19. Katerina
Chapter nineteen
Katerina
I'm not normally an early riser for leisure.
I wake early for events, for vendor calls, for the million tiny tasks that make my job possible, but rarely for the sake of just being awake in a quiet world.
Yet something about Hollyvale at dawn has called to me.
Maybe it's the promise of a moment's peace before the day's planning devours my schedule.
So I find myself walking the path to the lake at sunrise on Friday morning, wearing soft canvas shoes and a lightweight cardigan over my pajamas. I almost left my cottage in professional attire, but a small part of me whispered: you can let yourself breathe for half an hour, can't you?
The stillness of the water draws me in. Even the Christmas in July decorations, the wreaths on the dock posts, a garland trailing along the boathouse rail, seem subdued in dawn's pale gold.
Last night, they were a riot of color, competing with the star at the top of the pine tree.
Now, half-shadowed by morning, they look more like a memory of a festival than a living thing.
It's quietly stunning, I think, then catch myself: not that word. I reclassify the scene as peaceful instead, acknowledging that I never quite understood this longing for quiet. Until I found it now, and it feels necessary.
I'm about to step onto the dock when I see Casey, perched at the far edge, camera raised. I pause, not wanting to disturb. Casey snaps two more photos of the sky's reflection on the water. Then she looks over her shoulder, sees me, and makes a small beckoning motion with her hand.
"Sit with me," Casey says, not loud or bossy, just enough to be an invitation.
I obey, because there's something in Casey's expression that feels like acceptance. No tension, no demands. Just space. I ease down beside her, legs crossed, watching the last of the sunrise creep higher.
Casey continues photographing for a few more moments. The shutter clicks in a soft but steady rhythm. Waves lap gently at the dock supports, and every so often, I catch a whiff of pine from the wreath overhead.
Finally, Casey lowers the camera and places it gently in her lap. She looks at me, eyes patient. "I've been photographing people long enough to know what suppressed tension looks like," she says softly. "And I've been watching you and Bex for two days now."
My stomach does that sinking, swooping thing I resent. "We're fine," I manage, though I can hear the false note in my own voice.
Casey tilts her head, not accusing, just observing. "I've also spent years learning what comfortable proximity looks like. Like Skye and me, or Jordan and Sofia. And then there's the proximity that sets off alarms." She pauses, folding her hands over the camera. "I see it on your faces."
A tight ache forms behind my ribs. "I'm not sure what you mean," I try.
"No judgment," Casey assures me. "But you two have been orbiting each other without actually relaxing. If that makes sense."
I consider lying more decisively, but something about the hush of the morning makes me feel too tired for that. "We had a complicated weekend in New Orleans." I choose my words carefully. "We're trying to be professional here."
Casey nods, waiting.
"And that's it," I say. "We're both focusing on Sofia's wedding. That's the priority."
My voice feels stiff, even to my own ears. Professional. Polished. Not particularly sincere.
Casey turns her gaze to the horizon. A bloom of color glows across the lake surface, golds and pinks swirling. "I've photographed Bex several times in the last couple days. Little moments, group shots. She's carrying something. Almost like she's bracing for the next wave."
I look away, staring at the tiny ripples in the water. That failed attempt to swallow the lump in my throat is all I manage.
"For what it's worth," Casey continues, still looking outward, "you have the energy of someone who's already made a choice but hasn't told anyone. Maybe not even yourself."
I inhale through my nose. The ring in my carry-on feels heavier than any diamond, though it isn't even a diamond ring. Just a silver band with no story except the one we inadvertently wrote.
I clear my throat. "I appreciate your discretion, but truly, it's not like that."
Casey glances sideways, wearing a gentle half-smile. "If you say so."
I fiddle with a loose thread on my cardigan sleeve. "So, you're not going to mention anything? To Skye, or Sofia?"
I hate how vulnerable my voice sounds. But the question has been nagging me since I caught Casey's camera aimed in my direction.
Casey shakes her head. "I learned a long time ago that other people's love stories aren't mine to tell. Whatever's happening between you two, it's safe with me."
I let out a quiet, shaky exhale. My shoulders loosen by a fraction. "Thank you."
We sit there in silence for a minute, listening to the water. A seagull circles overhead, then dives behind the boathouse.
At last, Casey shifts, lifting her camera again, but only to rest it gently on her knee.
"For what it's worth, Bex looks at you the way I used to look at Skye when I was still convinced it was a bad idea.
There was something about how she filled a room.
I couldn't decide if I wanted to run away or stay forever.
So I ran away in my head, but my eyes kept coming back. "
I swallow. The words hit me like an accidental confession. Does Bex look at me that way now?
I close my eyes. "I... thank you for not pressing," I whisper. I'm not sure that's a complete sentence, but it's what I have.
Casey reaches out, pats my elbow, then looks through her camera lens once more. She starts snapping again: the lake, the wreath's reflection, the faint glimmer of morning sun on the water.
I linger a moment longer, breathing in the hush. Then I stand, careful not to rock the dock. "I should go back," I say softly. "There's..."
Casey waves a hand. "Plenty to do. I know."
I nod, glancing once more at the garland draped along the boathouse. In daylight, it looks more subdued than it did last night. Still present, still whimsical, but no longer brash.
I walk slowly up the path back toward the inn, mind racing despite the calm morning air.
I knew someone might notice the tension between me and Bex. But hearing it spelled out so kindly, that's new. And it cuts through my usual denial with a clarity I don't enjoy.
The truth is, in every group setting, my eyes find Bex. Even if I force myself to stand at the opposite end of the porch, I notice every shift in her posture, every tilt of her head. I see the flick of her lashes, sense the quick grin that's layered with more than just humor.
I can no longer pretend it's random.
Casey said: "She looks at you like I used to look at Skye when I still believed it was a bad idea."
My chest flutters, because the quiet inference is that it wasn't a bad idea at all. Casey and Skye found a life together that is real, stable, built on messy honesty.
But Bex and me? We have a piece of paper in my carry-on.
I try to reclassify the situation as a minor entanglement. A dare gone too far. But the more times I tell myself that, the less it feels real.
I weave my way across the lawn, passing a staff member who's carefully coiling extension cords from last night's decorations.
The staffer gives me a friendly nod. I respond with my usual polite courtesy.
Then I realize something: the entire resort is shifting from nighttime sparkle to daytime practicality.
Lights off, but still strung everywhere.
That sense of duality matches how I feel.
Still carrying something bright, even while I try to power it down.
I pause near the main building's porch, noticing that a fresh garland has been hung along the railing. The staff is thorough. Each day they replace any wilting greenery, even if it's mostly for show. Hollyvale takes Christmas in July seriously.
I try to imagine living in a place that allows celebration to bleed into daily life so thoroughly.
My parents would call it excessive. I once dismissed such whimsical displays as unprofessional.
Yet now, as I study the careful arrangement of pine and ribbons, I find myself thinking it's lovely in a way. Earned.
I exhale slowly.
Stepping inside the lobby, I plan to go to my cottage and change into real clothes. But Skye intercepts me with a quick question about table linens for tomorrow's rehearsal dinner.
"Hey, have you seen the final color swatches from the rental company?" Skye asks, rummaging through a folder. "They're supposed to coordinate with the wedding palette, but we got a new shipment."
I nod. "Yes, they're in my binder. Let me grab it."
And with that, the morning resumes its usual frantic pace. I march behind the reception desk, pull my binder from my satchel (carefully ignoring the side pocket that contains the marriage license folder), and spread color samples on the polished wood.
Somewhere in the middle of clarifying the difference between dusty rose and pale mauve, I wonder if Casey is still down at the dock, capturing that golden light.
I wonder if Bex is awake yet, or if she's curled under her covers, ignoring the sun. Bex likes to sleep in, though maybe not today. She might be heading for coffee with Lexi, or dealing with a phone call from her parents.
Either way, by mid-afternoon, the two of us will be forced into the same rooms again, verifying the rehearsal timeline or finishing the seating plan.
A flicker of warmth or panic runs through my spine. I'm not sure which.
The rest of the day rushes past in a blur of staff coordination, out-of-town relative phone calls, and Casey's words looping under everything: She looks at you the way I used to look at Skye when I was still convinced it was a bad idea.
I keep noticing Bex at the edges of my vision, once in the lounge, once crossing the courtyard with Lexi, and we never speak more than a quick "Hey, everything okay? " in passing.
At two, I meet Skye and Sofia in the barn to verify the rehearsal timeline.
Sofia looks radiant but wears a thin line of worry around her eyes, her parents arrive tomorrow, and everyone knows that's a big unknown for the wedding's emotional climate.
I offer contingency plans and watch relief flicker across her face.
Afternoon sun angles through the open doors, illuminating motes of dust, and for a second I just stand there, binder pressed to my chest, feeling the push and pull of everything Casey said at dawn.
Maybe I've already made an internal decision. Maybe acknowledging that I want Bex is the easy part, and ignoring it isn't making it disappear. I have a wedding to finish, a vow I haven't undone, and a cautious heart that hates risking anything it can't control.
By evening, I retreat to my cottage, toss my satchel on the couch, and stand at the window watching the Christmas lights come up across the grounds. Tomorrow is the 25th. The wedding is the 26th. This weekend is running out of time for me to remain in denial.
I'm not sure if that's supposed to reassure me or terrify me. Either way, I pull my binder back into my lap and start on tomorrow's checklist, because it's the only thing I know how to do with my hands when the rest of me is this unsettled.