From somewhere near the doorway, Mrs. Patterson’s voice drifts in. “Well, this is where me and Pickles make our exit. Have a good day, now.”
Footsteps retreat, the door swings shut, and then it’s just me, Maddy, and the wreckage.
I descend the stairs. What was meant to be a garden setting now resembles the aftermath of a festive avalanche, complete with foam-covered roses buried under toppled arches and soggy satin ribbons.
"Foam malfunction?" I ask.
"Creative exploration," she says. "Sometimes artistic vision requires trial and error."
"And sometimes trial and error requires proper ventilation and safety equipment." I study the foam cannon she's still holding, handling it like she's defusing a bomb. "This is designed for outdoor use."
"I realize that now." She sets the device down carefully, as if it might combust or possibly unionize and file a complaint with OSHA. "Thank you for your expert consultation, Counselor."
Her sarcasm carries an edge that suggests pride wounded beyond professional embarrassment. I recognize the feeling. The sting of competence questioned, of expertise dismissed in front of witnesses. It's the same sensation I felt every time Richard Kingston introduced me as "my boy Mason," as if my law degree and years of experience were charming hobbies instead of qualifications.
"The concept is sound," I say, surprised by the gentleness in my voice. "The execution needs refinement."
She studies me like she's trying to figure out what I want in return.
"Are you offering to help clean up this mess?"
"I'm offering consultation on equipment operation and safety protocols." The words come out formal, but her wariness draws me in, tempting me to treat this as a negotiation with clear terms.
"How generous." Her tone softens. Her head tilts, that analytical focus returning.
I remove my suit jacket and hang it on a chair that hasn't been touched by foam. One of the few in a fifty-foot radius.
"Where do you keep the cleaning supplies?"
"You don't have to..." she starts, but I'm rolling up my sleeves.
"I know." The way she looks at me, like I'm a puzzle she's not sure she wants to solve, makes it easy to step in. "But I suspectyou have clients expecting functional proposal setups, and foam residue tends to compromise romantic atmosphere."
She stares at me like I've quoted poetry or offered to waltz.
Then she laughs. Not the polite sound from the wedding dance, but a laugh so genuine and unguarded it echoes off the rafters like music, and I love the way it sounds. "The cleaning supplies are in the storage closet," she says, pointing toward the back of the barn. "And Mason?"
I pause, looking up.
"Your shirt's going to get ruined."
I glance down at my monogrammed cuffs— a detail I once cared about, then at the foam-covered workspace that represents her creativity and the business she's fighting to build.
"It's just a shirt."
Her expression shifts, barely, but enough to fracture the armor. It's the same vulnerability I glimpsed during the wedding dance, when the music slowed and the barriers dropped for three minutes and forty-seven seconds.
"Just a shirt," she repeats, like she's testing the words.
"Yep, just a shirt," I confirm, and reach for the cleaning supplies.
We work in silence. She with her sleeves rolled up and stubborn resolve written across her face. Me, focused, applying lawyer-grade attention to foam removal. It dissolves under warm water, revealing the barn floor like time-lapse footage of spring arriving.
Within an hour, the space is restored. The lingering scent of artificial snow and roses creates an oddly pleasant atmosphere that definitely wasn't in any office design manual I've read.
"Thank you," she says when we finish, the words heavier than politeness. There's surprise in her voice, like she didn't expect kindness from my direction.
"Professional courtesy," I reply, though we both know it was more than that. A feeling that doesn't fit neatly into the categories I use to organize interactions.
