a habit out of lurking around its edges. She’d sifted through enough images that even now, hours later, she could call up the weathered gray siding and wraparound porch with perfect clarity. But what she couldn’t imagine was walking up the flagstone path and knocking on those red double doors. What she couldn’t imagine was coming face-to-face with Paul Whitman.

She turned to Graham, who was hiding a yawn behind his hand. “Okay,” she said, her voice businesslike. “I need a plan of attack.”

“Going to war, are we?”

“I can’t just waltz up to his house without knowing how this is gonna work,” she said, swiveling to face him more fully. “What if his wife’s there? And his sons?”

“Your half brothers,” Graham pointed out, and Ellie shrugged.

“I guess.”

“Well, have you figured out what you want to say to him?”

“Sort of,” she said, which wasn’t exactly true. She had no idea what she wanted to say. How could she, when she wasn’t even quite sure how she felt? She’d spent years studying his photos and watching his interviews, observing the life he’d built from afar, wondering what it would be like to be part of it. But now that she was this close, the idea that he might not be happy to see her was too devastating to consider.

After all, he hadn’t ever denied that he was her father—at least not in any kind of official capacity—but he hadn’t ever acknowledged it either. Which meant that in the eyes of the world, she was still fatherless and he was still daughterless. And there was no way of knowing how he’d react when she showed up at his door. Was it possible that he might recognize her? Would she recognize him? And not just in the way she did in the newspapers, but on a deeper level; she wondered if there’d be some spark of familiarity, of belonging, something to indicate that they were more than just two strangers standing on opposite sides of a doorway. That they were family.

Ellie wasn’t sure. She was grateful to be armed with the knowledge that he wasn’t aware of what had happened last night, that at the very least, she hadn’t yet dragged his name through the papers. But there were still so many other unknowns.

“Practice on me,” Graham suggested, sitting up taller against the back of the seat and puffing out his chest. He dipped one eyebrow and arranged his mouth into an overly serious frown. “Hello there, young lady,” he said, and the imitation of her father was so striking that Ellie gave his arm a little shove.

“Stop,” she said. “Too weird.”

Graham relaxed again, unfazed. “Okay, then what?”

“I guess I’m just gonna knock on the door and see what happens.”

“At least you’ve got the element of surprise on your side,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “He’ll be caught off guard, and it’ll give you a chance to figure out how to play it.”

“I guess,” she said, turning back to the window.

As they neared the edge of the town, the smell of seafood was heavy in the air, wafting through the open windows of the bus. Up ahead, they could see that crowds of people filled the streets, and she felt a pang of regret at missing the celebration back in Henley. Rows of flags were draped above the long picnic tables, and a few curls of smoke twisted in the air above the shops.

Graham inhaled deeply. “Must be a clambake,” he said as the bus pulled to a stop in front of a much grander-looking tourist office, presumably with someone far more welcoming inside. Ellie didn’t relish the thought of passing through the throngs of people with Graham, who would surely attract unwanted attention, and once she stepped off the bus behind him, she handed over his sunglasses, which he’d left on his seat.

“Not as good as the mustache,” he said as he put them on. “But they’ll have to do.”

There was a map at the bus stop, and Ellie could see that the house wasn’t far, set off on a small peninsula just north of the main shopping district. They’d have to cut through town to get there, but once they made it through the busy streets, it shouldn’t take long. As she followed Graham in the direction of the party, she pictured the red front door of the house the way a quarterback pictures the end zone, trying to focus in spite of the noise and the music and the smell of food.

“I wouldn’t mind a lobster roll first,” Graham said as they reached the party, a sea of red, white, and blue shirts. Dozens of picnic tables were arranged end to end, stretching up and down the length of the main street, but the party spilled over onto the sidewalks and into the stores. There were children everywhere, in wagons and on bicycles, carrying water balloons or cookies, left mostly to their own devices as their parents tended the food or just tipped back their bottles of beer with willful obliviousness.

Ellie was trying to remember the last time they’d eaten, and when she realized it was the melted chocolate back on the boat, her stomach growled too.

Graham stopped when they reached the first checkered table. “It’s like a mirage,” he joked. “Exactly how long were we lost at sea?”

The blue checkered tablecloths were almost completely hidden by trays of food: clams and oysters and shrimp, but also hot dogs and hamburgers and chips, potato salad and corn on the cob and chocolate cupcakes. Graham walked straight down to an enormous tray of lobster rolls, and the man behind the table—who wore a lobster apron they carried back at the shop—raised a pair of tongs and looked at Graham inquiringly.

“Want one?” he asked, and Graham gave Ellie a pleading look.

“Go ahead,” she said. “But let’s take it to go.”

“Don’t worry, I can walk and eat at the same time,” he told her, then added, “I’m very talented.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said, but she was distracted by a swell of murmurs that rippled through the knot of people to her left. She stood on her tiptoes to see what was causing the crowd to part, and when she did, her heart began to drill against her chest. She cast a frenzied glance back at Graham, but he was still talking to the guy in the lobster apron as he tried to separate two paper plates.

Ellie whirled back around, her mouth dry. There, not ten feet away, was her father. He smiled as he shook hands, looking more relaxed than usual in a red polo shirt and khakis, his salt-and-pepper hair ruffled by the breeze. He was tall and thin, towering over the crowd as he made his way through, and there was a photographer just behind him, snapping the occasional photo as he paused to admire a baby or pump someone’s hand with a sincere smile. But otherwise he was alone: no aides or reporters, no wife or kids.

Ellie’s knees locked as the number of people between them dwindled. It was clearly nothing more than a meet and greet, a casual public appearance, and he kept each conversation short, just a quick exchange of pleasantries while he worked his way through the crowd. As he drew closer, her mind whirred frantically, trying to find traction. But suddenly, she found she couldn’t remember anything: why she’d come, what to say, how she was supposed to act.