Page 9 of Worth the Fall
Thompson Avery was leaning against the truck, wearing a white shirt and overalls. His hat used to be some sort of red, but now, caked in mud, it was brown and barely hanging on to hissmall head. “Legra?” He said again, offering no more.
Was that supposed to be my name? I mentally slapped myself into focus and straightened my posture. “Good afternoon! You must be Mr. Avery. I’m Allegra Ford, Miss Ford. I’m excited to get to know you, your company, and achieve the goals we’re going to come up with.”
My opening pitch usually received a range of responses, from annoyance to gratitude, so I thought I was prepared for anything. Until Thompson looked me up and down and opened the truck door. “Better get in,” he mumbled. “The board’s waiting to get this meeting over with.”
“Great!” I smiled, keeping my overenthusiastic marketing hostess persona dialed to one hundred.
He grabbed my suitcase and hurled it into the bed of the truck, not noticing my horror. I used the handlebars to hoist myself up to the passenger seat. Thompson started the truck and shifted into gear.
Something wet touched my neck. I jumped and spun around, coming face-to-face with a big white dog, panting in the heat. “Oh!” I said in surprise. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Mac.”
“Cute,” I said flatly. “So, Mr. Aver-”
“Thompson,” he corrected.
“Right, of course!” I made a mental note of his name preferences. “I know I’m jumping into the rodeo a little late. How has the season been so far?”
He grumbled and itched his chin. “If it were going well, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
I laughed, ignoring his obvious indifference to me. “Thatisabsolutely true! Have you always enjoyed rodeos?”
“Yes.”
Awesome. Cool. Love this.
I looked out the dirty window. The sun’s heat was giving the cityscape a hazy glow. Instead of tall trees looming over the sidewalks, there were cacti in the xeriscape landscape. It looked as hot as it felt, reminding me that I needed to lean as far off the seat as I could so I could let my sweat dry.
After a few more sad attempts at small talk, it was clear Thompson was more comfortable in silence, so I took the rest of the drive to mentally prepare myself for this meeting.
Thompson pulled the truck into the parking lot of a portable trailer, just outside an incredible arena. “Welp, here we are.”
The arena towered over us. With massive plate-glass windows for the lobby and enough seats for twenty thousand people, this was no amateur county rodeo; this was the big leagues. It was situated on thirteen acres, hosting over one million people every year, between concerts, sports events, and, of course, rodeos.
I followed Thompson into the portable trailer, where a man was already seated in a folding chair at a flimsy table. Paper cups filled with old coffee and napkins with donut crumbs sat before him.
If possible, the trailer was somehow even hotter than outside. The heat hit me like a bus, and my poor back began to sweat even more. I swallowed hard and plastered my marketing smile on my face. “Good afternoon!”
The man was what I expected, around Thompson’s age, dressed in jeans and a polo, wearing a hat with the “Agri-Corp”logo proudly printed.
I glanced around the room. It was tiny, not what I was used to with my introductory meetings. No projector, no computers, nothing but me, my briefcase, and a few farmers who’d rather be anywhere else.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” I said, overly perky. I took my files out of my briefcase and laid some notes on the table in front of me. Behind me, I set up three tiny foldable easels, with covered little posters, ready to reveal my plan at the perfect moment.
Thompson and the man barely blinked.
I was a perfectionist when it came to presentations, regardless of the lack of interest.
“My name is Allegra Ford, and I am so excited to spendthesenext few months getting to know you and your incredible company. I spent the flight getting familiar with your data and statistics, but I want to get to know every one of you personally!” I gestured toward the man Ihadn’tmet yet. “What was your name, sir?”
“Micky Montgumery,” the ginger man said gruffly.
The door opened behind me, making me jump. “I apologize. My boys were getting set up, and I wanted to wish them luck,” a man said hastily to Thompson. He faced me, holding his hand out. “Very sorry, I missed your introduction. I’m Dennis Nash. It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for coming all the way out here to help us old farts out. We can’t wait to hear your ideas!”
I tried to hide the obvious shock on my face and shook his hand. “Allegra Ford.”
He only had a little salt and pepper in his hair. His giantsmile took up most of his face, but his eyes were constantly glistening, as if he was in love with everything he saw. “Let me get out of your way, and you can continue. Again, I apologize.” His accent was thicker than the other men’s, reminding me of home.
