The weight of it settles over me, heavy and suffocating. Weeks of planning, community organizing, and days of pushing back against intimidation, all reduced to a pile of bureaucratic rejections and administrative delays.
"So that's it?" I ask, hating the smallness of my own voice. "He wins?"
"He wins," Mason says. "By the book, on paper, and with paperwork that paints us as amateurs who never should have aimed this high."
Before I can respond, the barn door opens and Mrs. Patterson walks in, followed by half the festival planning committee. Mrs. Russell leads the procession, her expressionthunderous. Behind her, I spot Mr. Thompson from the local fire department, Betty from the flower shop, and at least six other people who've become the backbone of our festival organization.
"Well," Mrs. Patterson announces without preamble, "I assume you've heard about the permit situation."
"Got the final notice," I confirm, gesturing to the stack of official letters that have turned my workspace into a monument to bureaucratic warfare.
"Figured as much." She settles into one of the client chairs, looking every bit like someone preparing for a long discussion. "Which is why we're here. This community doesn't give up easily, and we're not about to start now."
"Mrs. Patterson," Mason says gently, "I appreciate the sentiment, but without permits, we can't legally hold a public festival. The liability alone would be catastrophic."
"Who said anything about a public festival?" Mrs. Russell asks, her eyes sparkling with a glint that looks suspiciously like mischief. "As far as I'm concerned, we're planning a nice community gathering. Nothing official about it."
"A gathering that would still require"
"Would it, though?" Mrs. Patterson cuts in, pulling out her reporter's notebook, wearing the look of someone who's been doing her homework. "Because I've been making calls this morning, trying to figure out what we can and can't do. And I discovered an interesting detail."
She flips through several pages of notes, enjoying the dramatic pause.
"It turns out," she continues, "if I wanted to bring a pie to your barn here for a private gathering, I wouldn't need a permit for that. Would I?"
I blink at her, not sure where this is going. "No, of course not. It would be a gift between friends."
"Right. And if Mr. Thompson wanted to bring his famous chili, and Mrs. Russell wanted to contribute her preserves, and Betty wanted to donate some flowers for decoration, none of that would require permits either."
"Well, no, but"
"And if people felt moved to make donations to the Morrison Center while they were here enjoying all this delicious food and beautiful atmosphere, that would be generous community spirit, wouldn't it?"
The silence that follows is filled with possibility. I can practically see the lightbulb moments happening around the room as people begin to understand what Mrs. Patterson is suggesting.
"You're talking about a private party," Mason says. "Not a public festival."
"I'm talking about the biggest, most joyful private party River Bend has ever seen," Mrs. Patterson replies with satisfaction. "Held right here at Ever After, which, if I'm not mistaken, is licensed as an event venue."
"It is," I confirm, my heart beginning to race as the implications sink in. "We host weddings and corporate events. We have all the permits and insurance for private gatherings."
"And what's the difference between a wedding reception for two hundred people and a community celebration for two hundred people?" Mrs. Russell asks innocently.
"Legally? Nothing," Mason says, and for the first time all week, there's a hint of hope in his voice. "If it's a private event at a licensed venue, none of the public festival regulations apply."
Exactly!" Mrs. Patterson beams, satisfaction lighting her face. "We're not hosting a festival that needs permits, insurance, and fire marshal approval. We're throwing a private celebration that happens to support the Morrison Center."
"But what about vendors?" I ask, my practical side still cataloging obstacles. "People who were planning to sell food and crafts?"
"Well," Mr. Thompson says with a measured delivery that suggests he's been thinking about this, "I suppose if someone wanted to accept donations for their homemade goods, that would be neighbors helping neighbors. And if folks felt moved to contribute to someone's craft hobby, well, that's community support."
Betty nods. "A big, organized church potluck, except this time, we're raising support for the Morrison Center."
I stare around the room at these people, my people, my community, who've spent the morning figuring out how to outmaneuver a multimillionaire using nothing but small-town ingenuity and a deep understanding of regulatory loopholes.
"You've been planning this," I realize. "All of you. You knew the permits would get pulled, so you worked out an alternative."
"Honey," Mrs. Russell says with a smile that could melt butter, "we've been dealing with outside interference in this town for decades. You think Richard Kingston is the first wealthy man who has tried to tell us what we can and can't do in our own community?"
