Because, really, what went better with smooth whiskey than admission to his still-not-yet-open farm implement museum down the road? Digger had a bigger nose for sniffing out paying tourists than an expeditious plan for actually opening.
“I second that motion,” added Bettye Lindsey, who would as soon allow her spine to dissolve than put her good Christian common sense to work. She also hadn’t stopped staring at Chase since the meeting started. Gretchen knew sending out notices in the water bills about clogged sewer drains wasn’t the sexiest thing in the room—not by a long shot—but the woman had seventeen grandchildren, for Pete’s sake.
“All those in favor…” added Yancy Roesen.
The meeting felt like the final click of the front car at a rollercoaster’s crest, right before the stomach swapped with the brain. Gretchen felt sick.
She leaned toward her microphone. “In the absence of a discussion, both amongst the members of this council and their constituents, a vote is aggressively and irresponsibly premature. I make a motion to table this vote until such time as the council determines sufficient consideration has been given to the long-term implications of such a zoning change.”
“I second the motion to table the vote,” piped Ebba Howard, wife of Pastor Howard of the Marin Missionary Baptist Church.
Finally, a second voice of reason.
Gretchen jumped in. “All in favor of tabling the vote until the next meeting?”
A majority raised their hands.
The acid in her stomach returned to its normal simmer. “Motion to table passes, five to one.”
Yancy and Chase exchanged defeated glances.
Buoyed by the invigorating scent of Robert’s Rules of Order played out in her favor, Gretchen returned to the blank and uninspiring agenda copy Ebba had passed her at the top of the hour. Sure, it was functional, but her lost personal notes were what made city business uniquely hers. The room quieted, all eyes on her to do what she did best. Lead.
And the high she rode not a moment earlier stalled.
Digger took a healthy swig from his water bottle. Dale Euclid wrote something in his notebook, rather like a razor blade to her stomach with each wounding stroke. Would he call her out on being woefully unprepared? For stretching out the meeting unnecessarily because—as he once claimed—"Mayor de Havilland preferred the sound of her own voice time and again.” Bettye still stared at Chase as if he were a super-sized éclair to her always-on diet.
And Chase?
Instead of scrunching up his expression in a bitter display, as one might expect after such a dismissive vote, he gave her a slight nod of encouragement and understated jazz hands in his lap. His invitation to “wing it.”
Gretchen considered something she had lacked the courage to do since the first city council meeting. Without her notes, her mental organization was crippled anyway. She took a fortifying breath.
“Now that the critical business has been addressed, I’d like to change things up a bit for the remainder of the meeting. Your city council works tirelessly to prioritize issues that have the greatest and most immediate impact on Close Call and its extraordinary people, but that means, at times, concerns of everyday citizens fall through the cracks. I’d like to invite anyone here tonight who has something to share—a need, a concern, a compliment—to step up to the microphone in front of Councilwoman Lindsey. And if anyone can offer a solution or a respectful rebuttal to what is shared, I invite you to step up to the microphone in front of Councilman Owens.”
No one moved. She was pretty sure no one breathed. Dale alternated glancing around and feverously scratching notes in his book.
No-no-no. Shoot.
Chase rubbed his hands against the wool-blend tailored to fit his thighs as he, too, looked around. And when silence stretched to awkwardness, he unfolded himself from his chair and approached the first microphone.
Councilwoman Lindsey tittered.
“My brothers and I would like to put together a volunteer task force to address the needs of the area’s large animal populations in times of disaster. They’re often overlooked in floods and wildfires. The team would work with local emergency managers to get livestock to safety. We’ve already spoken to area vets and identified ranches with capacity to secure extra herds, if necessary. If anyone here would like to be part of that team or can offer assistance to that end, well, we’d sure appreciate it.” Chase added a slow-drawl “thank you” before he returned to his seat.
Gretchen was pretty sure every pair of ovaries in the room melted. Hers were a little slower to thaw. That was, until Chase’s first-up encouraged others to step forward. Soon, the line at each microphone was three or four people deep.
Over the next hour, council members took a back seat to the community. The animal shelter expressed a need for dogs to be exercised, and the high school’s cross-country coach offered to make running with the dogs part of his team’s conditioning. The bakery owner expressed a desire to start a baking pan library—similar to a lending library for books—in which townspeople could try their hand at special desserts that required unique pans. By meeting’s end, she had several promised donations. The lack of affordable housing for young adults in the area was met with an idea to start a bulletin board for seniors who had rooms to offer in exchange for a little help to keep them independent. And Lon Smith from the What the Hay feed store told everyone about a fancy new picnic table on the market that accommodated a large family, adults all the way down to babies, and how he would match any donation made at his register to purchase one for the town park. Nothing that came from opening the floor to the public was particularly earth-shattering in importance, but by the time Gretchen made a motion to close the meeting, the energy and comradery in the room was palpable.
Dale slunk out the door. Ebba congratulated Gretchen on a fruitful meeting and “what a great idea.” And Chase, chatting up his strong nuclear and extended ranch family, ga
ve her a thumbs-up across the room that zinged through her tired muscles, all the way to her toes.
Gretchen hoped he didn’t make niceness—and buckle-less sexiness—a habit. A lethal combination, to be sure. Ambitions that took her all the way from Close Call to the attorney general’s office in Austin left no time and no room for a significant other, most especially to someone with a questionable reputation. Political suicide before the first kiss ended was what that would be. Besides, niceness couldn’t buy Chase Meier the distillery he wanted. He had just tipped his hand in their game, and her Ivy League brain was prepared to cross-examine it until she’d uncovered every weak point.
“A volunteer task force?”
Wes’s voice was all eye roll.