She adjusts my tie, brisk and impersonal, yet even through the fabric her touch affects me. A gesture meant to prep a soldier for battle, though it lands more as a reminder of the territory we've crossed.
"You've got this. Think of it as a friendly deposition where everyone's trying to feed you carbohydrates."
The comparison is comforting, until Mrs. Patterson appears at my elbow, slipping in with the stealth of a trained operative.
"Mason! How wonderful that you came." Her eyes immediately zero in on the cake in my hands. "Here, let me help with that," she says, peeling back the foil covering with the practiced efficiency of someone who's been handling community potlucks for decades. She studies the revealed cake with the skill of a Michelin food critic. "My goodness, this looks delicious. Did you make it yourself?"
I feel Maddy's eyes on me. A wordless reminder of our conspiracy. This is the first test.
I summon the ease I use in hostile negotiations.
"Yes, It's a family recipe," I say. "Nothing too complicated."
"Modest too," Mrs. Patterson beams. "How refreshing. Come along, let's get this beauty to the dessert table."
She leads us through the crowd. I'm aware of Maddy at my side, our arms separated by six careful inches, yet her warmth reaches me anyway.
This proximity feels like torture.
Every greeting, every cheerful, "Maddy, you brought the new lawyer!" chips away at the deal we made.
Maddy is a master of misdirection, running interference like it's her full-time job.
She arranges our cake and cookies on the dessert table, each move deliberate.
"Ideal placement," she whispers, head close enough that her hair brushes my cheek. "Close enough to the crowd-pleasers to benefit from association, far enough from the show-stoppers to avoid direct comparison."
Her breath brushes my cheek, warm and close, but it's the faint scent of that ridiculous perfume that hits first. Citrus and marshmallow and some unidentifiable note of trouble. I want to close the six-inch gap between us, to ask if she's as miserable in this performance as I am.
Instead, I nod. "Sound tactics."
Before the silence stretches, a bear of a man in a volunteer fire department T-shirt approaches, his focus locked in, a recruiter on a mission.
"You must be the lawyer everyone's talking about." He engulfs my hand in his. "Tom Thompson. Fire chief."
I go through the motions, deploying the charm Maddy warned I'd need. I express interest in kitten rescue, praise their fundraising efforts, and cite my workload at the Morrison Center as a reason for my lack of availability.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maddy watching, a flicker of admiration present before she masks it.
She appears at my side as Tom moves on, handing me a plastic cup of alarming red punch.
"Smooth," she says. "Very diplomatic. Tom's been trying to recruit every able-bodied person since the last chief retired."
"Is that normal? The recruitment pressure?"
"Yes. Everyone here serves some function. It's how small towns survive." She gestures with her cup. "The key is to express interest without making commitments."
"A lesson that applies to more than fire departments," I say.
Her eyes meet mine. For a second, the performance drops.
I see the woman from last night. Genuine laughter, fire in her eyes.
I see confusion that mirrors my own.
Then the mask returns.
"Come on," she says, her tone bright but brittle. "Let me introduce you to people before they start approaching you. It's less overwhelming in small doses."
