20. Bex
Chapter twenty
Bex
I'm halfway down the main walkway when I catch sight of my parents' car pulling around the fountain, a sleek black sedan that looks wildly out of place among the rainbow of tinsel decorations.
The muscles in my neck tighten. I force myself to keep walking, stepping forward with a confidence I don't entirely feel.
But it seems to be working. People look happy. I only wish I felt the same.
The sedan parks, and my father, Marcello Russo, steps out.
He's tall, with dark hair just starting to show silver at the temples, wearing a crisp shirt and trousers.
My mother, Lucia, emerges from the passenger side, adjusting a neatly pressed blouse.
They both scan the resort with silent intensity.
I muster a smile as I reach them. "Hey, Ma. Dad."
Lucia dips her chin in greeting, stepping forward to kiss my cheek. "This is quite something," she says, turning to take in the flank of enormous candy canes festooned along the walkway. Her tone is a mix of surprise and genuine delight.
Marcello takes a slower look, his dark eyes assessing, measuring. "I wasn't expecting..." He trails off, glancing at a nearby garland that sparkles in the sun. "All of this."
"You picked an interesting day to arrive," I say lightly, folding my arms. The ring in my jacket pocket rests against my side, a too-familiar weight. "It's the big Christmas in July celebration. The town transforms the entire area for most of July, but the 25th is the real peak."
I aim the comment at Lucia, who typically adores holiday décor. Sure enough, her mouth tugs into a small smile before she composes herself again.
Marcello nods slowly, eyes still scanning. "Interesting. Are we going inside, then?"
I force a bright tone. "Yeah, I'll show you around." I gesture them toward the main path.
We set off, the sedan pulling away behind us, presumably to park.
Silently, I try to steady my heart rate.
Because beneath my chatty tour guide act, my mind is racing.
I remember the last time I was in a room with my father: Sofia's engagement party, which ended in tense words about Jordan, about tradition, about family image.
Now, a day before the wedding, I hope this is some kind of step forward. Maybe.
I lead them past the porch, pointing out the sweeping view of the lake. "That's where the ceremony will be," I say, half expecting a critique.
Lucia surprises me by just nodding with genuine interest. "It's lovely. I can imagine Sofia must be thrilled."
I deflect that twinge of gratitude, continuing along the walkway. "Yeah, she is. She's actually in a final fitting right now, so she asked me to show you two around until she's free."
Marcello presses his lips together. "Jordan not here?"
I stifle a sigh. I expected that question. My father always couches his interest in practical checks. "Jordan's busy with last-minute wedding logistics. They co-own the resort with their sister," I explain carefully. I want to show him that Jordan is a serious person with real responsibilities.
Marcello grunts, not unkindly. "And how long has this place been in their family?"
"Twenty years, at least," I answer. "Their father built it up, and they took over management. Now it's grown into a year-round destination. They host events, weddings, conferences. The works."
I gesture to the swirl of staff setting up near the lawn. "And the Christmas in July event is a local tradition that ties the resort to the community. Brings tourists, supports the local shops, that kind of thing."
Marcello nods, scanning the scene. "So it's not just a novelty," he says quietly, more to himself.
I suppress a flutter of satisfaction. "Right."
Lucia seems intrigued, walking over to admire a lavish wreath hung near the entrance. She touches the branches, leaning in to catch the cedar scent. "This is real," she murmurs. "I assumed it was all artificial."
I shrug. "They mix real and faux. Some local farm provides fresh greenery every couple of days, so it never gets shabby."
My mother looks genuinely charmed. Marcello, for his part, looks around with a thoughtful expression I've seen him wear in business meetings, like he's recalculating an initial assumption.
We make our way into the lobby, where the big Christmas tree towers, unlit in the afternoon but still glimmering. Staff bustle around with trays of cookies and cider for incoming guests. The hum of conversation mixes with a faint crooning of holiday tunes from overhead speakers.
Lucia's gaze lands on a small sign near the reception desk reading, WELCOME WEDDING GUESTS: SOFIA & JORDAN, in swirling script. A flicker in her eyes hints at emotion, though she keeps her posture calm. "They have this all prepared."
I nod. "Yeah. Skye, Jordan's sister, has everything fine-tuned. And, well, Kit does, too."
I almost stumble over Kit's name, but my parents don't notice. Marcello is busy taking inventory of the staff's professional attire, probably making sure everything is "sufficiently proper."
Moving on before I say too much, I gesture to a side corridor.
"We have a small lounge for the wedding party.
You can rest there if you want. The rehearsal dinner's at seven tonight.
Your side of the family, plus Jordan's relatives.
The rehearsal itself was this morning, so you timed it well.
You get the dinner without the standing around. "
At the mention of dinner, an unspoken tension flickers. I recognize that tone shift: my father's eyes narrow slightly, my mother's lips draw tight for just a beat. Possibly they're both recalling their last extended family dinner, which ended in a near standoff.
I force a smile. "Anyway, shall we walk out to the gardens?"
Marcello nods. "Lead the way."
We end up in the garden area, where the staff has replaced the usual flower arrangements with a half-holiday, half-summer aesthetic.
Ribbons in red and green woven with sunflowers and daisies in planters.
It's unexpectedly charming. I look at it with new eyes, noticing how seamlessly it blends wedding and holiday vibes.
Marcello pauses at a rosebush decked with tiny ornaments. "Strange," he mutters, but there's no bite in his tone. More like baffled amusement.
Lucia stoops to touch a small bow tied around a sprig of rosemary. "I never imagined doing Christmas in the middle of July."
I nod, swallowing. "Me neither, but this place does it. Seems to work."
After a few beats, my father sighs, glancing toward the distant lake. "This is well done," he admits. "I can see the appeal."
My shoulders relax microscopically. If he can muster a crumb of approval here, hopefully he won't sabotage the wedding tomorrow.
The ring in my pocket feels heavier again.
I almost forget about it, then remember it abruptly when my mother shoves her hands into my jacket pockets to warm them.
She did that when I was a kid in cold weather, but it startles me now. I jerk back, laughing nervously.
"Sorry," Lucia says with a small frown, stepping away. "Thought you had pockets free."
I force a shrug, trying to steady my heart rate. "It's fine."
Marcello observes us but says nothing. He gestures for us to keep moving.
Come evening, my parents settle into their assigned cottage. Then they reemerge for the small gathering scheduled in the main lounge, Sofia's attempt at bridging the families in the hour before the rehearsal dinner.
I find myself sitting across from them on a plush sofa, the lounge buzzing with chatter. A subdued jazz rendition of "O Come, All Ye Faithful" plays overhead. I wonder who picked these songs. Possibly Skye, or maybe it's just the resort's preprogrammed holiday playlist.
Marcello accepts a glass of iced tea from a passing waiter, takes a sip, and eases back. "So, tomorrow's the big day for them?"
I nod. "Tomorrow. Ceremony's at four. Tonight's just the dinner."
He gives a noncommittal grunt. "Might as well see how everything is laid out."
Lucia smooths a hand over the arm of her chair. "We'd like to talk to Sofia about the reception seating, if there's time. Your father has some suggestions for the extended family."
Tension prickles along my spine. "I'll mention it, but she and Jordan have probably set everything already."
Marcello inhales, as though he might argue, but Lucia catches his eye. He exhales. "We'll discuss it if it's still flexible."
I recognize that as the typical Russo approach: casual mentions of "adjustments," small attempts to shape the event into a mold that feels comfortable to them. I'm relieved I don't have to manage it alone. Hopefully, Jordan and Kit have the backbone to hold firm.
Across the lounge, near the bar, I spot Geraldine Kerne, Jordan and Skye's mother.
Geraldine has an elegant way of carrying herself, a presence that quietly says I've seen everything.
I've barely interacted with her, but I remember meeting her once or twice at the resort.
A calm, thoughtful presence who never seems rushed, even in chaos.
Right now, Geraldine is drifting toward us with a polite smile. I see the moment my mother and father stiffen slightly, as though preparing for a social greeting they aren't fully sure about.
Geraldine reaches our small table. "Marcello Russo, Lucia Russo? I'm Geraldine Kerne." She extends a hand. Marcello shakes it, Lucia following suit.
"Pleasure," Lucia murmurs. Marcello nods, watching Geraldine carefully.
Geraldine lowers herself into a vacant chair at our table, crossing her ankles. "I've been looking forward to meeting Sofia's parents," she says warmly. "Jordan speaks highly of her family."
I sneak a glance at my father, half expecting a bristled response. Instead, he offers a small nod. "Our daughter's happiness is important to us," he says. "We want the best for her."
Geraldine's smile doesn't waver. "Of course you do."
Lucia is silent, but there's something flickering behind her eyes.