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And in the middle of it all, at the end of the road, was the marina. The drive led to the dock and the dock led to the lake. Populating it were canoes, kayaks, rowboats, paddle boats and even a handful of small sail boats - dinghies as it were, that belonged to the local sailing club. They didn’t get out on the water that much but when they did, and the orange sun set through their sails, they were quite the sight on that little lake of theirs.
Guests had been arriving for the better part of an hour, though it felt like the party was still ramping up. Some had found seats at the tables and chairs that dotted the perimeter. In particular, there was a trio of proctologists from the firm of Poekum & Cee, along with their wives, swapping vegetable themed war stories over icy cold gin and tonics.
Some were at the bar. Of note were the all female legal team of Ditchum, Quick & Hyde. Three local ladies who specialized in divorce, though lately they’d been dabbling in personal injury and malpractice.
And some were even on the dance floor including two couples who had gone into business together and purchased a Cuddle Party franchise. Along with their surprisingly numerous private clients, they held public parties, cuddle parties, regularly, the first Friday of every month.
Word around town was that a few of these parties had led to a little late night swinging. Which, though still just a rumor, was making some of the local clergy even more uptight than usual. In fact, Father John was currently expressing his displeasure with the whole situation to Officer Cole and Chief Kelly over a heavy splash of Irish whiskey down by the dock.
But most had been caught up in the receiving line where the Mayor was currently holding court. Everyone was expected to go through the receiving line. Upon entering, everyone lined up to pay homage to the birthday boy.
“So nice to see you,” said the Mayor as he shook another hand and bid the owner well. “Have fun.”
“Mr and Mrs Thickwicket,” Patrick whispered into the Mayor’s ear as the next couple moved into place. “They own the Chat ’n Chew coffee shop on Sixth.”
“Of course, of course… I’ve known Thickwicket for years,” said the Mayor as he grinned broadly and offered his hand.
“Good evening,” said Thickwicket as he shook the Mayor’s greasy hand.
“Happy Birthday,” said Mrs Thickwicket when it was her turn.
“How’s the shop?”
“Good. Good.”
“Still have those delicious buttered crumpets?”
“Every day.”
“Great, great. I’ll be by very soon,” said the Mayor, sending them off with a wave and a smile.
“And this is…” Patrick began.
But the Mayor cut him off. “Where is that guy with the cheesy poofs?”
Patrick looked around. “I, I’m not sure. The shrimp guy is here though.”
He was. The shrimp guy was at the head of the line. Actually the second line. There were two distinct lines. One was in front of the Mayor. That was the one with all the guests in it. As they came in they lined up and he greeted them, one by one, with all due gratitude and appreciation.
The other line snaked behind the Mayor. It was the one with the food. Every single waiter was given explicit instructions to take their tray directly to the Mayor before going anywhere else.
The Mayor was to get first dibs on every stuffed mushroom, garlic shrimp, crab puff, baby lamb chop and cheesy poof served that evening. And while the Mayor did like himself some shrimp, what he really wanted was more cheesy poofs - little rounds of fresh baked, puffed pastry spiked with Gruyere and bursting with butter. More formally known as gougères.
“Do you want me to go find him?”
“No. No. I’m sure he’ll be around.”
“So, this is…” Patrick began introducing the next guest, but the Mayor cut him off.
“No. No don’t let him leave.”
The shrimp guy had started to wander off. Quickly, Patrick went after him, grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him back.
Meanwhile, everyone waited, awkwardly. There were no introductions and no movement of the receiving line till the shrimp guy returned and the Mayor loaded up the super scooter tray with a healthy pile of prawns and a good dollop of cocktail sauce.
When he was good and ready, that is, after he had put away a couple, three, four, five shrimp, the Mayor turned his attention back to his guests. But he didn’t know the next one. So he looked up at Patrick. Patrick, too, was at a loss. His subtle shrug suggesting he didn’t know either.
“And you are…?” the Mayor asked, with a friendly smile and a mouthful of shrimp. A spot of cocktail sauce on his lip. Another on his shirt.
