Page 35 of Mother Clucker

“David. And the biggest you got.”

If I couldn’t have a shot of bourbon, which was what I really needed if I was going to be able to deal with this, caffeine would have to do.

I swiped the gift card, then pocketed it and leaned on the end of the counter to wait for however long it would take them to make Heather’s creation.

The lack of conversation, even small talk between us, didn’t bode well for the rest of this discussion but I was going to try anyway. At least I would head back to Texas knowing I’d had my say, whether it changed her mind or not.

We settled in a back corner table away from any other patrons and I drew in a breath. “So, last year my dad started to show signs that something wasn’t right. We talked him into going to the doctor and it seemed he’d had a series of micro strokes, I think they called them. Not big enough for him or any of us to notice the event when it happened, but enough it was starting to affect his work as CEO of Strickland.

“He’s a stubborn man, so of course he didn’t slow down any. He took the meds the docs told him to but he didn’t cut back on work. I should have made him. I didn’t.”

I glanced up from where I’d been staring into my coffee and not drinking it. I half expected to see Heather shut down. Unreceptive. And I wouldn’t have blamed her. I wasn’t happy with how my story was going. It sounded like I was blaming my father for what had happened and I wasn’t.

If anything, I blamed myself for thinking I could be living the easy life running the chicken farm and ignoring that he needed help operating the damn company.

But Heather was leaning forward, listening intently. I grabbed onto that and the hope maybe I wasn’t fucking this up and continued.

“Things started to go to shit all about the same time. Dad had a massive stroke and while he was in the hospital unable to even talk, forget about walk, we started getting reports of pets getting sick. And dying. From our food.”

The acid backed up my throat from saying it. A visceral reaction because I remembered it all like it was yesterday.

“I took over for Pops. I was the only one who could. My sister Amy has got her hands full raising a kid while her husband’s deployed. But hell, I was newer than wet paint. I didn’t know what I was doing. But with the help of some really good staff, we managed to trace the shipment that was bad. We recalled it immediately, of course, but it was too late. Two dogs died. Countless were made sick by it.”

I sighed then shook my head at the ridiculousness of what I was about to admit to her.

“One of our people had gone with a new oversees supplier. Because they came in at fifty cents less per case.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Fifty cents.”

I raised my gaze to her. “I personally fired him. Then I canceled every order we had outstanding with China, even from the suppliers we’d been using without any problems for years. I had no faith in anyone anymore. That day I instituted a policy that Strickland food would only come from the US. From places I could inspect personally.”

“That’s admirable,” she said.

“Not really.” I snorted. “We should have been doing it for years. I learned that quick enough. That change in sourcing was challenging and eye opening. Strickland moves a lot of product. There weren’t enough US suppliers to keep us in business. So I started investing in small farmers, helping them grow their places.”

“Like Drew’s,” she said.

I nodded. “We had the—” I remembered how she felt about me being a chicken murderer and changed my wording. “Raw materials. But we still needed places to—” Again I avoided the word processing in deference to Heather. “Places to produce and package it all. So I started to buy up old abandoned factories. It took a solid six months of round the clock work for everyone on staff, myself included, but as of now we are able to produce enough in our own facilities to supplement what the US suppliers can’t to meet our demand.”

“That’s amazing.”

I laughed again. “Well, our demand is also down thirty-seven percent from before the scandal, so . . .”

She shook her head. “Do you know how many people you put to work moving manufacturing to the US?”

Heather was trying to make me feel better about things, which was incredibly sweet. But I was starting to wonder if Strickland would ever outlive the black mark against us.

“I know. But it still doesn’t?—”

“No, David. I mean do you have the actual number of how many people your factories employ? And how many additional farm workers those small farmers hired when they expanded?”

I frowned. “No.”

“Can you get that number for me?” she asked, looking excited.

I admit to being clueless when it comes to women, but this woman in particular had my head spinning. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you know what I do for a living?”

“You work for Millennia on such stellar shows as Trashy Weddings and Hot Chicken Farmers of California,” I answered, knowing I was being a smart ass but not in the mood for a guessing game after this emotionally draining discussion.

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