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In reality, the Skellig spectacle will be our second ceremony, the public version. The love of my life, with one niece thrown over his shoulder while the other torments our cats, waits for me under a rented white trellis in the backyard of our home in Kerry for a more secret affair. It’s barely been a month since we wrapped shooting on season one. Call us impatient or impulsive, but Jack and I chose not to wait another day before making our vows, a year ahead of Meg’s schedule.
The writing staff, Jack’s parents, and Deidre LaRochelle do whiskey shots at the refreshment table. Doolin rescues the cats from Jack’s niece and sets them on top of the low stone wall at the back of the lawn. Niks and Marisa chat up Jack’s sister, Bonnie. Bobby, Jack’s best man, ever the organizer, checks his watch and attempts to wrangle our small party of guests to their seats. Meg sits alone, looking like she could use a dozen whiskey shots. Saying she wasn’t pleased when we let her know about the private wedding is the understatement of the century. After an extremely tense meeting and pressure from Bobby, Meg grudgingly conceded to Jack’s point that hiding our marriage wasn’t any trickier than hiding an engagement.
My mother fusses with a hot glue gun to put finishing touches on the wreath she fashioned using pale lavender cuckooflowers from Jack’s garden for my headdress. “Perfect,” she says as she settles it on my head and arranges the trio of white satin ribbons to flow down my back. There was a time I would have opted for a veil, but wearing Irish wildflowers feels right.
Mom hugs me from behind. “You’re a stunner, Gillian.”
Dad frowns from the doorway between the bedroom and the master bath. “That tub is huge. It’s not to scale for the room. Quite the squeeze around to get to the sink.”
I blush at memories of sharing the oversized tub with Jack and steal my lover’s phrase. “A big man needs a big tub, Dad.”
He shakes his head and comes to stand next to Mom and me. Here we are, the Bettencourts three, standing together looking out the window at my future. In a few minutes, I’ll alter the team for good. I try to speak, but then get all mushy. Words, the tools of my trade, refuse to come easily.
“I’ll love him forever,” I manage. “Get out any comments now about this happening too fast. No thinly veiled snark at my wedding allowed.”
My parents clasp hands behind my back. It’s my father, not my mother who sniffs away a tear. “From the moment I first saw your mother covered in green splatters next to a backdrop she’d just finished painting, I knew I’d found the love of my life.”
Mom smiles and shakes their joined hands, bumping knuckles against the back of a simple white Nieve dress I borrowed from wardrobe. I can indulge my princess fantasies when I choose a fancier wedding dress for our Skellig spectacular next year.
“You know how that story ends, sweetheart,” says Dad.
Mom laughs. “Vegas, four months later. When Bettencourts fall, they fall hard and fast.”
“Are you insinuating I inherited soulmate-dar?”
Dad gives mom the same flavor of smile I see every day on Jack’s face for me. “It’s better than inheriting the Bettencourt beak.” He taps his nose.
“Gilly. Gilly. Gilly,” sings Maureen, my maid of honor, as she dances into the room. “Imelda says if we don’t get this party started, her cheese and onion pie won’t be gooey fresh for the reception.” She hands me a bouquet of cuckooflowers to match my headdress.
We make our way to the back door. Mom walks out first, taking the arm of Jack’s brother-in-law, who escorts her to the front row of mismatched chairs from houses of various attendees. Maureen goes next, pressing play on the boom box wedged into a flower box under a back window before she flits up the aisle. Jack and Bobby laugh as she twirls before taking her place near the solemniser, a friend of Jack’s mom, who will be performing our ceremony.
The beautiful notes of “Give Me Your Hand” settle our rowdy crowd. Dad nestles my hand in the crook of his arm, and we’re off. Music twines with the rush of love in my heart for the man waiting for me. When Dad sets my hand into Jack’s, I’m overtaken by a lovely sense of peace. This man is my life, my love, my creative partner, my future. My gaze locks on his and in that moment, certainty in each other binds us closer than any ceremony.
Instead of solemnly turning as one to the solemniser, wedding officiant, Jack snatches me up in his arms and spins us. The ribbons from my wreath stream out behind me, and I nearly drop my bouquet. Our gathering of friends and family cheer, calling out encouragement in English and Irish. Jack sweeps me around one last time and dips in for the kiss that’s supposed to come at the end of the ceremony.
Rather loud throat clearing and an “All right then,” from the solemniser ends the kiss. This is the wedding I want, a raucous affair overflowing with love and friends. This is the man I want, a person bursting with life and not afraid to shout to the skies how much he loves me. This is the life I want, one where creativity and passion will always reign.
Jack O’Leary and I turn to the solemniser and marry.
