15. Katerina
Chapter fifteen
Katerina
Itell myself this is routine, that arriving two days early is standard practice, and that I am definitely not using these forty-eight hours as a strategic buffer.
I repeat the line in my head as I step off the train onto the small platform at the edge of Hollyvale, the late-July sun pricking at the back of my neck through my neatly pinned curls.
By the time I spot the driver holding a discreetly lettered Hollyvale Inn & Spa sign, I almost believe my own story.
Almost.
I can't blame protocol alone for the restless buzz in my chest, the one that started roughly the moment I woke in my New Orleans hotel room with a certain silver ring zipped into my carry-on and a fresh design on my left wrist. The tattoo is healed now, a clean dark line I keep catching sight of when I reach for things.
But I'm here, no nonsense, well prepared, binder at the ready.
I have two days until the rest of the wedding party arrives.
Two days to get my heart rate back down to a respectable BPM so I can face Bex Russo without any visible twitch.
The car ride down the curving main road takes all of seven minutes, the driver pointing out charming sights.
"Town hall's that way, folks around here are gearing up for the big July 25th celebration," he says, nodding to a row of storefronts decked in red and green bunting.
Wreaths cling to lampposts in the sweltering heat.
A banner overhead proclaims CHRISTMAS IN JULY.
In my binder, Christmas is not scheduled for another five months. Yet Hollyvale insists otherwise, apparently.
By the time the car reaches the wide gates of the resort, my eyes have cataloged everything: the enormous wreath, the holly garlands wrapping around the iron fence, the sign at the entrance reading MERRY & brIGHT, which is whimsical in a way that makes my lips pinch.
Whimsical isn't in the plan. I try to reclassify it as a local tourism quirk, interesting in a documentary-subject kind of way. Strictly observational.
But when we pull around to the main doors and I see the front porch decked with red ribbons and a life-size Santa's sleigh by the steps, I feel something else.
It's charming, actually. In a borderline surreal, slightly comedic way.
I remind myself that personal opinions on undertakings like Christmas in July are not relevant to my professional purpose.
Except the part of me that once dreamed of capturing unusual celebrations for a documentary just keeps noticing.
A tall figure stands at the entrance with a clipboard: Skye Kerne, the resort manager, looking as unflappable as ever in a sharp blouse and wide-leg linen trousers.
Skye's hair is pinned back in a low twist, not a strand out of place despite the heat.
I inhale, square my shoulders, and prepare myself.
Skye greets me with brisk warmth, handing off the car keys to a valet with one hand while flipping pages on the clipboard with the other. "Glad you made it," Skye says. "We've been finalizing the ceremony site. Think we're just about there, but I want your eye on it."
I nod, stepping onto the porch. The swirling scent of pine garlands (faux, but surprisingly realistic) and the deeper note of summer flowers tangle in my nose. My mind automatically tries to file that combination under "unseasonal but oddly effective."
"Of course, I'm ready to see everything," I say in my most composed voice. "Thank you for accommodating my early arrival."
"It's a help, actually," Skye says, leading me through the wide wooden doors into the lobby. "We've got two events overlapping. The local Christmas in July festivities and Jordan's wedding. Even with me splitting time between them, it's a juggling act. I'm grateful for an extra set of eyes."
Inside, the resort lobby is a swirl of polished floors, airy windows, and intentional holiday touches: a towering evergreen set up in the center, ornamented with miniature Mardi Gras masks (is that a nod to New Orleans, or have I fully lost my mind?).
White lights twinkle from the branches. Flanking that scene is a large reception desk topped with a cheerful sign reading HAPPY HALF-HOLIDAYS!
I attempt not to think about how Bex would raise an eyebrow at these decorations, how she'd tease them for being over the top and then probably love them anyway.
Reclassification: that was purely an imaginative exercise, clarifying how others might respond. Obviously.
Skye's tour is brisk but thorough. We stop by the ceremony site first: a lovely open-air terrace overlooking the lake, chairs arranged in neat rows under a canopy.
A small arbor stands decorated with more evergreen boughs, tiny fairy lights woven through them.
My eye flicks over the space, mentally re-mapping the processional route. I nod approval.
We walk next to the main barn-turned-ballroom for the reception.
It's all cedar walls and wide windows, the rafters strung with soft orbs that could pass for either festive holiday décor or romantic wedding lighting.
Ambiguously Christmassy, but workable for an elegant summer event if the color palette is chosen carefully.
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I ignore it. I have my itinerary. I have my next steps. I am going to spend the next two days finalizing logistics. I'll confirm the vendor deliveries, ensure the rooms are prepped, and check the sound system, because I never trust the first run-through.
Most importantly, I will re-erect the mental boundary that began crumbling the minute Bex Russo pressed that film camera stencil onto my wrist in New Orleans.
Except. There is that ring in my carry-on.
After Skye concludes the tour and leaves me to get settled, I carry my bag down the path to my assigned cottage, a short walk from the main building.
Each cottage at Hollyvale is painted in soft pastel tones, with wraparound porches and porch swings.
The landscaping out front features manicured hydrangeas in full bloom.
At the base of my porch steps, a small container of festive picks, berries and pinecones and sprigs of greenery, adds to the holiday illusion.
I let myself in, exhaling at the cool wave of air conditioning.
The inside is intimate yet spacious: open lounge area, neat kitchenette, bedroom off to one side.
Through the windows, I can glimpse the lake shimmering in the hazy summer light.
On the coffee table sits a small welcome basket from Skye, including brochures about the region's Christmas in July celebrations.
I set my carry-on on the armchair, carefully unzip the inner pocket, and check that the ring is still there, a small circle of silver in its little bag. I zip it closed again quickly, trying not to let the sight of it jolt me.
I have no plan for that ring. Absolutely none.
But ignoring it doesn't make it vanish.
I swallow, flip open my laptop on the tiny dining table, and wake it from sleep mode.
The document I created for my fellowship application remains in the same half-finished state.
I've typed maybe two paragraphs describing my "vision for a documentary project highlighting underrepresented narratives within the wedding industry," or that's the polished pitch.
My real reason for wanting the fellowship, because I am tired of staging feelings for other people to enjoy, lurks under those tidy paragraphs like something I can't put into words.
I scroll, skimming. The edges of my impulse from New Orleans, the surprising sense that I might want to do something that matters to me again, flicker in the corner of my mind.
Then the flicker snags on a memory of Bex, leaning against the door of Nico's tattoo shop, arms folded, the shape of her grin making everything inside me shift by about three degrees.
I close the document.
The town is alive outside my cottage window, even from this distance.
I can hear faint music. Some sort of brass band?
A lounge singer? Possibly both overlapping, plus families milling around for the festivities.
It's only the 21st, but apparently the build-up to July 25th is as big as the day itself. I consider going out to investigate.
My typical approach would be to rest, finalize tomorrow's schedule, and maintain a sense of calm routine. But a small rebellious part of me, maybe the same part that let Lexi talk me into that silly dare, wants to see how these people celebrate Christmas in the thick of summer.
Is it a good idea to be out among crowds, with the swirl of holiday cheer, the possibility of questions about the wedding? I have no reason to hide, but I am also quietly unsettled. That's the honest word for it.
Still, curiosity wins out. I shut my laptop, swap my travel shoes for more comfortable flats, and head out the door, telling myself I'm doing location research for the wedding. That sounds about right.
I stroll the resort grounds, mentally noting how the staff has tied the Christmas décor into the usual summer fare: garlands around windows, big candy-cane stripes on the signposts. I have to admit, whoever designed the color palettes did a commendable job preventing it from feeling garish.
I pass the lake, which glimmers in the dying sunlight, a row of decorative arches along the shore advertising sleigh rides in winter and kayaks in summer.
At the far edge of the grounds, a parade staging area has gone up for the coming days, a Santa in full velvet chatting with someone dressed as a reindeer.
Skye finds me watching it and mentions, almost as an aside, that I'm welcome to sign up if I want.
I tell her I'll keep it in mind, which we both know means no.
I'm pleased to have this quiet time before the bridal party arrives. I need the buffer.