By the time we wind down the slippery streets to the heart of the town, the party is in full swing. I think. I wouldn’t call the streets packed but it’s the most people I’ve seen in this square at once, including the brief stay I had here during the holiday season.
“Hm,” Renaldo says, easily impressed.
“Foot traffic doesn’t automatically equate to sales,” I grunt, annoyed. “The whole town is out at once, sure, but are there any tourists and are they actually buying anything?”
It’s a rhetorical question but he answers anyway as he parks the car, “Let’s find out.”
In just a few steps we’re in the thick of it. Green tables with green wares, ale and appetizer samples and tchotchkes. So much of the signature color, plus cutesy gold pots and shamrocks and leprechauns…I am unwell.
That could be the smell, however. Whatever the grill has going…good God above,it’s ghastly.
“Excuse me, mister!” I just barely hear as a bombastic child smashes into my leg. Renaldo walks ahead of me, scanning like the former-navy-seal security detail that he is. Though he can’t seem to keep away unaccompanied children. Or drunken locals. It’s barely dusk, this…eventmust have started early.
When we reach the end of the street I see what I suppose is the main attraction. A large tent in front of the famed gazebo has a crowd gathered around it. The gazebo itself has speakers but instead of a live band it’s just a teen girl armed with massive headphones and her cell phone. I scan around for the jolly record store owner but don’t find him.
That’s admirable, I suppose. He and...any other store owners…should be in their shops, trying to turn this foot traffic into conversions at the register.
“Here you go, Mr. Aiden! Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” Another wayward child hands me a shamrock sugar cookie.
“This is enemy territory, any one of them might charge me. This could’ve been a bomb,” I hold the napkin up at Renaldo who may or may not be slacking at his job.
“It’s not,” he deadpans.
I look down at the tiny chartreuse clover covered in sugar. I can feel townie eyes on me, so I shouldn’t participate. I should pitch it in the trash, let everyone know resistance is pointless. I’m a driven, disciplined, focused person. Ruthlessly so. But if I’ve a weakness, it’s my sweet tooth.
So, screw it.
I shove the treat in my mouth.
And choke.
Ugh!
After a coughing fit that draws even more eyeballs my way. Renaldo hands me a thimble of water from a nearby table. He raisesan eyebrow.
I shake myself out, “Bloody hell, maybe theyweretrying to kill me.”
I lift my chin, eager to move on. We resume walking down Main Street.
Behind the gazebo is a patch of grass I plan to convert into the guardhouse at the entrance of my sprawling parking lot. Currently, it holds the base of a small, temporary, questionable Ferris wheel. That thing cannot be up to any kind of code. I shudder when I near it.
The mayor’s son and a friend are managing the line for the ride.
The shorter kid lights up when he spots me. “Ah! Lady Bridger—”
Mayor Junior elbows him to cut him off, then bows ridiculously, “Would you like a ride, my Lord?”
I grimace at his ridiculous accent, “I’d rather a root canal, thank you.”
The boys snicker and mimic me, their British accents worsening.
“That is not how I sound,” I say, watching happy children file past me and onto the turning steel deathtrap.
“It was spot on if you ask me,” I hear a gravely voice reply. I turn to my right to find Maxine, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Once again we’re standing toe to toe, posture and facial expression much the same. She goes on, “Uppity, doesn’t belong, sounds like he’s got a stick shoved so far up his—”
“So,” I cut her off, looking down my nose at her, ready to throw insults right back, “Is this all you’ve got, then? Have any of you made a single cent?”
“Harper said—”
