Chapter 20: The Toast

At seven on Saturday night the Pavilion lobby was full of folding chairs, white flowers and people in dark clothes.

Camille had hired a string trio.

She had hung a photograph of Dean on an easel beside the stone, a big one, with his easy grin and his sunburned nose.

The stone behind it was still bare, and nobody mentioned that.

The donors had come anyway, because it was the donors' night, and they filled the back rows in their church shoes.

My father sat in the aisle seat with Junie asleep on his shoulder.

The grandmother had the seat beside him and her purse on her knees.

Colt stood at the very back by the doors, with his arms folded.

He had asked me on Friday whether he should come.

I had said, stand where I can see you, and say nothing.

I wore the navy dress.

In the pocket of it was my phone, and in the phone was a file Colt had sent me on Thursday night, with a text that said only: This is yours.

Camille rose from the front row and went to the microphone in black silk, with her eyes already wet.

"Thank you all for coming," she said. "I wanted a night to say what Dean meant."

She spoke for a long time.

She spoke of his laugh and his boat and how he never missed a Sunday dinner, and about a third of the room was crying by the end.

I watched the faces.

I watched the banker, who did not cry, and the retired judge, who did not either.

"And now," Camille said, turning toward me with open hands, "I would like Della to say a few words. She knew him, too."

The room turned.

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