"Plus," Mrs. Patterson adds, consulting her notes again, "I may have done some research into Mr. Kingston's previous tactics. Turns out he's used this exact strategy in three other communities over the past five years. Always the same pattern, legal pressure, bureaucratic delays, community division. But none of those communities had what we have."
"Which is?" Mason asks.
"Experience," she says simply. "And stubbornness. And a good venue that's properly licensed for the event we want to hold."
The room erupts in animated discussion as people begin planning what Mrs. Patterson has dubbed "River Bend's Biggest Private Party." Mrs. Russell starts organizing food contributions. Mr. Thompson discusses parking logistics. Betty begins sketching floral arrangements that will transform the barn into pure magic.
Through it all, I watch Mason's expression change from defeat to amazement to what looks suspiciously like pride. Not in himself, but in this community that's adopted him, claimed him, and is now prepared to fight bureaucracy itself to protect what they've all built together.
"They did this for us," he says, moving to stand beside me as the planning continues.
"Yes," I concur. "Because that's what communities do. They adapt, they overcome, and they find ways to protect what matters."
His phone buzzes. He checks the screen, and his entire posture shifts, shoulders tightening, mouth thinning. Then he turns the phone so I can see it too.
Richard
The word around town is that you're moving everything to a private event. Clever. Harder to regulate. You're learning to think strategically. — RK
"He doesn't sound angry," I say.
Mason exhales. "Because he's not."
I glance around the barn, at our volunteers huddled in groups, at half a dozen phones lit up with texts and posts flying out faster than plans can be finalized.
I lower my voice. "How does he know our every move?"
Mason follows my gaze. "In a town like this? You don't need a spy. You need to be patient. Word travels fast." He shrugs. "Sixdegrees of separation? With Richard, it's more like two. And the saddest part is whoever's feeding him information might not even realize they're doing it."
I swallow hard, watching the ripple of chatter move through people we trust.
"They're talking," Mason says. "And that's all he's ever needed."
Mason deletes the text. "Richard likes chess players, not checkers players. We demonstrated that we can think several moves ahead."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's complicated," he says. "But for now, it means we get to have our celebration. And sometimes, that's enough."
As the afternoon planning session winds down and people begin heading home to prepare for what promises to be the most elaborate private party in River Bend history, I find myself alone with Mason in the barn that's about to become the center of our community's biggest act of defiance.
"So," I say, settling onto the bear rug that's seen every twist and turn of this relationship, "ready to host the most important party of your life?"
"Our life," he corrects, joining me on the ridiculous fake fur that somehow feels like the unofficial mascot of our story. "And yes. I'm ready."
"Even though Richard's out there planning his next move as we speak?"
"Precisely because of that." He reaches for my hand, his fingers warm and certain in mine. "Because whatever he throws at us next, we'll handle it the same way we handled this, together, as a community, with more heart than he has money."
"And more stubbornness than he has lawyers?"
"Definitely more stubbornness."
I look around the barn, our barn, where fairy lights will soon glow and our town will come together to show that some things can't be bought or bullied away.
"You know what the best part is?" I ask.
"What?"
