Three hours to turn a barn into a Parisian café worthy of a marriage proposal.
The place is a chameleon. Half workshop, half event space, with a startling ability to transform on command. At first glance, it's a maze of creativity. Fabric bolts leaned upright like spectators, prop bins stacked with uncanny precision, craft tables scattered with the tools of her trade. A consultation station sits near the center, seemingly permanent, until she gives it the slightest nudge and it glides across the floor like it's floating.
And then Maddy shifts into gear.
Garlands are unhooked. Vases cleared. Displays folded and stored. Everything collapses, stacks, or rolls like it was engineered for speed. She doesn't rush. She moves with a practiced rhythm that says she's done this a hundred times. Maybe more.
In less than twenty minutes, everything vanishes. No glitter trail. No lingering mess. Bins snapped shut, tables stowed, and a barn floor as open and spotless as it was that morning.
She wheels it all into a slim closet beside the kitchenette—every bouquet stand, photo backdrop, and hand-painted sign. The door doesn’t even look big enough to hold a broom. Somehow, she tucks the last crate inside, closes it with a soft click, and turns like she’s performed a logistical miracle.
It's wildly impractical. Meticulously planned. And impressive, against my better judgment.
In my corporate law days, I've managed hostile takeovers with shorter timelines. The difference? Hostile takeovers don't require fairy lights, emergency glitter, or what Maddy calls "atmospheric magic."
I study her supply list the way I'd dissect a legal brief, searching for logic behind items likesilk roses, not the cheap ones,vintage teacups, mismatched but charming, and a meticulously labeledproposal emergency kit.
Each item holds a layer of thoughtfulness I'd never have considered. The kind that turns a simple question into a fully orchestrated experience worthy of Broadway.
“This one’s for Sarah and David,” Maddy says, snapping a hair tie around her wrist like she’s gearing up for a tactical operation. “They’ve been together since college. She’s obsessed with art and travel. Paris has been her dream since freshman year. He wanted a design that looked like it was made for her.”
She crosses to a tall cabinet that blends so seamlessly into the barn's wood paneling, I hadn't noticed it before. With a quick twist of the handle, the doors swing open to reveal neatly labeled shelves. She lifts a stack of tablecloths from the top shelf, balancing them against her hip with one hand while adjusting a prop Eiffel Tower with the other.
"First rule of emergency proposal setup. Everything happens at once. No linear steps, no logical order. We run this like a military operation … but with more tulle."
She hands me a box labeledCafé Tables, assembly required, her tone brisk and utterly confident. "You're on furniture duty. These need to be stable enough to hold champagne glasses but charming enough to seem like they came from a sidewalk bistro in Montmartre."
I open the box to find metal framework, distressed wood tops, and instructions written in what looks like a combination of English and wishful thinking.
"These are flat-packed."
"I know. Aren't they perfect? Completely authentic European aesthetic."
She's already halfway across the barn, testing string lights like someone who's personally been betrayed by faulty wiring. After seeing her handle both a fog machine and a foam cannon, she shouldn't be left unsupervised around anything that plugs in.
"How are you with an Allen wrench?"
"Proficient." I locate the assembly tools, noting that the instruction manual appears to have been translated by someone who once saw an IKEA ad and decided to wing it. "Though I should mention that my furniture assembly experience is limited to office environments."
"Same principle, different aesthetic goals." She pauses mid-light-test to flash me a grin that's equal parts encouragement and challenge.
"Don't worry," she says. "I have faith in your problem-solving abilities."
At one point, she disappears behind a folding screen, her voice muffled but unmistakably Maddy.
"Hi, yes, it's Maddy from Ever After. Listen, I know the event was scheduled for Friday, but there's been a shift. It's tonight. I know. I'm sorry. I will wash your delivery van or alphabetizeyour pantry or whatever you need. Please tell me you can still cater a full dinner service."
The silence that follows is tense.
"It's a proposal dinner. There's emotional weight involved. And candlelight. And gluten-free guests."
A beat later, she emerges, dialing again.
"Hey! Total emergency. Can you bring your full setup tonight instead of Friday? I'll owe you forever. I will get you a trained pigeon. I mean dove. A white one. With good emotional range. Just please say yes."
She's back in mission mode. I assemble café tables while she creates centerpieces from silk roses and vintage teacups, each arrangement a small work of art that captures both elegance and whimsy. She directs the placement of string lights while I wrestle with a backdrop that's supposed to evoke "Parisian twilight" but initially resembles "fabric store inventory" until she works some styling magic that makes it impossibly perfect.
"Fairy lights go higher," she calls from across the barn, arranging a miniature Eiffel Tower surrounded by enough candles to pose a fire hazard but somehow manages to make it appear romantic. "Think romantic café lighting, not crime scene illumination."
