To her credit, he felt like he was being heard, considered. Her breathing slowed, her eye contact was unwavering—focused but not challenging. She uncrossed her arms, her body stance open, and she had stopped pacing as if she couldn’t absorb his points and navigate fallen debris at the same time.
“Why didn’t you raise this point at the meeting?”
“I hadn’t thought of it yet. I’m not exactly cut out for business. I’m just the image. But I’m motivated to learn.” Clem had always taught him that there was sincerity in directness, and that principle had never failed Chase.
“And what of growing pains?” she asked. “Unchecked growth that leads to overcrowded schools and infrastructure that can’t keep up with the influx?”
“That’s why we have a top-notch mayor.” He flashed her his best smile. “Smartest person I know.”
Her beautifully sculpted eyebrows pitched high and doubtful. “Flattery won’t get you a rezoning permit, Mr. Meier.”
“No, but it might get me a dinner where we can discuss it further.”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“Mayors aren’t allowed to eat dinner?”
“You know what I mean. It would give the appearance of lobbying for your cause with the intent to influence an elected official.”
“Or it might just be short ribs and a side of coleslaw.”
This time, Gretchen walked away, ten steps, maybe more. Her hands knotted together. Something more than a barbeque meal weighed on her mind. He felt it as surely as if she wanted to confess that he was a near-constant distraction to her, same as she had been for him.
“I came here because the town could use your help,” she said, finally.
“The town or you?”
“Both.” She turned toward him, to face whatever it was head-on. “It seems there has been some mismanagement in the committee planning the sesquicentennial celebration in a few weeks. Festivities have been misrepresented. Overpromised. Businesses in town are all tapped for donations. In a little under three weeks, this will either be an event featured in Texas Monthly or an event that becomes a punch line at every comedy club in the state about a bunch of dumb hicks trying to seem relevant. The governor’s personal assistant and three congressional representatives RSVP’d, for heaven’s sake, but there’s only enough money in the discretionary fund to put up a lemonade stand and a dunking booth.”
“And you want our brand to bail you out?” He tried to keep a laugh from his question and failed.
“Not bail, exactly. Sponsor is the word I’d use.”
Typical politician. Putting lipstick on a pig didn’t make it any less of a pig.
“Can you do it?” she asked. “What I mean is, is it even a possibility, money-wise, like inside a marketing budget or publicity plan or something?”
Damn. He had never seen her so uncomfortable with the English language.
“Hell yeah, we can do it. We’ve thrown parties for the elite all over the state, Vegas, you name it. And on a shorter turnaround time than this.”
Something in her buttoned-up body language hedged his boasting. He hadn’t heard the half of it yet, he was sure.
“How much are we talking here?” Chase said.
She hesitated. Gave a politician smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s not so much the money as the organization behind it.”
“Gretchen? How much would it take to fix the overpromise?”
“One hundred thousand.”
“People?”
“Dollars.”
“Fuck.” He swiped his hands across his lips to cushion the curse that slipped free, to give him time to think of something more Disney. In the end, he couldn’t come up with one satisfactory substitute. “Fuck. Why not cancel?”
r /> Her nostrils flared. She crossed her arms again. His choice of language seemed to bristle her more than the idea of admitting defeat.