“Actually,” Maddy interrupts, her eyes lighting up with that particular gleam that precedes either genius or disaster, “we could get the Davis family to bring their goats and thatnice pony. They're licensed for educational visits, and it saves Mr. Abernathy from getting lost for six hours in the corn maze again.”
Savvy snorts with laughter. “He wasn't lost. He was napping. It was his designated escape time from Mrs. Abernathy.”
“Either way,” Henry says, trying to restore some semblance of order to the conversation, “two weeks isn't enough time to coordinate all of this. The permits alone?—”
“Leave that to me,” Maddy says, her confidence steady—the kind that comes from building a career on impossible timelines. “Don’t forget, I put together a proposal in three hours that included a trip to Paris, a full dinner service, and a professional photographer. A community festival is just scaling up.”
“This budget projection,” Henry says, squinting at my laptop screen, “it's quite conservative, and you've built in redundancies for everything.”
“Experience,” I reply. “In corporate law, I learned that disaster comes from the details no one wants to think about.”
“Such as?” Savvy asks.
“In this case? Weather issues, vendor contracts falling apart, permit delays, emergencies.” I glance at Maddy. “Corporate sabotage too—though I’m hoping that stays theoretical.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, reminding us all that this isn't only a community festival—it's a battle for the future of the Morrison Center, fought on the friendliest possible battlefield, but still a war, nonetheless.
“Speaking of corporate complications,” Henry says carefully, “it’s only fair to mention that my father’s in town.”
The temperature drops ten degrees the second Henry mentions him. My gut tightens on reflex. No explanation needed—just the old instinct flaring to life. Richard doesn't show up unless he's here to gut something. Or someone. There's no warmth in the memory of working under him—the echoof sharp suits, sharper strategy, and a brilliance so cold it left casualties in its wake. He doesn't build. He dismantles. And now he's here. Which means everything could fall apart.
“For how long?” I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
“Unknown. He checked into the Marriott in Albany yesterday. No itinerary, no meetings scheduled that I'm aware of.” Henry's expression is neutral, but I know him well enough to see the concern he's trying to hide. “It could be coincidence.”
“Richard Kingston doesn't do coincidence,” I reply. “Everything is calculated, every move has a purpose.” I should know—I learned that from him. Never waste energy on random actions. Every decision should advance your position. One of the first lessons he taught me when I joined his company fresh out of law school.
Maddy looks up from the vendor contracts, eyes narrowing. “So, how bad is it?”
Henry hesitates, the weight of it settling between us. “Richard showing up anywhere is trouble,” he says. “But here, now, days before the festival?”
He doesn’t need to say more. We already feel the storm rolling in.
“He's not here to congratulate us,” I say. “He's here to assess. To see what we've built, how strong our foundations are, where the weak points might be.” The analysis comes automatically, muscle memory from years of thinking like him, anticipating his moves.
Gloria, who’s been quietly arranging scones with one ear on the conversation, looks up.
“This the one who tried to bulldoze River Bend a few months back?”
“Among other things,” Henry says, diplomatic.
“Your old boss?” she asks me directly, and there's a note in her tone that suggests she understands the complexity of fighting someone who used to sign your paychecks.
“He was,” I pause, remembering those early days when grief made me susceptible to mentorship that came with a heavy price. “He taught me to be good at a specific type of law. The kind where victory matters more than who gets hurt.”
“Hmm.” Gloria's tone suggests she's filing this information away for future reference. “Well, he's not welcome at my bar, I can tell you that much. A man who'd threaten a community project out of spite—former boss or not—doesn't deserve good whiskey and friendly conversation.”
The fierce protectiveness in her voice makes warmth unfold in my chest. It's been so long since anyone has offered to defend me that I'd forgotten how it feels to have allies, people willing to stand guard at the gates of your life.
“Mom,” Maddy says softly, “you don't have to fight our battles for us.”
“Sweetheart,” Gloria replies with a smile that's equal parts maternal warmth and steel-edged determination, “that's what mothers do when someone's threatening their daughter's happiness.”
The rest of the morning blurs into layered planning—assigning roles, mapping out contingencies, setting up communication channels. By noon, we’ve built a festival game plan precise enough to impress an event coordinator and dreamy enough to melt a hopeless romantic.
But all of it—the vendor confirmations, the volunteer coordination, the media strategy—feels like shadow boxing. We're preparing for a fight with an opponent I know intimately, whose strategies I helped perfect, whose next move I should be able to predict but somehow can't.
Because Richard taught me to think as a corporate lawyer, but Maddy has taught me to think as a human being. And I’m no longer sure which instinct to trust.
