Page 8 of The Wedding Twist

She stared out the window at the forested highway that would soon be blanketed in darkness. This wasn’t a time to be daydreaming about hot teachers. She had a career to hang on to. And for the first time in her life, it was going to be up to her to make things happen.

*

Quinn pulled Celeste’sSUV into the parking area behind the lodge, where the McCarthys all kept their vehicles, next to the main house where Everett, Jeannie, and Quinn lived and the small cabin a little farther down the path that Jeannie and Everett had built for Celeste when she’d shared her intentions to work at the lodge. They’d wanted her to have some space of her own, and she’d agreed that it would be most convenient to be on the property for any emergencies or issues that arose.

When Everett had initially proposed he construct a cabin for her in her midtwenties, she hadn’t been certain if it would be too close to her parents’ place. But they gave her the space she needed, and it was handy to be close to work…and to her mother’s pantry.

They walked the path together until the fork that divided the main house and Celeste’s cabin. “’Night,” Quinn said. “What’s on for tomorrow?”

“Wedding prep,” said Celeste. “And I have to get this course sorted out.”

“’Kay, love you. If you need anything let me know.”

“See you tomorrow,” she said. “Actually, I could use your help with something.”

“Shoot,” said Quinn.

“Apparently the bride is some kind of social media influencer.” Celeste had only found out because the groom had emailed her separately from the main email chain they had going on with wedding plans. He wanted to surprise his fiancée by releasing some butterflies at the end of the ceremony, which he thought she’d love and would be great content for her account.

Celeste had to break it to him that the local butterflies, which were omnipresent in the summer due to the unusual concentration of knapweed thistles, bee plants, and willowherbs growing thick in a meadow near the south shore, were wrapping up their time in Mexico for the winter. She’d given him a few other ideas for visually interesting surprises, including a fresh-flower chandelier that could hang in the lodge’s great room (something she’d seen on Pinterest and had always thought would look stunning) or a VW bus owned by the local brewery that could be ordered to various events and would serve pints and soft-pretzel poutine from the window.

“Who is she?” asked Quinn, opening her phone.

Celeste pulled her notebook from her purse and flipped through the pages. “Kassie Harris. Her handle is @KassieOnTheMove.”

Quinn tapped on her phone, then her eyes widened in surprise. She looked up at Celeste. “Wowee. Let’s make sure the lodge is showing at its best this weekend.”

“What? Why?”

Quinn flashed her phone at Celeste. “Half mil followers. Looks pretty glam.”

Celeste grabbed the phone from her sister’s hands and scrolled through Kassie’s social media profile. It was a mix of fitness, food, hair and makeup looks, outfits, and most recently, wedding planning, all curated with a consistent pale pink look to tie everything together. Many of the posts were sponsored content, and Celeste recognized the names of some musicians and professional athletes who followed the account.

Obviously the Butterfly Lake Lodge was about to be featured heavily on Kassie’s account, and Celeste had to make sure that it not only showed at its best. This weekend, she would make it sparkle.

*

The lodge wasquiet and still when she let herself in the mudroom door the next morning. Six rooms were occupied, and it seemed like everyone was still asleep.

It was at these quiet times of day that Celeste could take a moment to assess the lodge and its common spaces and make sure everything was just so.

In her mind, the Butterfly Lake Lodge was the most perfect vacation spot on the planet. The fact that Jeannie and Everett had kept the lodge as a small, family-run establishment was part of the appeal for their guests, many of whom were return visitors. They came from as far as New Zealand, Belgium, and Hong Kong, and no matter where they came from or who they were, they were welcomed with open arms. There was even a couple, the Hendersons, who for many years had stayed at the lodge every August twenty-second, despite the fact that they lived a four-minute walk down the street. The twenty-second was Sharon Henderson’s birthday, and until last year, her late-husband Leigh had booked it as a gift for her because she loved nothing more than the warm cinnamon buns that would appear at her door in the morning that they would take back to bed and enjoy while lying in the soft Frette sheets with a hot coffee.

Celeste moved through the space quietly, tidying the tourism pamphlets and fluffing the pillows on the chairs.

The lodge had some modern touches but maintained a traditional, timeless feel with the restoration of classic details, such as the stained-glass window panels at the top of the picture windows and the oil lamps that lit the path from the parking lot to the reception area. There was also the old stone fireplace that was only dim during the warmest summer days and even then would often be lit for a few hours in the evening, when the mountain air shifted from humid to frigid on a dime.

She left the front reception and entered one of the lodge’s most popular rooms, the puzzle room. It was a small nook off the great room, which housed a collection of jigsaws in a tall glass curio cabinet. The room also contained floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with the McCarthys’ vast collection of paperback mysteries, a love shared by the whole family.

Just off the reception area and before the great room, in an alcove that opened to a covered porch, was the inn’s pub, the Errant Elk. It was named after an incident the night of the last traditional Carmichael Christmas party in 1978, where an inebriated elk had wandered in through some open doors, surprising the guests and requiring quick thinking on Everett and Jeannie’s part to lure it back outside. Now the pub was a cozy spot for the guests to order a pint and play darts or pool. It opened now and then to the public for an open mic night or intimate event.

Outside, there was a climate-battery greenhouse, where Everett puttered every morning, and their newest building, the gallery, a light-filled space near the water where local artists could showcase their work and where art workshops and book-club meetings were hosted.

And then there was the office, the least attractive and scenic room in the lodge but where Celeste spent the majority of her time. After making her morning to-do list, which she fastened to her clipboard, she picked up the phone and dialed the number for the college.

“We’re very sorry for the error, Ms. McCarthy,” said the woman who’d picked up the phone. “We’d be more than happy to move you to the Accounting for Beginners class, but the only option available at this point is an online course on Sundays at noon.”

Celeste considered. Sunday afternoon was the busiest checkout time, and since the cleaning staff had Mondays off, there were always extra chores to delegate and pitch in to get the lodge in good shape for the week.

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