Page 35 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

MADDY

A week has passed since the community meeting, though it feels endless. Seven days of watching Richard Kingston dismantle everything we've built, one bureaucratic attack after another.

I'm sitting at my usual spot in the barn, surrounded by cancellation emails and notices of "additional review required," when Mason walks in looking like he's been personally defeated by the entire government.

"That bad?" I ask, though his expression tells me everything I need to know.

"The county pulled our special events permit," he says, settling into the chair beside me. "There were irregularities in our application that require a full administrative review. The timeline for resolution is six to eight weeks."

I stare at him. "He still has that amount of pull?"

Mason’s mouth tightens. "Even after everything that came out? Yeah. Turns out when you spend your career collecting favors, and leverage, you don't lose it overnight. He's got files on half the decision-makers in this county. Maybe more."

"But the festival is in five days."

"I know." Mason pushes off the wall and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled in a way that would normally make me want to smooth it down.

Today, it makes him look exhausted. "They also revoked our temporary liquor license, citing concerns about public safety protocols.

And the county fire marshal wants to reinspect our entire setup, but the earliest available appointment is three weeks from now. "

I stare at him, feeling the familiar sensation of the ground shifting beneath my feet. "So we can't serve alcohol, we can't operate as a public event, and we can't have any setup that requires fire department approval."

"Which is basically everything larger than a backyard barbecue."

"What about the vendors?"

"Half of them got letters yesterday questioning their business licenses for temporary sales.

The other half are too scared to participate without proper event authorization.

" He leans back in his chair, staring up at the barn rafters like they might hold answers.

"The insurance company also pulled our event coverage this morning.

They cited 'elevated risk due to pending litigation. '"

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 expression thunderous.

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?"

"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. "Six degrees 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?"

"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."