They were seated at a table by the railing, close enough to the tree that Gina could have reached out and touched a glass pickle. The man helped her out of her coat and hung it over the back of her chair, which she allowed, and then sat across from her and put his hands flat on the tablecloth like someone preparing to negotiate a treaty.
"Graham," he said. "Graham Ellsworth."
"Of course it is," said Gina.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you look like a Graham. You look like a Graham who has a brother named Spencer and a dog named Admiral."
"I'm an only child," he said, "and the dog was named Commodore." He considered this. "That's not much better, is it."
"It's worse. It's so much worse." She pulled off her gloves one finger at a time, the way her mother did at weddings, and laid them beside her plate. "Regina Castellano. Gina. Nobody calls me Regina except my mother when I've done something and the nuns at St. Barbara's, and the nuns are all dead or in Arizona."
"Gina," he repeated, as though he were testing the weight of it. "And what do you do, Gina, when you aren't stealing dolls from children who don't exist?"
"I write copy at Fitch, Morrow and Kale on Michigan Avenue."