Chapter Three #2
I sighed. Mr. Sterling wanted a comprehensive post-tour report, complete with new video assets for social media, case studies—most likely featuring real rodeo cowboys—and ideas for experiential marketing. The enormous budget for the trip was an intense reminder of all that was riding on me.
My mind was racing, thinking of all the ways I could sweet-talk different arenas into scoring a deal for sponsorships.
Brand perception.
The phrase fit nicely in my mind.
That’s all this was, a huge pile of data in a manure-filled pit.
Mr. Sterling had given me the name, a detailed biography, and contact information of a man named Thompson Avery. After reading it three times, I learned all I could about the man who started Agri-Corp.
Thompson was a sixty-seven-year-old third-generation farmer. He ran a four-hundred-acre corn farm in Nebraska on top of the agriculture dealership. He had four houses, seven kids, twenty-five grandkids, and a terrifying reputation.
Thompson knew what he wanted, and it was clear that it was his way or the highway. He had only started using social media a few months back and had an email address with a network that hadn’t been popular in a decade.
The picture of the old man in the coveralls, refusing to smile for the camera, made my hands clammy. But, as I looked through the briefcase of supplies, including an all-access pass to the entire tour, I let my professional confidence take over.
If I focused one hundred percent of my attention on the job, refusing to get distracted or let any of my emotions get the best of me, I knew this would be my greatest project ever.
The promotion was mine.
Harrison was going to propose soon.
My life was going exactly as I had planned.
What could happen?
“You look important.” The woman sitting beside me said confidently.
I glanced at her, gripping a manila folder tightly. Was that supposed to be a compliment or an insult? “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
The woman set her champagne glass on her tray table, her third, and we had only been flying for an hour. At this rate, she’d be completely wasted by the time we landed in . . .
I looked at my itinerary and sighed.
When we landed in Glendale, Arizona.
“I do,” she pressed on, not taking my silent hints that I didn’t want to talk. She stretched out her legs as much as she could. “I haven’t been important in twelve years. That’s what happens when you marry a man for his money.”
I slightly raised an eyebrow, tucking my papers away before she could see them. Her husband was passed out beside her in the aisle seat, having taken an “extra-large sleeping pill” five minutes before takeoff. “Is that right?” I said, unsure if that was rude or what she wanted to hear.
“Yes. I wanted to be a trophy wife, and that’s what I got. Serves me right.” She took a long drink.
Rolling my neck, I shut my laptop, knowing I wouldn’t get much work done sitting by her.
She had a wealthy look to her, even in the terrible plane lighting.
A short brown bob that was sharply cut off right below her chin.
She was wearing a white sweater and crisp white pants.
Her gold jewelry was obviously real, as heavy as it looked.
“What takes you to Arizona?” I tried to steer the awkward conversation away from her apparent terrible marriage.
“Checking on the other house.”
Harrison always wanted multiple houses. He said he used to “summer” in North Carolina and “winter” in Nevada.
As if “summer” and “winter” were verbs. When I asked if they had to move their dishes and furniture every season, he scoffed and rolled his eyes.
So apparently, there were already dishes and furniture in both houses.
Another reason I could look forward to marrying him.
“Are you married?” The woman asked as if reading my thoughts.
I pulled my hair off my neck and tied it back with an elastic. “Not yet.”
“Yet?”
“We’re talking about getting engaged,” I explained. We still had almost three hours left in the flight. All I wanted to do was put on my playlist and become half-conscious.
“Living together?”
“No.”
“What’s his name? How long have you been dating?” She was slowly turning her body towards me, signaling that this conversation was nowhere near over.
I might as well give up the one-word answers and indulge myself with this stranger on a plane. “His name is Harrison, and we’ve been together for a year now. He’s a venture capitalist, and we met through mutual friends.” I hoped I had covered any future questions with my long answer.
“Harrison,” she nodded to herself. After a moment of silence, she threw a look at her husband. “You can tell how much a woman loves her man by the way she says his name.”
I tilted my head. “Really? How?” I wondered how I said Harrison’s name.
“Like this,” she sat herself up straight. “This is my husband…George.” She said his name long and boring, as if it was an effort to get it out without a yawn.
I couldn’t help but smile. “What did you learn about me?”
“Oh, you mean you and Harrison,” she said in the same flat drone she said, “George.”
I tried not to be offended and sighed. “No, it’s Harrison,” I tried to force his name to be cheerful and fun, but with such a proper name, it came out laughable.
She pursed her lips, taunting me again before pointing to my laptop. “I must ask what kind of job makes you look so important, with your badges and itineraries. What takes you to Arizona?”
The subject I had been avoiding. “I’m a marketing executive working on the rodeo tour.”
The woman gave a visible shiver. “I love a good rodeo. Sweaty men, adrenaline pumping, the sounds, the smells, it’s enough to drive a single woman mad. You should consider yourself lucky.”
I chuckled, reminding myself of what Martha had said not that long ago. “I’m engaged, remember?”
“Not yet.”