She’s looking up at me with so much hope and it’s making my frozen heart twinge uncomfortably in my chest.
“For tonight though, can ye enjoy the moment? The clan is here for ye, Sophie girl. Ye are part of us. Let them welcome ye.”
“And my mother?” she persists.
“Your mother is part of us, too,” I say, not sure how this new configuration will fit into the clan, but knowing it has to happen. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Okay,” my wife says, cautiously wrapping her arms around me. “We’re okay. For tonight.”
We hold each other, swaying slightly as we listen to the square fill up with terrible music, the excitable screeches of the bairns and laughter of the people here to celebrate my wife.
***
Ugsome - Scottish slang for terrible.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sophie…
I spend most of my birthday party walking bowlegged and praying it isn’t as noticeable as I’m afraid it is. Michael, damn him, takes every opportunity to softly pat my ass, flaring a reminder, bright and embarrassing, of how we spent our afternoon.
Maisie, of course, didn’t tell me that she’d invitedeveryone- I mean, every MacTavish brother, sister and cousin, my friends from college, and everyone came. Luna, Arabella and Mason’s wife Afton ran in and out of their houses on the square, bringing out additional food, sending their husbands to raid their wine cellars and liquor cabinets for more booze.
The mid-summer sun reluctantly sets, casting long shadows over the kids running across the lawn, shrieking and laughing. Tables groan with Orkney scallops and Scottish lobster, platters of steaks and ribs from the MacTavish cattle farm near the Cairngorms. Roasted vegetables and salads and platters of fruit, even some American favorites that I've missed like corn on the cob. On a table of its own, my mother's beautiful birthday cake, adorned with fresh flowers and fruit.
Even the Chieftain and Mala arrive, smiling at me as if this is like any other birthday we'd celebrated before. As if everything is fine, everything is forgotten. I’m grateful for it, but I can’t forgethow Mala had casually replaced my mother that day with a new chef.
“Nice party.” Xenia sidles up next to me, sipping on a glass of Chardonnay.
“You know, you are the living embodiment of like, a super hot 50’s housewife with your perfect blonde hair and that set of pearls over your sundress,” I say, admiring how Xenia manages to stay non-sweaty, no grass stains on her skirt. “That is, a super hot 50’s housewife who is also an astronaut, a nuclear physicist and a neurosurgeon,” I add.
She gives me a little, demure smile. “Really, though. This is a pretty impressive affair.”
“It’s amazing,” I agree. “I know Maisie took point, but it turns out that all the women got involved. Even Catriona and Lucas flew up to the clan’s cattle ranch yesterday to bring down enough red meat to clog every artery in Edinburgh.”
“Yes, well, your husband was the most obsessive and uptight of the party planners. I had to clear the airspace over this neighborhood for seven hours as a‘security measure,’” Xenia says, doing the quotation mark thing with her fingers. “Do you know how much negotiation it takes to divert thirteen international flights?"
"Oh my God!” I'm horrified and yet also impressed. “How on earth did you pull that off? Wait. Don’t tell me. I’m not ready to learn of all the dark powers you have at your command.”
"Well," she shrugs modestly.
“I mean, he made you divertjet liners?That's so wildly sociopathic!” I shake my head. “It didn’t have to be such a big deal. We could've had it in the house.”
“A good chieftain has to be a bit of a sociopath to do his job." She gives me a little smile and wink. “And when you're running his digital defense department, a little sociopathy comes in handy there, too. Excuse me, I have to check on the drones. They’re armed." She strolls off into the dusk.
Wait,Jordan murmurs in my head,drones? You bagged yourself a husband who ordered armed drones for your birthday party.
Yeah, I don’t know how to respond to that,I think.
Eventually, I must force my mother to sit with the threat of placing one of the kids on her lap at all times to pin her down, after she attempted to run around all evening refilling platters and clearing dishes.
“Why do ye think we hired a dozen servers?” Arabella scolds her. “I know ye, woman. Taking care of people is muscle memory for ye by now, but why don't ye just put those dainty wee feet up and let someone else do the work for a change?” To drive home her point, she plops her two-year-old boy Brodie on Mom's lap. In what I suspect is a well-rehearsed routine, Brodie holds out his grubby little paw, and Mom pulls a sucker from one of her many pockets and hands it to him.
“You know that your mother is some supernatural combination of Julia Childs and Mary Poppins, right?” Luna asks, moving the chair next to her closer to me in invitation.
“Oh, without a doubt,” I agree fervently, watching Brodie wrap his arm around Mom’s neck, imparting some deep toddler wisdom to her. Within minutes, Luna’s kids Collin and Rowan are clustered around her, too.
Afton, Maisie, and Sloan join us at the table. “It’s good to sit down,” Maisie sighs, “I dinnae know how event planners do this shite all day.”
