Chapter Twenty-Six
In which things turn out in a very MacTavish way.
Fiadh…
The level of noise dropped abruptly, and I knew that meant one side or the other had all but won.
I didn’t move, not yet.
There were conjoined bleats of furious victory from Noreen and her bad-tempered consort Pilib Dubh. Since there was no sound of anyone shooting them I assumed that meant our side was the winner.
“Hey, Da,” I opened the door to the farmhouse basement and leaned in. Down there was a group of well-dressed people who were crowded in but who seemed to be enjoying themselves nonetheless.
I’d been crouched in front of the door, the overturned table both blocking me and giving me a rest for the massive, fuck-off gun I had trained on the door. “Noreen made it alright.”
“That’s good,” his tired voice called up the stairs. “But I am still very mad at you and Alec. Especially Alec. You do crazy things all of the time but I expected better from him.”
“How’s he doing, Sorcha’s sister-in-law?” I called. One of the Mrs. MacTavish’s had some medical knowledge, though I wasn’t sure which one. There were a lot of them.
“Fine enough, Sorcha’s not-quite-sister-in-law. Your papa is a tough man, and the shot was more a graze than anything. He’s going to be sore, and I’ve given a few stitches. The Lady Elspeth had a small bar set up down here and he’s pouting into his whisky, now that he knows you and Alec are safe and he can afford to be mad at you both.”
“Thank Christ.”
“The name’s Isla, but I’ll answer to the Lord and Savior if you like.”
I gave a weak laugh. Then asked, “How about Cameron?” When they had hauled the Glaswegian behemoth in I was sure he was dead, there was that much blood on him, but for the way his wife was reading him the riot act for being an idjit first class getting in the way of a bullet like that.
Cameron yelled up the stairs, “Cameron is fine and Cameron is coming back up no matter what anyone related to Cameron by blood or marriage says. Mother. Mala.”
He stumped up, looking pale and in pain and very much the idjit Scotsman, of which I have more than a few on my Ma’s side of the family. His wife was doing her tiny, furious best to keep him upright.
“I think we won.”
He looked at me seriously, those familiar yet not green eyes intent, “That was never a question. Our family hasn’t lost a bride yet and we never will.”
“Right.”
By the time we made it outside the clean-up had started. The Lady Elspeth had thought of everything, bringing an extra crew who had spent the afternoon hiding in the larger barn. They came out with tarps and extra-large garbage bags and got to work.
Most of the damage had been done to the wedding decorations rather than the farm proper. Flower petals soaked in blood and champagne littered the ground, some of those nice willow chairs were burning, and the cleaners had turned them into the start of a bonfire that a few of the guests were using to warm themselves by. It was getting dark and the damp was rising.
The worst destruction, certainly the nastiest, was wrought by Grandad himself. He’d knocked over part of one of the chicken runs while he was turning some of the Bonas to mulch.
Seeing me, Grandad walked over, trying to look casual. “Martin?”
“He’s fine. Mad at me, and even Alec, though.”
He pulled me roughly into his arms and sobbed hard, twice, as much emotion as an old Irishman was capable of. Cameron and Mala moved away to check on their people and to give us some space.
“If I’d lost that sweet, gobshite of a boy I don’t think I could have borne it.” Then he pulled away, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “That’s enough of that now. I’ll go have a word with him, you know he’ll forgive you. He can’t help himself.”
The next time I saw Grandad was an hour later, walking about the farm, a bottle of Teelings in his hand, pouring tots for anyone who wanted one, slapping backs and generally having a fine old time. Preet gave him a wink, taking her glass before turning back to directing some of the clean-up.
I was pretty sure he forgot about the Lady Elspeth from that point on.
“Fee.”
From behind me I heard Alec’s voice. I knew he was alright, had he not been that would have been the first thing I heard when I came out of the house. And yet some part of me must have been unsure, since the sound of him unlocked every sinew in my body and it was all I could do to stay upright.
He was a right mess, the worst I’d ever seen him, disgustingly drunk, passed out in the boot of a car, dressed in ancient dirty overalls, all included. From the legs down he looked like the least successful scarecrow in the world, his trousers shredded and his knees looking a mess. Though the Kevlar lining of his jacket was intact the wool was torn to threads.
His hair looked like he'd brushed it with a rake and there was dirt on his face.
We started walking towards each other.
“You look a sight,” I said.
“Your hair is perfect, but that dress has seen better days.”
“I caught it in the doorway to the cellar, helping carry Da down, and then I was sitting on the floor.”
We reached each other, separated by inches. He reached out and cupped my face in his muddy hand, so now we were both dirty. “Martin, how is h-”
Alec’s voice was broken, as if he’d taken a bullet rather than Da.
“Fine, fine. He’s probably been hurt worse working a day on the farm. They’re dangerous places, ya know? He’s mad at both of us for lying about the wedding.”
“If anything had happen-”
“It didn’t.It didn’t.” And then, because I couldn’t say what I wanted to say, because I was feeling too much, I stood on my toes and pressed a kiss to his mouth. He wrapped his long arms about me and pulled me up that few inches difference in our height so my toes dangled and we kissed and kissed like we might never again because maybe we wouldn’t.
From under the catering table that hadn’t been knocked to flinders a Scottish voice rushed out, “...kiss the bride. What God has joined together let no man put asunder. Amen. Get me a bleeding car, I want off of this mad farm.”
Father Barclay, forgotten in the commotion, crawled out from under the table looking, like the rest of us, as if he’d been pulled forwards through a hedge. Lachlan, the most Extra of the MacTavish’s appeared from nowhere, looking perfectly neat and pulled together despite having certainly had a piece of the mayhem, and all but skipped over to try and help him up.
“No!” The priest slapped his hands away. “No. You lot find a new parish. I will have nothing more to do with any of you. If one MacTavish - your fine lady mother aside - steps a foot into my church I swear I will have each of you excommunicated!”
“Now, father,” Lachlan started in a placating voice, but the priest thrust a finger up to his face, all but picking his nose for him.
“Silence, you spawn! Take this,” he thrust a piece of paper into Alec’s hand and then said to me, “God save you girl, from this family of rogues.” Then he was off, heading towards where the guests' cars were parked, possibly intending to steal one if need be to get away from all of us.
“Father, let me give you a lift at least,” Lachlan strolled after him, laughing, his hands in his pockets like he was taking a Sunday walk in Kelengrove Park.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Alec shrugged, unfolding the paper.
It was a marriage license. Either a real one, or the finest-looking fake I could imagine. Signed by both of us.
“What the-? Lachlan!” Alec bellowed. “Fee, do you remember signing this thing? I don’t remember signing it. But I sign things all day long. Lachlan, goddamnit!”
Turning back, Lachlan shrugged after the priest, “Yeah?”
“What is this bullshit?”
“Your marriage license. You’re welcome, by the way. You were so busy that you forgot to apply for the thing so I had to grease a few palms and hire two lookalikes who are also first-rate forgers to sign it for the two of you. Do you know how hard it is to find people like that on short notice?”
“You bloody idiot, the wedding was a fake! Fee, I am so sorry, we’ll have this annulled as quickly as I can manage.” Alec was purple with rage, the maddest I had seen him since we’d met, which was again quite the accomplishment. But his eyes.
Those poisonous green eyes were as sad as sad could be.
I understood him. I understood why he was looking at me like that, two emotions tearing him in half.
I took the paper from him, folded it back up, and slipped it into his still somehow intact breast pocket. “Thank you, Lachlan, that was very helpful of you.”
“You're welcome, and you might want to teach that man of yours a few manners, Mrs.”
“Fee,” Alec said, his voice grave.
“I said I do, so I guess I do.Do you?”
The confusion on his face was adorable. Then a smile, bright and toothy and wolfy and even a little Godkingish broke across his handsome face like I think he’d never smiled before. It looked like it hurt and felt wonderful at the same time.
“You do?”
“I do. Do you ?” I asked again.
“I do.”
It was the first time we’d ever said ‘I love you’ to each other, and it went about as well as it could for two people like us. There would be trouble ahead, and problems and we would fight about every little thing. But that was ok. We both needed a little chaos to feel normal.
Right then, oh, right then everything was fine. We held each other’s arms and laughed and laughed at what idiots we both were.
At that moment, Grandad came out of the house, with Sorcha and he helping Da, who looked better than he had when he’d gone into the basement, though very pale. Alastair rushed over to them with a chair. Da sat while Sorcha fussed over her husband, who looked no worse than if he’d had a rough day picking out a new tie.
“I think we need to go eat crow with your father,” Alec said.
“Just show him the marriage certificate. He’ll be all smiles in no time.”
While we had sorted out our married state, wounds were bandaged, rubble cleared, and the bodies whisked away to Grandad’s scrubland, the Lady Elspeth had marshaled her sons and daughters in law - Cameron excepted - found the band where they were crouched behind the bar drinking shots, had extra canapes brought out of the catering vans, and started the reception.
“Mrs. Davies, Mr. Davies, if you are feeling up to it would you very much mind having your first dance? A few of the guests have expressed an interest in dancing themselves and obviously I cannot allow it until you have your first dance,” she said, looking up at both of us, clearly disappointed. It was like two vultures being shamed by one of my willow tits.
Alec bowed, despite his rags, his manner was impeccable, “Fee? Shall we?”
I took his hand and we moved to the center of the still perfectly intact dance floor, now lit by the bonfire and the dozen or so candles that had been salvaged. “What are we dancing to?” I whispered.
“Had something in mind. I told the band just in case we made it to the end of the evening. It’s something special that will always remind me of our very first date,” he said, eyes twinkling.
I frowned. Then the band struck up, and Alec’s arm glided about my waist and he spun me quickly and gracefully, pressed to his long body. Lucky he was a strong lead, since I’d taken one waltz lesson as a girl from Grandad and gave it up for a bad idea.
For a good minute he waltzed me about the floor as I tried to figure out what was playing, the sometimes smiling and sometimes amused faces of our friends, our enemies, our families, a blur.
Then it hit me.
‘West End Girls.’ Played in waltz time.
And I took a fiddle laugh.