She’s quiet. The phone stays low. I keep talking to shut myself up.
“You listen for evenness. Bells that sound like they belong together. You watch the ears, the tail, the breath. You don’t rush. The horse tells you what they need if you’re paying attention.”
“Okay,” she says softly, and I don’t look up because I don’t want to see whatever is in her eyes. “That was perfect.”
“It was factual.”
“Sometimes those are the same thing.”
We lead Donner out. Snow starts in soft, drifting flakes, one catching on her eyelashes. She blinks and the flake melts against her skin, and I decide whoever at the sponsor’s office picked “send Ivy” owes me hazard pay. Did they have to send someone that looks like an angel ornament come to life?
“Where do you want your b-roll?” I ask, because business feels safer than whatever that thought was.
She brightens. Of course she does. “If we can walk the lane by the birches, that’d be great. The white trunks will pop, and we can get that soft light through the branches. I’ll keep the angle low and cut with wide shots of the snow falling. Title card can be ‘Why We Sleigh.’ Kidding. Maybe.”
“No slogans near me,” I say, but I guide Donner toward the birch lane anyway because she’s right about the light. We pass the bake shop delivery cart as Mrs. Olsen trundles by, dropping off boxes at the Peppermint Inn. She waves so enthusiastically I worry she’ll tip over the whole sleigh of snickerdoodles.
“Rhett!” she calls. “Tell that pretty girl I’ve got hot cocoa bombs at the bakery if she needs props.”
“I’m good on bombs,” I say before I can catch the word, and my jaw goes tight for a beat too long. Ivy glances at me, then at the snow, and says nothing. Good. Thank you.
Mayor Turner pops out of nowhere like all mayors do in small towns. “Everything merry?”
“Medium merry,” I say.
“Climbing,” Ivy adds. “Thank you for the intro earlier, Mayor Turner. We’re getting great…audio of horse bells.”
“Marvelous!” The mayor claps, her mitten bells jingling. “The seniors at Pine Hollow want to come for a ride tomorrow. Do we still have the quilt from Mrs. Hadley?”
“We do,” I say. “And we’ll keep the loop short if the wind picks up.”
“Look at him, already taking care of everyone,” the mayor stage-whispers to Ivy, as if I can’t hear them. “He’s a marshmallow center under all that grump.”
“I can hear you,” I deadpan.
“We want you to,” she sings, then swans down the street in a trail of tartan.
Ivy covers a smile with her scarf, which, mercifully, Donner does not eat. “You okay with that tomorrow? Seniors?”
“I’m okay with people who don’t point cameras at me,” I say. “And I’m okay with doing this for them. I’m not okay with Christmas trying to turn my barn into a movie.”
Her voice gets quiet again, winter-soft. “I can keep it small. I promise. We can make something beautiful without making you miserable.”
I don’t say what I think, which is that misery isn’t really about the camera. It’s about the way December presses on all the places you thought you’d scarred over. It’s about the music that starts in grocery stores and the red caps on gas station coffee cups and the cheer that asks for a version of you that doesn’t fit anymore. It’s about remembering sand instead of snow and faces you don’t see in chairs.
We reach the birches. Snowflakes collect on the black-and-white bark, a living photograph. Ivy crouches to get the bells, to letthe flakes drift through her shot. She stays off the horse’s path like I told her. She mutters something about “soundbed” and “loopable” and “pacing like a lullaby.”
“You’re going to fall,” I tell her, because her boots are doing that slide-to-doom again.
“I’ve got it,” she says, and immediately slides.
I catch her elbow without thinking. Her laugh bumps against my shoulder, warm, ridiculous. She smells like cinnamon and…something else. Hope? I shake it off. No. Absolutely not.
“Traction,” I say, steadying her.
“Noted,” she says breathlessly. “I’ll put ‘buy sensible boots’ on the shot list.”
“Put it on top,” I say. I don’t let go right away. She doesn’t pull away. Donner tosses his head and bells sing, and I let go.
