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I love having him so close.
He also loves being with us but hates the B&B flights to return to the island. He prefers the ferry. At least he isn’t alone. He takes a car from Norse Garden Estate and picks Mary up from her sister’s house. Together, he and Mary make the fifteen-hour journey on the big boat, traveling to the island for the wedding.
I slip my arm into his, ready to walk beside him down the aisle.
I can hardly believe the day is finally here. Everyone thought I’d choose the church for my wedding, but I feel closest to God in his creation. As a wee girl, I’d run or dance over these hills, picking flowers and dreaming of my outdoor island wedding.
White chairs are lined up in rows, forming an aisle down the middle, and the sea is our backdrop.
Since I was a little girl, playing dress-up and pinning my mother’s good white tablecloth around me as a makeshift wedding dress, the fabric trailing behind me like a train, I knew I’d have a flowered altar, a salty sea breeze, and everyone I know surrounding me on the day I married my Prince Charming.
Only the prince I’d imagined is nowhere to be seen on this blessed day.
And I’m no longer wearing a tablecloth.
After scouring the city with Kitt, Carol Ann, and Freya at my side, we found the perfect gown at Bridal Couture on Ingram Street. Modest but sensual, the outer fabric of the dress is all lace and tulle, with a sheath shape that cascades over my curves.
I no longer look like wee Fi running wild over the island.
Mam’s veil has been carefully restored to white lace and pinned at the top of my curls. I wear her blue sapphires in my ears as well. I know she’s with me on this special day. I’ve dyed my hair back for my love, wanting him to be happy. That doesn’t mean I won’t try something new in the future, but today, I want to be his Fiona. I wear my hair down, tumbling over my shoulders in big curls.
I’m a beautiful woman, ready to meet her man at the end of this aisle to take our vows.
I clutch my bouquet in one hand. I made it myself, a dried medley of the flowers he sent me during our wee breakup. Minus the one bloodred rose I’d saved before I knew the sender's true identity.
That one, Callum burned.
I’ve replaced it with a few fresh pink roses, settling them in the center of the bouquet in honor of my mother.
We approach the altar, my hand resting on my father's arm, his firm, steady hand on mine. Sunlight filters through the clouds, casting a golden glow over the Scottish island. The salty sea air mingles with the scent of wildflowers, creating a heady, enchanting fragrance.
The guests, clad in their finest tartans and kilts, shift in their pews, the rustle of fabric and whispered conversations creating gentle sounds. A lone piper plays a soft melody on his bagpipes, filling the air with an enchanting sound.
My eyes scan the crowd, and though our guests smile and nod at us, they betray a mix of curiosity at seeing my father so well, so happy, the red that’s rimmed his eyes gone, his gaze clear and bright.Their eyes are filled with wonder and awe as if they cannot quite believe the transformation that has taken place in him.
The islanders aren’t the only ones eyeing him. Mary sits in the second row of white chairs on the bride’s side, wearing a pale blue suit. She has a soft smile on her face as she watches us. My brothers are here today, and I catch their eyes, smiling at their jovial faces.
Wee Fiona, the quiet redheaded girl that once roamed their island picking flowers, is now marrying the wicked, handsome, protective, and loving Callum Burnes. He’s changed so much. So have I.
But the islanders will always see us as we were: a shy girl, and a strapping lad afraid of naught.
There he is, at the altar.
My monster. And what has he done for me?
“Oh, bless!” I squeeze Dad’s hand.
He squeezes back as he hides a low laugh. “That groom of yours. Always full of surprises, innea he?”
Callum Burnes, my lovely beast, my not-so-gentle giant, stands beneath the flower-lined altar.
And he wears a bright-pink kilt.
His oh-so-cocky smile is gone today, replaced by a loving grin. His gorgeous green eyes are soft—tender even.
I glance out over our vast swaths of rolling green hills, taking in the view of this precious spot I’ve chosen, where I used to pick Strawberry Grass as a wee girl. Wide brush strokes of wispy white clouds float in the blue-gray sky, slowly wafting above us, bringing a smile to my face at the reminder of our romantic hot air balloon ride. The turquoise sea crashes into the long lines of the sandy shores sprawling along the base of dark rocky cliffs, which rise high into the sky in stark contrast. In the distance, seabirds riding the air currents soar and dive above it all.
As we reach the altar, my father gently places my hand in Callum’s. Our hands fit perfectly, like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete each other.
