21. Katerina
Chapter twenty-one
Katerina
I've orchestrated plenty of wedding rehearsals before.
I know how to command a small crowd without raising my voice, how to block ceremony positions with a polite smile that invites compliance.
By now, I have a refined mental flowchart for every stage: when to cue the music, how to space the bridal party, where to guide the photographer's lens. I could do it in my sleep.
And yet, standing on the lawn behind the Hollyvale Inn & Spa, watching Sofia's friends and family shuffle uncertainly around the makeshift aisle, I feel a slow tumble in my stomach that doesn't match the usual professional high.
I know precisely where that tumble comes from.
This morning's run-through was serviceable. This one, the final pass in the last good light before dinner, needs to be right.
Bex is only a few feet away, positioning herself behind Sofia and Jordan so she can walk with them down the aisle during the processional demonstration.
Her gaze flicks toward me for just a second, a small, fleeting look that says You good?
The worst part is, my body reads that gesture immediately.
A surprisingly warm tingle lights beneath my ribs before I forcibly refile the sensation under I appreciate that Bex is being helpful.
Entirely professional. Completely practical.
Not that I believe myself. Not anymore.
I clear my throat and glance at my binder, though I have the timings memorized. "All right, folks," I announce, gathering the group with a firm but gentle tone, "let's run the walk-through once more. We need to confirm the final order."
Sofia nods, looking radiant even in a casual summer dress.
Jordan stands beside her in a striped shirt, smiling at their fiancée with such unmistakable fondness that I almost feel I'm intruding.
Skye hovers on the sidelines, giving direction to a staff member about tomorrow's music cues, and Casey adjusts her camera angles, always ready to catch a spontaneous moment.
The rest of the bridal party, including Lexi and a couple of Jordan's longtime friends, forms a ragged line near the arbor.
Bex slips into place near Sofia with an ease that suggests she's done this a thousand times.
And maybe she has. Bex seems to find the center of the group without even trying.
I watch as she gently touches Sofia's shoulder to angle her more toward the inn's main path, and the two sisters exchange a look that only siblings can share.
It's half amusement, half exasperation born of years of shared experiences.
The gesture makes my chest tighten. I'm aware of how rare that closeness feels in my own life.
"Processional!" I call. Immediately, half the line turns the wrong direction. I bite my lip, hiding my smile. "Well, that's one reason we rehearse."
My eyes dip to Bex, laughing under her breath at the confusion, chambray sleeves rolled two folds up, the tattoos on her left forearm on full display. A forearm I've noticed, obviously, because it's relevant to my job. Or something like that.
The walk-through settles into roughly accurate formation.
The sun sinks toward a horizon tinted tangerine and rose, and I catch myself thinking about how I'd frame this light if I were behind a camera instead of a binder.
"Okay, that was not terrible," I call, drawing sarcastic cheers.
"We'll reconvene in an hour for the rehearsal dinner on the patio. "
The group disperses. Sofia kisses Jordan lightly, and something in the ease of it makes my chest ache in a way I can't quite name. I close my binder and exhale. The next stop is the dinner. Then tomorrow: the 26th. The day everyone's secrets might unravel.
The rehearsal dinner takes place outdoors on the inn's main patio, twinkle lights strung to a fir tree decked in Christmas ornaments, white tablecloths and gleaming flatware layered with garlands of tinsel.
I would never have designed an event with holiday lights next to wedding décor, it violates every rule of aesthetic synergy, but the reflection on the lake gives it a dreamy quality that rushes me straight back to those fleeting New Orleans nights: the hush of the music, the sense that something unexpected could happen any minute.
I try to calm myself with logic. This is just a dinner.
I feel Bex's presence before I see her. It takes exactly two seconds for my body to tense with awareness. That's new. Or maybe it isn't new, just newly acknowledged.
Bex circles around one of the tables, chatting with Jordan.
Her posture is unselfconscious, hands in her back pockets.
She wears a pair of jeans just slightly faded at the knees, the short sleeves of her T-shirt hugging her shoulders.
I notice. Then I promptly tell myself that would matter if I needed to check whether Bex is in dress code for a formal event.
That's all. A purely managerial observation.
Complete nonsense, obviously.
I force myself to greet a few of Sofia's relatives, each of whom offers kind remarks about how organized everything is.
Plenty of references to the mania of an approaching wedding day.
I respond with the same polite, practiced affirmations.
I'm grateful for the chatter. It keeps me from scanning the crowd for glimpses of Bex.
Eventually, I find a quiet spot on the far edge of the patio, out of the conversational swirl.
I allow myself a few minutes to watch the lake, the lights dancing across its surface.
The hush of the water in the evening air is a relief after so many group events.
My shoulders ease. I'm about to take a deep breath of quiet when I hear footsteps. A voice.
"Busy night?" Bex says, coming alongside me.
I force myself to remain calm. "Like every night this week," I reply mildly, trying for an even tone. I attempt a small smile. "But the next day is always busier."
We stand there, side by side, without speaking for a full half-minute. The lights overhead glow softly. The distant music from the town's Christmas in July festivities creates an odd mixture of cheer and hush, as if the party is happening just behind some invisible wall.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the shape of Bex's profile. That strong outline of her jaw. The small ring on her index finger catching the light in sudden glints. Bex exhales, and I feel that improbable wave of warmth again. I try to return my gaze to the water.
Bex says, softly, "Remember the beignets?"
I let a tiny scoff escape. "Yes. And I remember thinking it was a terrible idea to eat that many with that little table space." I pause. "I also remember... enjoying it." That last part comes out quieter.
Bex's elbow shifts, almost like she's thinking about nudging me but holds back. "I'm beginning to realize you're capable of enjoying things you initially hate."
That makes me smile, small and self-conscious. "Possibly," I agree, and I become very aware of the spot on my arm where Bex once pressed a hand.
My arm. It tingles. So I look back at the lake, reclassifying the entire reaction as a byproduct of the evening's sentimental ambience. Everyone gets reflective at rehearsal dinners, I tell myself. No deeper meaning. Just a standard emotional phenomenon.
"What are you thinking?" Bex asks eventually. Her voice is quieter, more curious.
I inhale. I consider lying. But something in the hush makes me say, "I'm thinking that none of this is how I would have planned. And yet it's... working. The lights, the random holiday décor, the lake." I turn my head slightly. "You make it look easy, you know."
The corner of Bex's mouth twitches. "I definitely don't feel like I'm making anything look easy." She huffs half a laugh. "I'm usually flailing twenty-three hours of the day."
I try to picture Bex flailing. It doesn't line up with the calm, expressive posture she has in front of the wedding party. "If that's flailing, maybe I should try it."
Bex's eyes flick to me. For a tenuous moment, I feel pinned in place by that glance. Then she looks away, out toward the water.
"Kit." A new voice. Lucia, crossing the patio toward us.
I draw myself up, posture perfect. I wonder if Lucia noticed us talking alone.
Her expression is mild and warm as she nears, though, so perhaps there's no reason to panic.
Lucia wears a simple linen dress in muted sage.
She carries herself with that self-assured readiness that seems ingrained into the Russo family.
"I wanted to thank you," Lucia says quietly, addressing me. "What you've done for Sofia has been remarkable. She speaks about you with such admiration for your work. She says you make her feel like everything is under control."
I keep my voice carefully measured. "I'm just doing my job, Mrs. Russo..."
"Lucia," the older woman corrects. Then her gaze flickers to Bex.
She gives a small, thoughtful smile. "Sofia is very grateful.
We all are. There's a personal effort you've put into this that goes beyond the standard planning.
" Lucia pauses, pressing her lips together thoughtfully before adding, "It's good for Sofia to have someone so steady in her corner right now. "
I feel the back of my neck flush, though I doubt it's visible in the warm light. I try to shift that sense of rising emotion into a polite response. "Family weddings can be complicated. I'm glad to help where I can."
Lucia nods. Her eyes are more focused than they were a moment ago. "Bex's father and I have never handled complicated things especially well." She says it with a note of sadness. "But I see that my daughters are still able to find good people. They deserve that."
The weight of that statement hangs in the air for an instant before Lucia dips her head in a gracious parting. She turns and walks away, weaving back into the crowd. I watch her go, exhaling softly.
Then I feel Bex shift beside me. A rustle, a small movement.