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 seat in 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 and the 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 hugged me first, 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’s always 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.
I can’t believe they’re mine.
I’m glad we opted for more casual kilt attire, with sweaters and boots, over the more formal suit-like jackets and vests, shined shoes, and kilt hose. It feels right. All of this does.
Trailing behind Jamie comes Willow, Breck’s daughter, with a camera slung around her neck, clicking pictures of Jamie walking toward the arch.
For an eight-year-old, she’s pretty damn good with that thing.
Rory told me she assists with all their elopements back home and sometimes ends up with the best shot of the day when they go through all the images.
I wonder with a smile what the best shot from today will be.
Jamie finds his place between Breck and Lennox, and I blow out a breath. It’s almost time.
“Are you ready?” Rory asks, her hand squeezing my lace-adorned shoulder.
Her fitted seafoam-green dress hits mid-calf over tall boots and she has a tartan blanket scarf wrapped around her shoulders.
For mid-September, it’s a bit cooler than usual, but at least it’s not raining…
yet. Her strawberry-blonde hair hangs over one shoulder in an elaborate braid, and she wears a smile that tells me there’s nowhere she’d rather be.
“Aye, I am.” I turn away from the window and walk over to the long mirror hanging on the entryway wall.
My cheeks are pink, my freckles standing out against them, and my blonde hair falls in simple waves down my back, the sides pulled back and weaved together to hold it away from my face.
I’m wearing my mum’s dress—my something borrowed—and have never felt more beautiful.
It’s all delicate cream lace over a champagne satin that slides against my skin.
The A-line skirt falls over my hips and down to a short train, the bodice is cut in a deep V in both the front and back, and fluttering lace sleeves drape over my upper arms. It’s feminine and romantic in the most effortless way.
Dad wraps a Murray tartan blanket scarf around my shoulders, squeezing them gently. “You look stunning, m’eudail,” he says, and kisses my cheek.
He slides my hand into the crook of his arm and we walk to the door of the cottage. He’s the only one in Stewart tartan today, the bolder red standing out against my off-white dress.
Rory opens the door for us and steps back a few feet, the click of the shutter going as she captures every movement.
I reach for my bouquet of cream roses and purple-blue thistles, accented with greenery and white heather, off the sideboard with my free hand and we step out into the warm sunlight.
My train swishes along the ground and I pull my tartan blanket scarf tighter around my shoulders.
Dad walks me with careful precision toward the arch and everyone stands, even Angus—holding firmly on to Aileen’s hand.
His body may be frail but there is nothing that could dampen the joy radiating off him.
His smile is wide, reaching his eyes and making their grey color dance with barely concealed silver tears.
My gaze slides to Jamie and the whole world stands still. Our eyes lock and I almost falter a step at the look of blissful elation on his face. His delight makes a buzz break out over my skin, my heart rate beating a gleeful rhythm in my chest.
I love this man. I have loved him for as long as I’ve known him.
And now I get to have him. My feet pick up their pace, carrying me toward him across the garden.
The garden where our story began eighteen years ago; the garden where we broke; the garden where we found healing; the garden where we now get to choose each other for the rest of our lives.
My dad presses another kiss to my cheek when we come to stand before Jamie and Breck. There’s no formal “giving me away”—just this kiss and a hug for Jamie where Dad whispers something in his ear that I can’t hear. When they part, Jamie nods and says, “Always.”
I melt at that word, at its implication, at its meaning for us.
Jamie takes both my hands in his, bringing them to his lips and making goose bumps break out across my skin.
Dad joins my mum and everyone sits. I hardly notice the click of the cameras or the way Rory and Willow move around us to capture the ceremony. I have eyes only for Jamie.
We opted to combine our vows with a traditional Scottish handfasting ceremony, and the overwhelming sense of belonging, of home, I feel with our hands clasped together, wrapped in a swath of Jamie’s family tartan, has me feeling warm all over.
“Avonlea,” Jamie begins but has to stop to clear his throat, his voice thick with emotion.
“In this very garden, eighteen years ago, I met my soulmate, my true home. I might not have known it then, but I know it now. I love you. I have always loved you. And now I get to love you as my wife, as the mother of my son”—he glances over his shoulder to where Lennox stands, and their matching grins widen—“as my best friend. Tha gaol agam ort. Always.”
Tears well in my eyes, brimming over as one slides down my cheek. The pad of his thumb moves across my skin to wipe it away and I take one shaky inhale, then another, preparing myself to speak my own vows over our hands.
“Jameson.” I look up into his eyes and their green depths hold me there, entranced.
“Our love has always been something more than I could understand. It spanned oceans and years where it had to bide its time for us to find each other again, but it was always there. Quiet and unimposing, patient. It’s a love that lasts and the only kind of love I could ever want.
Because it’s yours. You are my family, our family, and we love you. Tha gaol agam ort. Always.”
We’re supposed to wait for Breck to say “you may kiss the bride,” but we don’t.
Our love is no longer patient, it is wanting and insatiable as our mouths meet and the small crowd of our families hoots in celebration.
The sound is a dull roar compared to the rushing of blood in my ears as I kiss my husband, the man I’ve always wanted and thought I would never have, the father of my son, the love of my life.
And what a life we’re going to live now that we can finally be together.