“Yeah, there are kids, Mon. That’s the point. But it’s not a drop-off babysitting service. For one, I’d hate that. Two, my ducks aren’t flame retardant.”
“What?”
I dropped that and carried on. “I’ll have all the usual background checks and police vetting done, and all under-thirteens will have to have a parent, guardian, or otherwise responsible adult with them. Mike’s Place is marketed to families, but if your teen wants to learn how to file a miniature horse’s hooves or drench a sheep, I can show them.”
Martin joined in then. “What Monica’s saying, Mike, is what about the children?”
I looked sideways, like there was an explanation written on the wall. There wasn’t. I looked back at him. “What about them?”
Instead of elaborating, Martin looked meaningfully at the others. They looked as confused as I was.
That’s when my ears finally registered his dog whistle. Every single muscle in my body tensed, and I couldn’t think of the right, tactful words. I only had blunt, angry ones.
“If you’re concerned about your children, Martin, stop taking them to church.” The semicircle collectively gasped. “Statistically, that’s the most dangerous place for them.”
Monica bristled. “How dare you?”
“How dare I say a fact? What were you saying?”
“I was simply pointing out that you’re not a qualified teacher,” Monica said, her chin jutting stubbornly. “And you have a reputation for being … of loose virtue.”
This was fucking rich from a woman who used to bounce on me like a pogo stick.
I took a deep breath, forcing the blood to circulate.
Be cool, be cool, be cool. NEW MIKE.
“I didn’t say I was a teacher,” I told the group with superhuman calm. “And like I just said, I’ll do all the vetting and pass with flying colors. Mike’s Place will be a public hobby farm. For families. You guys know I’m great at this kind of thing. I always have been. Even back when I was—what’d you say, Monica?—looking for my virtue in the lost and found, I was good at my job. Nowadays I’m as virtuous as a newborn lamb, and I’m still good at my job.”
It wasn’t how I’d planned to address the issue of my reputation around town. I had a tactful speech. Stuff about new leaves and maturing, blah-blah. But the Shailor-Chapmans and their bullshit had irritated it right out of my head.
Monica started to say something, but Michael Clarke intervened.
“All right, all right.” He put up a hand. “Everyone calm down.”
Too late I remembered that Michael’s wife was the minister at the Anglican church, so if anyone had reason to take offense to the (true) thing I said about the church, it would be him.
But he surprised me.
“Martin, Monica, stop dog whistling. It’s fair to ask if Mike is responsible with our money, and wonder if he’s ready to run a business of this scale. But it’s not fair to ask if kids are safe with him. Of course they are.”
Monica, lip jutting, crossed her arms. “Someone has to think of the children.”
Michael leveled a look at her over his glasses. “If you have a concern, Monica, say it precisely and be ready to back it up. Otherwise, that phrase is just fearmongering. And, I’ll say it, shitty.”
I’d never been so glad for search-and-rescue dogs.
“Now.” Michael eyed his Association colleagues. “If you all don’t mind, I’d like to table the discussion about whether the Shailor-Chapmans are in breach of our code of conduct and revisit that in our next meeting”—Hodges nodded and noted something on his clipboard—“and return to the pitch at hand. I have a question for Mike.”
I made a bring it on gesture.
“Why’d you have to bring up the time I got lost in the woods again, mate?” he asked. “I was twelve and that has nothing to do with your farm animal business.”
I grinned. I’d been hoping he would ask, but I didn’t know he was going to do it moments after riding to my rescue like a fucking hero.
“Mate, I just thought it’d be a good idea to remind you what happened last time you didn’t listen to me when you should have. Strategy, yanno?”
Michael rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched.
