She's fierce. I love her.
Mason
Three more people have stopped by asking about legal services. Word is spreading that I'm "the lawyer who stands up to bullies."
Me
You are. Own it.
By six-thirty, I'm at the community center, now transformed into our makeshift war room. Neighbors file in with expressions that range from curious to furious. Mrs. Patterson enters with her notepad already open, scanning the room with the sharp-eyed focus of someone halfway through writing tomorrow's headline. The hardware store owner comes in with his wife, both wearing the grim resolve of people ready to take a stand. Even Mr. Thompson from the fire department shows up, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
And then Mason walks in, rumpled button-down, sleeves rolled, the faintest smudge of ink near his cuff. He catches my eye across the room and nods. It's not flashy, not performative. But I feel the weight of it in my chest. Steady. Certain. On my side.
I take a breath and step forward.
"All right," I say, letting the low murmur settle. "Let's talk about what happened today."
For the next twenty minutes, I lay it out. Richard Kingston's visit. His orchestrated attempt to dismantle the festival from the inside. His pressure tactics. The subtle threats. The not-so-subtle ones. I keep my tone measured, my voice clear. I don't spin it. I don't soften it.
"This isn't about permits or insurance," I say, meeting their eyes one by one. "It's about power. It's about whether we let an outsider, someone with no roots here, no investment in our lives, dictate what this town becomes. If he can't buy us out, he'll push us out. One loophole at a time."
A ripple of reaction spreads across the room
Mrs. Patterson straightens in her seat. "Kingston. He's the one who tried to bulldoze the waterfront a few months back, right? Before the Morrison Center project got off the ground?"
Heads nod. Someone mutters, "Thought we saw the last of him."
"He's not gone," I say. "He's smarter this time. He's not making offers, he's making threats. Trying to wear us down. Undermine us until giving up feels easier than fighting back."
I let that hang in the air, then drive the point home.
"So this isn't about the Morrison Center. It's about control. About rewriting the story of River Bend into a version that's generic and profitable. He failed the first time because we were paying attention. This time, he's slipping in through the cracks, hoping no one notices until it's too late."
Silence.
And then, "He's betting we'll fold," I say. "That we'll back down quietly. That we'll start questioning ourselves."
I scan the room. These are the people who built this town. Who held potlucks when the mill shut down and showed up with rakes and plywood after that freak storm last spring. People who lend each other trucks and casseroles and backup generators.
"He's wrong."
A pause.
"We're River Bend. We don't fold. We rally."
That's when Mrs. Patterson lifts her eyebrow and says, "And what are you proposing we do?"
I square my shoulders. "We fight back. The way we always do. We show up. We pitch in. And we throw a festival so unforgettable they'll still be talking about it at Christmas. One that proves River Bend is alive, and it's not for sale."
Another beat of silence.
Then Mrs. Russell stands, bristling with outrage. "That man came into my shop today and had the gall to suggest my customers were in danger because I sell unregulated preserves. As if I haven't been making peach jam longer than he's been breathing."
She points at Mason. "And he implied he wasn't qualified to help with my will. I told him that Mason Kincaid has done more for this town in three weeks than most people do in three years, and if he had any more concerns, he could take them up with me directly."
Applause erupts. Not polite claps, real applause. Loud. Satisfying. The kind that says enough is enough.
One by one, others speak up.
