"Formal is one word for it," I agree, wrestling with a knot in the light string tied by someone with a personal vendetta against Christmas decorations.
"Of course, some people need the right influence to help them relax." Mrs. Patterson's tone is dripping with innocent menace.
"Are you matchmaking?" I ask, already bracing for impact.
"Me? Heavens no." She looks properly scandalized, though her eyes sparkle like she's halfway through a rom-com and taking notes. "I think it's nice when young people balance each other out. Complementary strengths and all that."
"I banned men from my life after Daniel," I mutter, yanking at the knot like it insulted my mother.
Mrs. Patterson doesn't miss a beat. "I banned donuts once. That didn't take either."
Before I can come up with a suitable comeback or deny that Mason Kincaid is the human equivalent of a jelly-filled disaster, the fog machine kicks on with the subtlety of a Broadway understudy desperate for stage time. White mist pours across the barn floor like ghost cats in a Halloween parade.
"Oh my," Mrs. Patterson says, unfazed. "Is this part of your artistic process, or are we summoning something?"
"Very much part of the plan," I say, searching for the off switch. "We're conjuring everlasting love and maybe a small weather event."
Above us, Mason's chair scrapes against the floor, followed by footsteps. Through the fog, I can make out his silhouette.
"Maddy," his voice carries through the mist, neutral in that lawyerly way that comes from not reacting to client confessions. "Everything under control?"
"Perfectly," I call back, locating the fog machine's cord and yanking it from the wall with more violence than necessary. "Just testing visual effects for a client consultation."
"Visual," he repeats, in the tone of someone who's beginning to recognize a pattern in my definition of control.
The fog begins to dissipate, revealing Mrs. Patterson and her dog chasing wisps of mist.
"Well," Mrs. Patterson says brightly, "that was exciting. I should let you get back to work. And Mr. Kincaid," she calls up, "don't be a stranger. We're having a potluck Friday. Nothing fancy, simply good food and better company."
Mason appears at the railing, trying to calculate the social cost of declining.
"That's kind, Mrs. Patterson, but I'm not sure..."
"Oh, nonsense. Maddy will bring you. Won't you?" She turns to me, triumphant.
"I..." I catch Mason's face. He looks like someone who was informed he'll be participating in a contact sport without gear. "Sure. I'll make sure he experiences all of River Bend's legendary hospitality."
"Wonderful!" She heads to the door with Pickles. "And Maddy? You might want to check the fog machine's ventilation. Just a thought."
We're left in silence, broken by my speaker cycling songs and Mason's steps descending.
"Potluck," he says, stopping at the neutral zone between us.
"Annual tradition," I confirm. "Covered dishes and weather talk, not legal briefs and billable hours."
"And you volunteered me because...?"
"Because Mrs. Patterson asked. And in River Bend, when she asks, you say yes. Unless you want to become the subject of her next newsletter."
"Newsletter?"
"River Bend Happenings. Last month included a three-paragraph analysis of how the new stop sign on Maple Street signals the decline of traditional American values."
"And attending a potluck prevents this?"
"It makes you part of the community instead of the antisocial lawyer who thinks he's above local customs."
"I see." He watches me, hands clasped behind his back. "And what does one bring to a potluck?"
