6. Chapter 6
Shopping for a wedding dress in the Scottish Highlands can be a challenge. Fortunately for us, Angus knows everyone. Literally everyone. No matter where we went, people waved and said hello, congratulating him, greeting Caitlin, and wondering what to make of me.
When word spread about our castle photo shoot dilemma, the offers came pouring in.
“My daughter’s dress might fit,” said the woman at the bakery.
“I’ve got mine in storage,” chimed a shop clerk.
By evening, Caitlin’s phone screen glowed with a parade of white-frocked brides—most posed before that very same castle—each message offering another gown for our impromptu shoot.
Angus leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling. “You know, for what folks spend on a wedding these days, we could borrow a dress, snap some photos, and use the rest for a lifetime supply of—”
Caitlin’s eyebrows shot up, and Angus immediately raised his palms.
Panic flickered in his eyes. “Not that I’m suggesting—”
“Oh?” Caitlin tilted her head, her voice honey-sweet. “Do elaborate on your wedding budget theories, dear.”
Angus straightened his posture and cleared his throat theatrically. “I was merely observing how fortunate we are to have a professional wedding planner for our extravagant, no-expense-spared celebration of love!”
“I’ll make it work,” I said with a little more confidence than I felt.
“I know you will,” Caitlin said, squeezing my arm. “But let’s at least get some castle photos while we have the dresses! Wait—who’s going to photograph us?”
I caught the look that passed between my sister and Angus.
“Abby’s background is in film, right?” Angus offered.
Caitlin’s reply came too quickly. “That’s different. She did production. Scheduling. Logistics.”
I bit my tongue. Three indie features and crew work on two studio films apparently counted for nothing.
“You know, when my band made videos—” Angus began.
Caitlin’s eyes widened. “Wait, I knew you had a band, but you had videos and everything?”
“Ages ago…”
“Oh, I’m definitely watching those later.” Caitlin’s smirk was pure mischief.
Angus winced. “Fine, but listen—we hired film students, and they did brilliant work. Not hobbyists—I hate that term—but people studying the craft.”
“But if Abby’s behind the camera,” Caitlin said, hugging herself against the Highland chill, “who’ll be in the photos with me?”
“I can take a few of you sisters together. Or, you know, I’ve got a mate who lives nearby. Let me ring him and we’ll see…”
Caitlin glanced at the darkening sky. “This whole plan is falling apart, isn’t it?”
I squared my shoulders. “We have everything we need—location, wardrobe. I’ll handle your hair and makeup.”
“There’s the producer I remember,” Caitlin said softly. “You were brilliant at it.”
I managed a smile.
“Let’s work with what we have,” I said. “We’ll catch the light here, then find something even better on Skye.”
Caitlin narrowed the dresses down to three options. Each dress shared the same understated elegance—clean lines, cream-colored fabric, nothing fussy or ornate—exactly what you’d expect from my sister who color-coded her sock drawer.
She slipped into the first one, tugging at shoulders that drooped despite her perfect posture. The second swallowed her entirely, yards of fabric with no idea where Caitlin ended and the dress began. But when she emerged in the third, even she couldn’t suppress a smile.
My breath caught as I laid eyes on her. “Stunning.”
Caitlin turned in front of the mirror, taking in the dress from all angles. “Wow.”
The borrowed gown hugged her frame like it had been tailored just for her.
“I mean, maybe I could buy this from her or wear it again for the real wedding.”
“If she’s loaned it out, I think she’d be open to that.”
With a light hand, I smoothed a sheer layer of foundation over her skin, brushed a little smoky shadow along her lash line, and dabbed a hint of rosy tint onto her lips.
My fingers braided stems of heather and lavender together, weaving in sprigs of baby’s breath until a delicate crown took shape.
I placed it on her hair and stepped back.
“Do you want to hold a bouquet?” I asked.
Caitlin glanced at the sky. “The rain’s holding off. I say we make a mad dash before it starts again.”
Then, glancing at Angus in his formal kilt, she frowned. “Maybe this is a terrible idea. It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress before the wedding.”
He planted a kiss on her cheek and took her hand. “It’s just a superstition.”
“Tell that to your family, who freaks out if you try to stir the oats counter-clockwise or you forget to leave some butter out for the—”
“The Good Folk,” Angus interjected.
I raised an eyebrow.
“The wee people,” he added.
“They don’t use the F-word,” offered Caitlin.
I still had no idea what he was talking about.
“For fuck’s sake,” said Caitlin, laughing.
I joined in her laughter. “Well, I guess you’re not talking about that F-word?”
“We don’t use the word you Yanks use for Tinkerbell and the like,” said Angus, shaking his head.
The reference finally clicked. “Ah.”
“Anyway. We’ll get a different dress for the actual ceremony. It’ll be fine.” Angus turned and his kilt swished as he walked toward the car.
“Weren’t you going to wear a tartan sash or something?” I asked.
“That’s right!” Caitlin looked from me to Angus.
Angus handed her a tartan sash, and I helped her drape it across her shoulder.
We made our way to the castle and decided to start on the bridge—old, jagged gray stones lined a pathway toward safety or destruction, depending on which side of the sword you were on.
I snapped a photo. Angus leaned in and kissed Caitlin, and I snapped another. The light was perfect.
Against the ancient stone walls, Caitlin and Angus became living portraits. I circled them, camera raised.
“Hands together—yes, like that. Eyes on each other—perfect. Now Caitlin, gaze toward the horizon, like you’re dreaming of your future.”
We ventured closer to the castle itself. There were arched doorways that perfectly framed them. It looked like Angus and Caitlin were from another time period, newlywed members of the clan, celebrating his return from battle.
The last shutter click and the first raindrop arrived together.
We dashed to the car as the sky opened up, then ducked into a cozy café across from the castle.
The chalkboard menu offered steaming beverages alongside “homemade biscuits and flapjacks”—which turned out to be dense, golden oat bars, not the American breakfast staple.
Huddled around a tiny table with our mugs, we caught our breath. Caitlin had already changed back into casual clothing in the cafe’s bathroom, the borrowed gown now carefully hanging in the car. Angus, still in full kilt, was drawing some attention that made him uncomfortable.
“I wouldn’t think a kilt in Scotland outside a tourist attraction would attract so much attention,” I said, as I saw someone not-so-discreetly snap a picture of Angus.
“You’d think,” said Angus, downing his coffee.
“We can go soon, babe,” said Caitlin. “I can’t wait to see the Isle of Skye.”
“Should we go now?” I asked.
“Let’s.” Angus stood just as a woman started in his direction.
The woman’s shoulders slumped with disappointment, but her phone remained raised, capturing Angus from across the café. Her thumbs tapped furiously at the screen.
Caitlin caught my eye.
Before we reached the car, footsteps hurried behind us. “Excuse me!” The woman from the café appeared breathless. “I wouldn’t normally, but seeing you in your kilt by the castle… might I trouble you for a photograph?”
Angus inhaled slowly, then smiled. “Of course.”
Her companion elbowed in. “Me next, please!” They traded places after the first shutter click.
As they retreated with thank-yous and backward glances, I chuckled. “Apparently kilts turn middle-aged Scottish women into teenagers at a boyband concert.”
“Something like that,” Angus mumbled.
Caitlin and I exchanged looks but kept silent.
I pretended to review wedding notes while Caitlin leaned toward Angus. Something about the whole interaction nagged at me. I looked out at the water.
“What was that about?” Caitlin asked him.
“Just photo hunters.”
“Obviously. But why you specifically?”
Angus tossed his long dark hair. “My devastating Highland charm, clearly,” he said with theatrical vanity.
Caitlin playfully swatted him. “Over the sea to Skye?”
“Sure.”
The car hummed beneath us as we headed for the crossing to Skye.