I adjust the lights, surprised how much difference a few inches of height makes. The space transforms before my eyes, harsh angles softening into a glow that feels warm and inviting.
"Better?"
"Perfect." She steps back to assess our progress, hands on her hips in a pose that's becoming familiar. The stance of someone who tackles every challenge believing it can be solved through creativity and determination. "Okay, tables are gorgeous, lights are magical, centerpieces are Instagram-worthy. Now we need to test the fog machine."
"The fog machine that malfunctioned this morning?"
"That was user error. I didn't account for indoor ventilation requirements."
She approaches the fog machine, moving with a cautious confidence that suggests she's learned to respect temperamental equipment. Or, more likely, learned how to spin a convenient excuse when the thing malfunctions on its own.
"This time I've calculated the proper output volume for enclosed spaces."
I watch her adjust settings, noting that beneath her artistic exterior lies a mind that understands logistics and problem-solving.
"You've done this calculation before?"
"After the first disaster, I researched effects. Turns out there's science behind creating romantic ambiance."
She plugs in the machine, and this time, instead of a dramatic eruption, wisps of mist begin to curl around the base of our café setup like morning fog over the Seine.
"See? Managed magic."
The effect is remarkable. What began as a collection of props has transformed into a scene that resembles a romantic Parisian café. The soft fog adds a dreamlike quality that makes the fairy lights sparkle like captured stars.
"Impressive," I admit, and mean it.
"We're not done yet." She checks her phone. "Champagne setup, music queue, and lighting adjustments. Then we wait for our couple and try not to have any catastrophic equipment failures."
The champagne setup involves more complexity than I anticipated. A small cart positioned for optimal visibility, glasses arranged to catch the light, backup bottles hidden but accessible. Maddy explains each detail as we work, her voice carrying the passion of someone who cares about creating perfect moments for strangers.
"The key is anticipating everything that could go wrong and having a backup plan," she says, testing the music system. "Proposals are live theater with an audience of two, and there's no dress rehearsal."
"Hence the emergency kit."
"Yes." She pats a discrete bag. "Backup engagement ring, tissues, emergency champagne, and industrial-strength stain remover."
I study her preparations, giving them the same attention I'd give a complex contract negotiation. The level of detail is extraordinary. Contingency plans stacked on top of contingency plans.
"How often do you need the backup ring?"
"More often than you'd think. Nervous energy makes people clumsy, and engagement rings are aerodynamic."
She adjusts the final centerpiece. "There. What do you think?"
I survey the transformed space. The café tables create intimate seating areas. The backdrop suggests romance without resorting to clichés. The fog machine adds enough atmosphere without obscuring visibility.
"It appears to be a different space," I say.
"That's the idea. For the next hour, this isn't a barn in River Bend. It's a café in Paris where two people fall in love all over again."
A knock at the side door pulls her attention. "Right on cue," Maddy says. The catering crew enters, followed by the photographer.
"Give me a high five for pulling this off. And thanks for your help, by the way."
Before I can respond, car doors sound outside. Through the windows, I see a nervous-looking man helping a woman out of their car.
"Showtime," Maddy whispers, dimming the lights. "Turn off your phone. Nothing ruins romantic atmosphere faster than email notifications."
