by Leslie North
A yawn took hold. The kind that began in all the internal organs and trembled outward like a quake. The kind that came from a sleepless night of sad memories: a girl with pigtails that hung to her waist, the same color as the leaves falling around them; same plaid dress each day; alone atop the monkey bars at recess; alone on the library steps, her nose buried in a thick book; unable to sing or bang on the xylophone in music class. Not once did Chase talk to her. She had been a celebrity of sorts, for all the wrong reasons. Mostly, he suspected, no eight-year-old knew what to say. Somehow, I’m sorry you don’t have a mom anymore seemed wrong.
“Busy night?”
Chase startled. He turned toward the woman’s voice, but he didn’t have to. He had memorized the notes in Gretchen’s words their freshmen year of high school geography, when she grew away from her sadness and toward something that always made him forget himself when she was around.
“Not what you think.” Not by a country mile.
She stood inside the building, but at a distance, looking like the Prime Minister of some foreign land: tartan-red heels; a black wool business suit that extinguished every bit of her spark; hair once gathered into two clusters, now swept up in complicated, tight swirls; arms crossed protectively before her. She lacked one protection, though, that he had to remedy. Close Call would never forgive him if his decrepit old building picked now to collapse and crush their most beloved mayor.
He removed his hard hat and approached her. “Gotta protect that Harvard brain.”
“Stanford.”
“Right.” Chase remembered, of course; he simply liked the way the error sparked her green eyes into live wires. He placed the hat over her fancy hair. His battered hands had no place there beside the shiny auburn waterfalls of curl at both temples, beside her flawless complexion.
She took the hat from his grasp and settled it herself.
He thought how exhausting it must be for her—always reaching for control, never showing weakness, a little like the distance all those years ago never let go.
“I haven’t been in here since I was twelve. On a dare. I can’t even remember a time when it was functional.”
An odd sliver of loss wiggled up between his ribs and settled mid-chest. That he knew of her at twelve but didn’t know her at all. That he might have taken the dare with her to sneak in here but for what—circumstance? His inability to think past his peer group?
“It’s bit like an old anchor. Weighs down the rest of the street. Not to mention the safety aspect. The No Trespassing signs are the stuff of dares. Wouldn’t want someone hurt on your watch.”
Gretchen glanced away, as if she had given something away she never intended.
Still, he pushed. “Be nice to see some life here again.”
She paced a bit, her gaze fully taking in her surroundings. He imagined her moving around a courtroom, commanding the attention of a jury the way she held his eye when she occupied the same space. For probably the hundredth time, he wondered why an attorney of such pedigree wanted to be a small-town mayor.
“Like a church or a youth center?”
“Close Call already has those,” said Chase. “And if the city decides to do something about this eyesore, there’s demolition fees to consider. Set the town back three dollars a square foot. Place like this? You’re looking at fifty-thousand dollars, easy.”
“I don’t want this town to become known as an alcohol destination.”
“Look what happened to the Hill Country. Twenty years ago, you walked the main streets of those forgotten towns, lucky if you could pass a boarded-up Piggy Wiggly market and a five-and-dime that sold postcards before you died of boredom. But once they expanded their crops, looked past the traditional German Rieslings of their heritage—which were awful, by the way—they became a world-renowned destination for the distinctive traveler—travelers who had been to Italy, who knew what a Montepulciano grape tasted like. Supporting businesses followed. Bed and breakfasts, hotels, restaurants, equipment suppliers, transport companies—everything from touristy bikes to limousines for special occasions. It isn’t simply what our distillery can do for Close Call—which is a lot—but the road we pave for other businesses to follow.”
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?”
“It’s a sesquicentennial. Not like it comes around every day. The townspeople expect something.”
“Let me get this straight. You want me to go to my investors and ask for a hundred grand to bail out your shindig with absolutely no guarantee we’ll even be here to conduct business the day after?”
“The marketing potential is tremendous.”
“For a business with established roots, maybe.” His laugh had snuck its way back into his speech. “You gotta give me more than a black hole of advertising.”
Lines pinched between her brows. A frown tipped the edges of her apricot-colored lips. The sadness of all those years past raced back: plaid shoes, alone atop some monumental impasse, unable to move past her ideals, her hurts. Chase hadn’t spoken to her then; he hadn’t known what to say. This time, he would let her off the hook. A good-faith horse trade. Fifty-thousand and you don’t have to promise me anything. He opened his mouth to say as much, but she beat him to it.
“I’ll give you my rezoning vote on three conditions.”
His heart nearly tumbled free of his chest, but it did nothing to rope in his sarcasm. “Only three?”
“One, you bring in enough tourists for the event to surpass our goal of twenty thousand attendees. Two, I have to approve every aspect of the event to ensure Close Call is represented in a good light.”
Laying out her case, Gretchen was something to behold. She didn’t tick off conditions on her fingertips or make sweeping, emotional gestures with her arms or hint at anything to come past the hard-line narrowing of her eyes. Her control, her strength, her inner fire was never more on display than when she was fully in her element—spine straight, speech direct, hands joined behind her—negotiating whatever complex structure she constructed between her brilliant mind and her fractured hurts. Wes was right. She was so far out of Chase’s league. But for one glorious moment while she laid out a path to possibilities, he visualized eight seconds into the future, the way Yancy taught him when he gloved up and lowered himself into the chute, and she was his.
Savage kiss, nothing but skin and aching tenderness, a lifetime beyond eight seconds.
His.
She had stopped talking. Christ, where had she left off?
“And three?” He hoped.
“You come up with a family-friendly side to your distillery.”
“Definition of family friendly?”
“Don’t think you can put up a crosswalk on main and call it done. Something that gives families and children something besides illegal spirits to look forward to. Think DARE nights and alcohol education.”
And just like that, the eight seconds evaporated, and he was left with the most infuriating redhead to ever cross his path.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Because nothing went down the gullet better than a shot of warm, smooth bourbon and a chaser of guilt.
“You’ll think of something.”
“And then you’ll allow the rezoning?” His tone leaked skepticism.
“As it stands now, given the rest of the council are card-carrying members of your fan club? Yes. I’ll pass the motion at the next city council meeting.”
He, too, could be decisive. He’d figure out the rest later. Chase extended his hand before she could change her mind. “You have a deal.”
She studied his hand for a heartbeat, one suspended wallop of a haymaker to his sternum, before she slid her soft palm into his and shook. Tense, confident, one pump of her hand, a not-so-understated way of saying don’t let me down. He wanted to hold on as if she was his greatest challenge, most likely to toss him clear on his ass and break everything inside him, but she caught herself holding on too long, and her cheeks turned the color of her hair and she took back her hand and squeezed it tight. Her gaze fell to the debris around them, all pretense of control and strength crumbled by an inner fire of a very different sort. He would have bet the entire purse from his final ride on it.
“Look, Chase, I know in all your travels and fame, you may have forgotten some things about what makes this town so great.”
“What are you saying?”
“This celebration should respect the people, our way of life, our ideology.”
“No strippers on the town square light poles. Got it.”
She laughed then, a tiny hiccup of release that seemed to surprise even her. It was an adorable detour from the tightrope of perfection and public official she usually walked.
“Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?” she said.
“That’s my reputation. That’s not who I am. You forget, I’m part of this town, too. I remember it all. You included.”
Again with the flush. This time, incendiary.
He’d say he hadn’t meant to go there, but he had. If there was anything he’d learned about the grown Gretchen, the master puppeteer of this town, it was that she was used to cornering the market on directness. When others wielded that same boldness toward her, she wasn’t sure how to absorb it.
“Besides, rule number two, right?” he said, to bail her out of the intimate tangle of memories, of shared history. “Nothing happens without your approval.”
“Right.”
She recovered nicely. Stepped back into her mayoral veneer, one leg at a time. He made it his goal, every single time she was near, to strip away that gloss of perfection, break down her barriers, make up for the lost years of not ever telling her, “I’m sorry you don’t have a Mom anymore.” Not just because she held the key to his future, but because he wanted to make up for his indifference. The distillery business may have needed Gretchen the politician, but it was the trespassing on a dare, jelly donut-wearing, heart-in-her-palm Gretchen he wanted on his side.
“Might need that dinner after all. For all those approvals, that is,” Chase said. “How about Tanner’s, tomorrow night at six? It’s public. It’s loud. Not at all a place for lobbying.”
“Sure.” She didn’t sound sure. In fact, she made her way to the door as a polite form of escape. “We can discuss the Tour of Homes. We should probably get a jump on that.”
Chase followed. A Tour of Homes revved his enthusiasm like quilting bees and lectures on grassland prairies. “Isn’t that for old ladies who smell like ointment? Not exactly the distillery’s clientele.”
Gretchen shot him a look. An Objection! Irrelevant! look.
Not wishing to buck the forward progress they had made, he backed off. “You know what? We can talk about it tomorrow night.”
They walked outside. She lifted the hard hat from her head and handed it to him.
In the sun’s morning glint, her hair reminded him of a campfire—hot, intense, violently warm. He squinted so that he could covertly stare at its heated striations longer, but mostly his gaze dragged his focus across the street, kicking and screaming, to a man with a camera at his face, pointed directly at them.
Chase’s gut rode astride his body.
“Who’s that?” He nodded his chin toward the small-town paparazzo.
The guy lowered his fat lens enough for Chase to make out his face.
“Dale Euclid?” Wasn’t really a question. The Meiers knew the son of a bitch from a run-in a few years back related to unfair leasing practices of ranchers in the area. Dale had voiced his suspicions about their own operation. Wes had told him to fuck off. Clem’s directness ran in the family, loud and clear.
“Fearless reporter. Repeat violator of personal and professional boundaries. And now the proud owner of a handful of compromising photos.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Gretchen.” Not that he hadn’t considered something very, very wrong at least a dozen times since she walked into the warehouse.
“Probably best if you call me mayor.”
And just like that, progress bucked.
“See you tomorrow,” he said, but he couldn’t be sure she
heard him. She climbed into her Prius and drove away faster than most bulls realized they had a cowboy strapped to them. Likely it still wouldn’t be fast enough to outrun small-town gossip.
Chase stared at the insect across the road. Cockroach wanted a photo? Chase would give him a thousand words to go with it.
He double-barreled his middle fingers.
Dale Euclid brought the camera to his face and snapped another photo.
Great publicity for a bad-ass black label liquor. Not so great for a family-friendly distillery.
He stalked back inside, hoping he hadn’t screwed himself.
6
At three in the afternoon the day after striking the deal with her own personal devil, Gretchen told Darcy to hold all calls for an hour. Gretchen kicked off her heels beneath her desk, slipped into her sneakers, and left city hall by the side door closest to the florist shop. Virna once told her that when she saw Gretchen coming in heels, well, that meant she needed one of two things: a memorial offering for someone who had served the town in some way or a celebration for an employee’s life milestone. In both cases, great thought was given to the type of arrangement and what flowers hit all the right emotional notes. But when Virna spotted Gretchen wearing her canvas shoes, the florist knew to head to the refrigerated case and set her up with a bundle of her freshest daisies, her mother’s favorite flower. Those shoes were the surest indication she had something on her mind and needed the clarity that only a five-block walk to Our Lady of Mercy’s Cemetery could bring. Gretchen thought to change it up a bit so as not to be so predictable, but there was something comforting in not having to articulate, “I’d like some flowers for my mother’s grave.”
Virna gave her a hug and a bouquet at the door. Not a thing more. She would put the charge on Gretchen’s bill, as always. They had established long ago that a silent embrace put words to shame, anyhow, and often brought tears that smudged makeup. Virna had been her mother’s best friend.
At the graveside, Gretchen cleared out the dying daisies from her previous visit and weeded the headstone. She gathered the trinkets her father left there, some weathered, some new, brushed the ledge free of dirt, and replaced the offerings. Her hands filled with the same earth her mother occupied, Gretchen settled on the stone bench.