Chapter 18: Table Eight

Camille crossed the dining room with her glass and sat down at table eight without being asked.

The man with the camera sat down behind her shoulder and the red light stayed on.

"Don't mind him," she said. "He's doing a little date night story for my followers. Silvan, you look wonderful."

"Camille," Silvan said, in a voice I had not heard from him.

"Lacey, honey. I just have to ask you something, for everyone who's worried."

She turned to the lens, and her whole face turned warm.

"Lacey was there. She saw it. Tell us, sweetheart. Was Gerry aggressive?"

"His name is Gerald," I said.

"Of course. Was he aggressive?"

I reached into my bag and took out my notepad, and the cameraman leaned in.

"I can only tell you what happened," I said. "I'll tell you in order."

"Please do."

"The gate was open. Gerald's owner was twenty feet away on the phone."

"Gerald did not growl, and he did not bare a tooth."

"You were screaming."

"I was screaming at 3:40 in the afternoon on my own lawn, in bare feet, holding a spatula. Anyone would."

A woman at the next table laughed. Camille smiled with her teeth.

"He's eighty-eight pounds, Lacey."

"He is. My dog is fourteen. Gerald's owner said off once, in a quiet voice, and Gerald got off."

"Gerry always did listen to Silvan."

"That's another Gerry," I said.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm keeping count. That's two since you sat down, and his name is Gerald. It's a dollar each."

I wrote it on my napkin, under the tip.

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