"Oh dear, I'm afraid—no Bogdolf today. The Lore Keeper is—in the field." He laughed heartily. "You'll just have to put up with plain old Eric. Come in. Come in."
"Woofy is just wonderful," Jennifer said. "She's the nicest dog I ever had."
"Oofy," Emma said.
"Isn't she, Precious? Yes, she is."
"A great dog—Eric," Oliver said.
"Yes." Eric nodded wisely. He looked into the bag. "Now, what have we here?"
"For immediate consumption," Oliver said.
"Good!" Eric said.
He's a jerk, Oliver thought, but he's a friendly jerk. Several of Jennifer's friends were already there. In an hour the house was full of people Oliver hadn't met. Jennifer moved happily from group to group. There were many children under ten years old, and there was much discussion of Montessori and Suzuki methods. The men talked about business and boats. Oliver wasn't put off by boat talk; he liked boats, had grown up around them, but he had never needed to own one, had never wanted to pay for one. These skippers were all cruising in the same direction: bigger is better. The business they talked was really about people. No one seemed interested in how to do anything—just in who said what to whom during the endless reshuffling of executive ranks.
Oliver knocked down as much of the Merlot, a good bottle, as he decently could. There was a sharp cheddar, Havarti, Brie, a salsa, an avocado dip, baby carrots, and various kinds of chips. As he ate and drank, the conversations around him blurred together, so that he caught the intent but not the detail, a more relaxing state. He had a small Dewars and refrained from asking Eric to release the Laphroiag from its hiding place. He began to see large wind-up keys protruding from the backs of the guests. I must have one too, he thought, but set for a different kind of motion. These guys would march back and forth in front of the yacht club, six steps one way and six steps the other, until they wound down.