Page 82 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
Avery
Pullingthrough the private studio gate felt like stepping out of the real world and into a memory I hadn’t experienced yet. God, if I hadn’t believed in Christmas miracles, this would have definitely done the trick.
Frosted pine garland framed the entrance archway where security waved me through, and even in the California sun, there was a distinct shimmer of Christmas magic in the air. Not the kind found in red-and-green gift bags or store-bought canned snow, but the kind that wrapped around your skin, sank into your bones, and whispered,this night will live in memories forever.
From what I’d seen, this was everything and more than I could have ever imagined.
Waiting near the faux gas lamps at the entrance was Cat. She was perched in perfection, sitting behind the wheel of a polished, deep-green golf cart trimmed with velvet ribbon and golden bells. She wore a long camel trench, sunglasses pushedinto her hair, clipboard in hand, already looking ten steps ahead and smug as hell about it.
“Well, doll? You asked, and IknowI fucking delivered,” she grinned as I slid into the passenger seat beside her. “I hope you love it so far.”
“Good God,” I breathed, already taking in the scale of what she’d created. “I feel like I’ve been transported intoNarnia.”
“Just wait until we go in, and here,” she tossed me a red knit blanket, “you’re gonna need that. I had them crank the outdoor mist machines and cold steamers, so you’d feel it in your lungs.”
We zipped through the first stretch of the set, the area Cat referred to as thecarriage entry lane. Sleek black horse-drawn carriages were being polished for guest pickup six days from now, while a canopy of Edison bulbs stretched above the cobblestone path, casting a soft amber glow that somehow made everyone look ten percent more attractive.
Guests would be dropped at what Cat referred to as the drop-off circle, where frosted firs framed the true entrance to our Scrooge-inspired wonderland. A team of staff in Victorian attire moved with flawless timing, rehearsing bows and curtsies with the precision of a Broadway show.
“All guests are set to come in by the carriages, right?” I asked.
“Unless they show up in a helicopter, yes,” Cat chuckled. “They’ll load the carriages at the main entrance and be brought to this one, which reveals Dickens Square once we go through these gates.”
I grinned. “You’ve nailed this vision better than what I even imagined.”
“Oh, honey, you haven’t seen anything yet. The builders and designers were all fantastic to work with and went above and beyond for this project. I’m truly impressed with their efforts and how they followed all my instructions to the last detail.”
She guided us into the main village, and I nearly forgot how to breathe. It was like an entire village from 1840s London emerging from the asphalt as if by magic. Fog machines released gentle swirls of mist that caught the morning light just enough to make the cobblestone paths shimmer.
“My God,” I said, truly speechless and taking all the magic in.
I inhaled the frosty air, tucked further into the blanket, and glanced up at the gaslight lanterns flickering, complemented so artfully by artificial snow drifting throughout the entire area. The giant hand-painted skyline in the distance looked believable and more realistic than I had ever imagined. Every building, every stone arch, every crooked roof looked like it had been lifted from a Charles Dickens dream.
“Impressive, right?” she said, still cruising through the area slowly so that I could take it all in.
“Charles Dickens himself, I think, would get a little emotional seeing this,” I teased.
We passed a building with a wooden, carved sign that said “Fezziwig’s Emporium”first. It was a faux general store turned photo booth lounge, featuring antique sleds, nutcracker displays, and a wall of peppermint-colored pillows where couples could stage holiday kisses.
“Inside Fezziwig’s,” Cat started, “we’ve got red and green lighting filters, hot cider dispensers, and three hidden ring lights so no one gets tagged in bad lighting,” she noted with a laugh. “The influencer crowd can’t ruin the aesthetic if they wanted to.”
“Nothing could be twisted on social media to make this all bad, even if they tried to,” I added.
“God knows I considered all of that after Jim went viral everywhere. Did you see what they were saying on Discord?”
“Discord?” I questioned with a laugh. “I don’t use that app. Do you?”
“God knows I have no time for all that,” she answered, smiling at me. “My tech department filters everything for me and protects my clients’ privacy. Jim’s PR team shut it all down completely, but I’m not about to let anything go on social media thatIdon’t want there. Anything and everything will only boost Jim’s presence, never shame him.”
“And hopefully make up for the brown tree?” I chuckled.
“Sweetie, the brown tree would be dead and gone as it already is, once social media praises James Mitchell for offering his company guests the most indulgent festive experience they could ever ask for.”
We curved past another perfectly crafted building, a ‘Cratchit’s Bakery’ sign hanging above the door, where Cat explained that fresh bread would be pulled every hour from hidden convection ovens tucked behind the faux brick fronts.
“The smells,” I gasped.
“They’re all custom-scented,” she said. “Like theme parks are known to use, we have mist diffusers scattering notes of gingerbread, vanilla, and cinnamon pecan scattered through the vents.”
