“Aye?” Father Hamilton asks.
“I’m… not Catholic,” Sophie says.
With a deep sigh, he says, “This dinnae surprise me, but ye are just fine. Marrying the two of ye here is legal in the eyes of the state and the eyes of God. Shall we begin?”
She nods like a marionette whose strings are being pulled.
“My dear friends, ye have come together so that the Lord may seal and strengthen your love in the presence of the Church’s minister, and this community…”
The familiar words wash over me. I’ve heard them multiple times before, standing next to my cousins, watching them marry their wives. Hearing the words now, binding me to this woman adds a weight I dinnae expect.
“Do ye, Michael, take Sophieto be your wife. Do ye promise to be true to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and honor her all the days of your life?”
“I do.” My voice is strong and composed.
“And do ye, Sophie, take Michaelto be your husband. Do ye promise to be true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and honor him all the days of your life?”
She wets her lips, and my cock chooses the most inappropriate time to take notice, her pink tongue stroking over her lips, the sheen of moisture-
For feck’s sake, ye arsehole, pull it together!
“I… do.”
Father Hamilton eyes her with concern for an uncomfortably long moment before saying, “Bless in Christ the consent you have declared before the Church, so that what God joins together, no one may put asunder.” He closes his Bible, “Ye may now kiss the bride.”
As I lean toward her, she instinctively steps back, and I pause. Slowly, deliberately, I hold her upper arm as she sways, bending my head. She smells sweet, like vanilla and sugar. Like pure things, but she is most likely not pure at all. I give her a cool press of my lips on her cheek and step back.
The streetlights flash over Sophie’s face, creating a flickering effect like an old movie. She hasn’t said a word since leaving the mansion.
She’s staring down at her left hand, at my ill-fitting signet ring that I’d pulled off my finger to push onto hers.
“What about my things?”
I look up from my phone, I’ve been going through all the disastrous reports from the shipment loss.
“Your mother will pack them for ye and Ian will bring them to my place.” I remember the one time Sophie was at my house, that night when Maisie was too drunk for me to take them home. Sophie kept apologizing for everything. For Maisie. For me having to come rescue them. How her composure broke when she thought she’d lose her scholarship.
I know she’s always gotten top marks. She graduated with a First in her Pre-Law degree, always performing perfectly, as if a single mistake could destroy everything she’s worked for.
It’s a cruel irony that her mother was the one to end ten years of trust and clanship.
***
Seanair - Scottish Gaelic for grandfather.
Chapter Eight
Sophie…
The sad truth is that I’ve loved Michael MacTavish since the day I saw him standing on the porch with his father as I crawled out of their koi pond, dripping wet. It was a childish crush at first, and even Maisie saw it, teasing me about it once until she saw how mortified I was. She never brought it up again, but I’m sure my pathetic infatuation was obvious. I have many skills, but concealing my emotions isn’t one of them.
I thought I’d grow out of it as I got older, as boys from school started asking me out but I never did. Who could compare to Michael? He stood head and shoulders over everyone, not just from his considerable height but his authority and confidence.
I dated a bit until nervous kisses turned into sweaty attempts at groping and I’d shove the boy away. I heard all the names they started calling me.
“Frigid.” Two idiots chuckled behind me as I shut my locker.
“Bitch.” Kenneth Murray after I got out of his car and walked home from our date.
