"That this isn't the end," I realize, the truth settling over me like a sunrise. "This is the beginning. Richard thought he was stopping a festival, but what he did was teach an entire community how to fight back. How to win."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MASON
On stage at River Bend's "Biggest Private Party," I grip the sides of the podium, my knuckles white against the dark wood. The microphone feels heavier than it should, and the crowd stretching out before me represents everything I never thought I'd have, a community that chose to claim me, to fight for me, to show up when it mattered most.
The Weathered Barn has been transformed into a place of quiet magic. Fairy lights twinkle overhead like captured stars, and Betty's floral arrangements turn every corner into a garden of possibility. The fog machine, at last behaving itself, creates atmosphere to make the space feel dreamlike without obscuring the faces I've come to know and love.
I find Maddy in the crowd, and she gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod, one that feels like it passes all her strength to me. It's the same nod she gave before the community meeting, but now it carries the weight of everything we've built together, everything we're protecting. Beside her, Henry and Savvy stand arm in arm, both beaming, their expressions full of the quietsatisfaction that comes from watching someone you care about find their place in the world.
"Not too long ago," I begin, my voice carrying through the barn thanks to the sound system Maddy somehow procured despite every obstacle Richard threw at us, "I came to River Bend as a stranger. A corporate lawyer running from a life that no longer fit, looking for a sense of purpose I couldn't yet name."
The crowd watches. Mrs. Russell grins from the front row. Mr. Thompson stands with his arms crossed, his expression unexpectedly gentle. Even Mrs. Patterson sets aside her notepad, choosing to listen instead of taking notes.
"What I found here was more than I ever imagined. Not work that matters or a cause worth fighting for, but people who know what I've done and still choose to stand with me. A place where I can build a future worth having. A life I want to live."
I pause, letting my gaze sweep across faces that have become familiar and dear. Near the back, I spot a figure that makes my pulse quicken, Richard Kingston, standing in the shadows like he couldn't resist seeing how his strategy played out. He's watching with that calculating expression I know so well, but his eyes tell a different story. They carry an edge I don't expect.
It might even be respect.
"When Richard Kingston filed his lawsuit and tried to shut down this celebration with red tape, he made one big mistake," I say, keeping my eyes on him.
My voice grows stronger, steadier. "He thought he was fighting individuals. He thought he could isolate us, intimidate us, force us to surrender by making the cost of resistance too high. What he didn't understand is that he wasn't fighting me, or Henry, or even the Morrison Center. He was fighting all of you."
A wave of agreement ripples through the crowd. I see Richard's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, a small tell that my words are hitting their target.
"He was fighting a community that doesn't abandon its own. That doesn't let fear make decisions. That finds creative solutions when faced with impossible obstacles." I think of Mrs. Patterson's brilliant private party loophole. "That turns bureaucratic weapons into community celebrations."
The applause is warm, genuine. But I'm not done yet.
"The Morrison Center represents more than historic preservation. It represents the belief that some things are worth protecting, not because they're profitable, but because they're precious. That communities can choose their own future. That love can be stronger than litigation."
As I speak, I watch the faces in the crowd shift, attentive, then engaged, then resolute. This isn't a speech. It's a declaration of independence from the Richard Kingstons of the world.
When Mrs. Patterson stands, her voice rings out, conviction clear, a dramatic turn for a woman who wrote a character assassination piece about me weeks ago.
"That man back there," she says, pointing straight at Richard, her voice steady, the fearlessness of someone who's found their cause shining through, "is the kind of man whose very name makes people think they know who Mason Kincaid is. My sister's cousin Denise knew what his company had done, and because Mason once worked for him, she figured he must be guilty too. But people aren't only one thing. We can see for ourselves who shows up when it matters."
The room erupts in applause, and I watch Richard's expression flicker as his grip on control slips. It's not polite clapping, it's fierce, defiant. The sound of a town drawing a line and daring anyone to cross it.
Other people stand to speak. Mrs. Russell talks about the will provisions for her roses, making it sound like the most important legal work in the world. Mr. Thompson describes how I helped coordinate emergency protocols that made their volunteer response more effective.
Betty from the flower shop brings up how I always ask about her grandmother when I stop in, how I treat her as a person, not a vendor.
One by one, they dismantle every argument Richard has made, about who I am, what I represent, why trusting me is a risk. Not with legal briefs or polished statements, but with stories. Real moments. Proof offered in the one court that matters. The court of public opinion.
Richard's face is a mask of cold calculation, but beneath it lies a crack, surprise, maybe even reluctant admiration. He expected a last stand. A collapse. Instead, he's witnessing a force he doesn't know how to defeat. A community that won't be swayed, silenced, or torn apart. One that plants its feet and protects its own.
My phone vibrates against my leg—a text I know without checking is from Richard. Another veiled threat, another attempt to control the narrative. But as I look out at this crowd, my community, my family, my home, I realize the game has changed.
As the evening winds down and people begin to drift toward the exit, sharing stories and making plans for next year's celebration, because there will be a next year, I catch sight of Richard making his own departure. He slips through the crowd, unnoticed, blending in as another guest heading for the door.
But before he can reach the door, the barn entrance bursts open, and Ivy stumbles in, dragging half the contents of an Italian airport duty-free shop, her immaculate appearancereplaced by the disheveled glory of someone who's been traveling for eighteen hours straight.
"Did I miss it?" she calls out, her voice edged like someone running on caffeine and sheer determination. "Please tell me I didn't miss the epic showdown with the corporate villain. I took a red-eye from Rome and have been in airports and airplanes since yesterday morning because I would not miss this for the world."
The remaining crowd turns toward her, surprise sparking fresh energy. Savvy grins and rushes to her business partner, while Maddy's face lights up, the pure joy of having all her favorite people in one place shining through.
