“Nope, I like to bug you too much.”
“Whatever,” she says.
“I’m calling because I have a wedding for you to add to your calendar.”
Rory and Breck run an elopements business where she’s the photographer and he acts as the officiant. I used to fill the officiant role back when I was in Tahoe, before Breck came into the picture, but they’re the perfect team.
“Okay, I’ll have to check the schedule. Whose wedding is it?” she asks, completely oblivious, which only makes this more fun.
I squeeze Avi’s hand and she beams. “Mine.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Avonlea – One Month Later
Jamie asked me what I wanted for the wedding and I only had two requirements: our families all together at the inn, and him in a kilt.
He promised to deliver on both counts.
The past month has been a dichotomy of time moving much too slowly and way too fast. The required month-long waiting period to get a marriage license in Scotland gave Rory’s fiancé Breck just enough time to get registered to officiate the ceremony. But it’s been stressful watching Angus’s health slowly decline and praying daily that we’d get to share this day with him. That he’d get to see what his subtle matchmaking did. That he’d get to see another happy ending unfold because he loved us all so much.
I peek out the window of the cottage—where I’ve been getting ready—and smile as I watch him make his way slowly to his seatin the front row. He looks positively dapper in his kilt. The blue and greens of the Murray tartan match perfectly with Aileen’s dark green dress. She’s got a firm grip on his arm. For such a tiny woman, she may be the strongest one I’ve ever met—both inside and out. Before they reach the front row, Jamie’s dad, Craig—in a matching kilt—comes to Angus’s other side to help him to his seat.
Angus refused to sit in the wheelchair today, wanting nothing more than to walk down the aisle to watch his grandson get married.
Not a single one of us argued with him.
Maeve, Jamie’s mum, pulls Aileen into a hug once they’ve gotten Angus settled and then reaches to squeeze his hand. The four of them take up the single row of seats on one side. Craig and Maeve have been here for two weeks, and it’s solidified the knowledge that our time together is fleeting and precious.
Mum stands at the archway we erected in the garden, fiddling with the flowers and tartan that adorn it. There are only two seats on my side, one for her and one for Dad. I have one moment of wistful wishing that my grandparents would have supported me, that they could have lived long enough to see our families become one, but then I push that thought aside. This isn’t a day for thoughts that are anything but uplifting.
From the kitchen door, Breck emerges. I know Jamie and Lennox will come next and the thought has anticipation rising in my blood. It’s almost time.
We told Breck he didn’t have to wear a kilt, but Rory insisted there was no way she was going to miss out on the opportunity to see him in one. He strides confidently toward the arch, the fabric swishing around his knees. He opted for Murray tartan as well andthe dark blue sweater he’s wearing fits him like a glove. Rory whistles as she pops up beside me at the window, my little spying spot, making me laugh.
“Who knew an Aussie could wear the hell out of a kilt?” She giggles and bumps my shoulder with her own.
She’s not wrong. His blond waves frame his face and every detail down to the dark brown boots and matching sporran hanging around his hips make it look natural as anything.
“It’s a good look for him. You bought the kilt, right? At least you can make him wear it whenever you want now.” I shoot her a wink and her giggle turns into a cackle of laughter.
I was nervous to meet Rory—to meet this woman who had so much of Jamie’s time over the years. A woman who was given the title of his best friend. I was afraid I wouldn’t measure up, or that there might be more under the surface than Jamie let on. But when she exited the airport in Glasgow—Jamie, Lennox, and I had driven down to get them—she huggedmefirst, even before Jamie. And the sincerity of her hello, of her excitement for us, of her embrace for Lennox and then finally Jamie, erased all my fears. She’s his family in the most platonic form of the word. So, I guess she’s my family now too.
We turn our attention back to the garden and watch Lennox emerge. He holds his head high, golden blond hair gelled and styled exactly the way Jamie does his. They’re so much more alike than I ever allowed myself to recognize, especially on the inside.
The day we went to the kilt shop to have everyone fitted, Lennox came to me wringing his hands, eyes misty because he didn’t know if he should wear Stewart tartan—like my dad, for the name he’salways carried—or Murray tartan. I told him he had the choice of two strong names from two men I love dearly, that the tartan he chooses doesn’t make him who he is. He is a Stewart, but he is also a Murray.
I won’t pretend I didn’t see Jamie pull his glasses off and swipe at his eyes when he watched Lennox walk out of the dressing room in his family’s tartan. Even Dad nodded his approval, looking a little choked up. Who knew buying kilts would be so emotional.
“Lennox sure cleans up nice,” Dad says in my ear, sidling into the open space on my other side to watch out the window.
“He does—” My voice cracks a little and I have to inhale sharply to keep tears at bay.
Mum pulls Lennox into a hug and then steps back to assess him—moving a stray hair, fiddling with his sporran, picking something from his off-white sweater. When she finishes with him, he moves to stand to the right of the arch.
He’s the only one standing with us today.
My breath catches when Jamie walks out, strides sure and strong, shoulders back in a sweater that matches Lennox’s. Only the difference in their hair color sets the two apart today—and Jamie’s meticulously trimmed beard, of course. The blue-and-green Murray tartan, struck through with lines of red, brown boots, and sporrans to match.
