"Ohhh! Who's that?"
My companion, an older woman and co-worker, glanced over at me and grinned.
"Down girl! That's one who will never be interested in you."
I glanced at the mirror behind the small bar. Tall at five-nine, I liked to wear heels, three inches, at the lowest. It made me as tall or taller than most men, which sometimes helps in my job. Long blonde hair elegantly styled, cool blues eyes that could smolder and tease while looking cool and distant at the same time. Thirty-six D breasts that would still defy gravity for a few more years, a narrow waist leading to an ass men walked into walls looking at, and a great set of legs to hold it all up. My business skirt was an inch higher than proper, and my neckline lower. I was a walking wet dream, and I knew it.
"Betty, they're all interested in me."
"Not this one. Leave him alone. If you were to ask him everything he didn't want in a woman, he would describe you in detail."
My interest was really piqued now. "And what would those attributes be?"
"Tall, blonde, beautiful, a banker, and a Yankee. Top it off with your last name as a bonus. That man is your cousin's ex-husband."
I was surprised and shocked at the same time. "THAT'S the redneck?"
Bad for me, I was a little loud and said it just as the conversation lulled. He and everyone else at the table looked up. I saw his smile fade and a look I hope I never see again crossed his face, before it cleared up and he looked more closely at me.
His look changed and a little half-smile played over his lips. Then he went back to his conversation and ignored me. Nobody ignored me!
I wasn't really a banker, my degree and job were in public relations. I had gotten my position right out of college, lucky to get it in these hard times. I won't deny my family connections got me the job. I think they were secretly concerned I might go to work for a competitor.
I was a Johnson, of the same family that founded the bank that became the megabank that everyone hated, dubbed "Superbank." Our recent handling of foreclosures and ever-increasing fee rates were driving customers away. It was my job to make people feel all warm and fuzzy about us even as we plotted to extract even more of their hard-earned money into our coffers. Good thing I had a creative mind.
My branch of the family didn't share in any of the wealth. We were the poor relations, down here in the South you would call us shirttail kin, hanging on for the crumbs that fall off the big table.
My erstwhile cousin had married a local who was downsized out of a middle management position. He looked around, assessed his options, and took up farming. She didn't like the change in status, decided a coworker would make a better mate, and tried to rape him in a divorce.
Her plans fell apart, as it seems he was related to or close friends to a lot of people in high and low places. When it was over, she had to pay him support for three years, he got the house, and a nice settlement from the bank, who didn't want the scandal to compound their current woes. The cake got iced when three of their biggest corporate customers moved to a credit union in protest of the way one of their own was treated. I highly suspect they were going anyway, this just gave them a visible reason.
In retaliation, my great uncle, principal shareholder and Chairman of the Board, had them transferred to a small town in northern Alaska. The branch was so small they were the only employees, having to handle all the business. He let it be known if she didn't like it she could quit, but if she did his will might be altered slightly. It had been two years and they were still there.
*****
He had the broadest shoulders I had ever seen; that suit had to be custom tailored. Gray pinstripe, the jacket was draped across his chair. He wore a blindingly white shirt and a vest with an old-fashioned chain and pocket watch.
His bald head seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights, his white teeth gleaming when he smiled. He looked like a handsome version of Mr. Clean on steroids.
Betty brought me over for introductions. Bankers from our competitors, lawyers, businessmen, three chefs, one doctor, and him. He was there to represent the farmers.
I shook hands all around. I got to him last. I had on four-inch heels and I hoped to tower over him. Even in my four-inch heels, I was at least two inches shorter. Wow.
He shook my hand, smiling. "Ah, another one of the famed Johnson girls. Your family is noted for two things, Miss Johnson. Their ability to make money and the beauty of their women. Glad to see you uphold the family tradition."
I wasn't sure if that was a compliment, but I replied in kind. "After seeing you, Mr. Summers, I think I've found a flaw in us. Our ability to see must be impaired. If you're an example of 'a dirty redneck,' to quote my cousin, I'd like to see more of them. Apparently, they clean up really well."
I knew I had said the right thing because of the chuckles that went around the boardroom.
"Nicely said, Miss Johnson. I may have to revise my opinion of the Johnson girls slightly. Now, would you like something to drink before we start?"
I was about to ask for a white wine when I noticed everyone else was drinking coffee or soft drinks. I declined and we got down to business.
He seated me opposite him. We were there to plan an event, Feast In The Field, a charity dinner using as many local foods and products as possible. All the proceeds went to feed the homeless. It was a big deal, the mayor, state politicians, even a U.S. senator or two were known to appear if they were in town. It was a top-flight event, limited to five hundred people at five hundred dollars a plate. It was always sold out.
The exposure was priceless, and sponsors were prominently recognized and praised. There was usually a donation from these corporations, announced at the meal. Last year it funded two soup kitchens and a shelter for the entire year. Tickets, even at that price, were at a premium.
The organizers went all out. It was held in a meadow owned by one of the participating farmers.
Two local brewers, one distiller (vodka made from sweet potatoes), and three local vintners handled the alcohol supply. Four farmers supplied the vegetables. One donated beef, and another chicken and pork. One farmer had a gourmet food truck, and she volunteered it as an overflow kitchen. The actual cooking and food prep were done in a specially designed tent. Another small tent held the bar, and the main tent was enormous, capable of holding the five hundred comfortably. The tables would sparkle under the chandeliers, reflecting off the crystal and silverware atop the pristine linen. Fully trained waitstaff, dressed in formal attire, were both discreet and efficient.
I was there to make sure the bank logo was prominently displayed. I couldn't afford to go myself, that was reserved for the elite of our branch. We were the nerve center of the operation, despite not being based in New York.
The first meeting I attended was held in July, for an event scheduled to take place in early April.
That gave me plenty of time to assure good press.
*****
