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The stars of Nights in Rodanthe are not Diane Lane and Richard Gere, but an endless cavalcade of desirable things: scented candles, wicker caddies, fine china, and one of a kind driftwood curios--a fantasy of Crate and Barrel luxury softly lit and spritzed with air freshener. Even catalogs need to show people actually using the stuff, and that's why Adrienne (Lane) and Paul--excuse me, Dr. Paul (Gere)--are there, to wander through the luxurious rooms of the beachfront inn where both have gone to lick their wounds: hers from a failed marriage and a teenage daughter (Mae Whitman) who despises her, his from a professional disgrace. Their romance proceeds pretty much pro forma, with commentary and material support from Jean (Viola Davis), an African-American woman who, if this movie was made in the 1930s, would have been Adrienne's maid, but now performs the same magical help duties as "best friend." Fine enough that this movie is made for domesticity-weary women to swoon equally over Gere's crinkly eyes and well-appointed rooms that miraculously vacuum themselves, but the most pornographic moment for the Febreze set comes when Adrienne's daughter blubbers remorse for being so mean to Mom.