Page 36 of I’m Not Yours

“It’ll be a disaster!” she screamed. “A disaster of epic and long lasting proportions!”

“What? Who is this?” I pushed blond, messy curls out of my eyes.

It was six o’clock in the flippin’ morning.

A horrid hour to be awakened by the phone.

“August? Is that you? Why are you screaming?” I’d had four hours of sleep.

I had worked on August’s wedding dress until I fell asleep and my head slammed on my work table.

“The vision! Them, and us, altogether! We could be a nightly television reality show! A reality show about two families who go to war with each other . . . the loons on the fringe of society against the uptight, snooty rich people.”

“August, calm down, honey, please.”

“How can I?” she moaned. “How can I?”

August is an accountant for our parents’ company.

She went to college, then graduate school, was hired at a major corporation, but the corporation snuffed out “my Scottish Highlands soul.” She finally gave in to our parents’ pleading and now runs their books.

After work, August is August: unconventional, wild, sweet, and plays in a band called Ladies Loo Loo and wears leather.

She met a man named Ben online. One thing they have in common is that both families hail from Scotland and are into their genealogy, tartans, kilts, and all things Scottish. In fact, his grandfather was born there. The families are from different clans, however.

“Do you know what time it is?” I groaned.

“Yes, it’s time to be up. Rise and shine, June, and help me! Help me! I’m getting married and we’re about to witness the total breakdown of Scottish-American civilization on my wedding day.”

“What’s the problem, hysterical bride?” I propped myself up on a pile of pillows. Anyone getting up earlier than 7:00 is almost committing a crime, as far as I’m concerned. It’s uncivilized to be up before then. “Do tell.”

And there she went, whooshing into orbit.

My liberal, freethinking sister was petrified to death of her fiancé’s family and they were all flying in for the wedding.

Even Grandma with her pearls and her blue bloodline, and the stern and gruff grandfather who owned companies and the sisters who always had perfect hair all piled into a chignon and high heels and top-of-the-line fashion.

“Their faces never move. They’ve been Botoxed to death.

They’re always composed. Intimidating. Cold. Brrrr . . . ”

“At least they’re Scottish,” I mocked.

“They make me want to swim in a whisky bottle.”

“You don’t drink, August.” I held my hand to my head. Hardly any sleep. Again. I would probably melt from exhaustion. I thought of Reece. Ah, I would take any opportunity to melt on him. . . .

“They don’t spit watermelon seeds.” She released an anguished cry.

“Uncle Taylor won last time,” I mused. We have a family watermelon-seed spitting contest every time we’re together. Not just the six of us, the whole MacKenzie gang. “Remember it made Aunt Mary so mad she accused the judges of cheating. The judges were her own children.”

“And what about the scavenger hunt with the crystal fairy wands!”

“They might like the wands. They’re shiny.”

“And all our wild cousins and their parents are coming, June! Who knows if the twins will dress up as monster twins again with those vampire teeth. And I bet Cousin Carrie will insist on doing a Ouija board with them, and I hear that Uncle Sal is into witchcraft now. Witchcraft!” August shrieked.

“I told Auntie Debbie she had to make him not do it at the wedding, but she said, ‘Honey, it’s better than his voodoo doll stage. He was mad at your father once and your father had terrible gas all year. Don’t knock the witchcraft. ’ She actually said that to me, June!”

“Don’t forget that a whole bunch of our family will be in kilts and tartans.”

“I know, freak me out, and Ben’s family will be in three-piece suits. Prissy and buttoned up . . .”

“August, this is one day. It’s at Mom and Dad’s. It’ll be a gorgeous day, the tents will be up, and the families will only be together for a few hours. The attention is on you, August, and mildly, on Ben. Be yourself, loving and kind, and funny. This is the day you don’t worry about anyone else—”

“But what about Grandpa Bill! You know he says that all MacKenzie weddings should have a three-gun salute and he and Bill Jr. and Mack are going to bring their .45s and shoot them into the air in celebration—”

I groaned and scrunched back into my blue crocheted comforter as August continued her harangue for ten more emotional minutes.

“But I love my wedding dress, June. It’s Scottish and American and so me. Thank you so much. And I love the bridesmaids’ dresses, too.”

“I am so glad you love them, August. Hearing that makes me feel like yodeling.” I yodeled to lighten the moment.

She sniffled. “You and September rock as sisters and knowing you’ll both be on the stage Buddy’s building for us will take some of my deathly fear of Ben’s family away.”

“I’m so happy for you, August.” And I was.

My marriage had been miserable but hers had all the makings of a sixty- year marriage.

The groom was a winner, kind, funny, natural, and totally enraptured by August. He loved her semihysteria, her fascination with antique furniture, her food pickiness, her leather, her rockin’ band, her worries. “It’s a gift. You have a gift in Ben.”

“I know. And you, June, are a gift to me. Okay, let’s compare Worry Journals now.”

I rolled over to my side table and grabbed my Worry Journal.

We go through our journals together at least once a week. It’s neurotic, we know it, and we get more neurotic together, but we’ve done it since we were little kids in the VW bus, and we do it now.

It’s a MacKenzie sister tradition.

“I have twenty-four things I’m most worried about, all equally worrisome, so this is not in exact order, that’s important for you to know, June,” August said. “Here they are . . .”

Later that afternoon I rocked in my rocking chair as I worked on a pattern for another wedding gown, this one for a bride who loved her motorcycle and would be riding off from the wedding in the gown.

She wanted white lace, a black leather belt, and two midthigh slits.

My French doors were open to the cool breeze wafting off the ocean, my crazy quilt covering my lap, Leoni and Estelle off to buy us hot crab sandwiches and raspberry lemonade.

“I’m an old woman,” I muttered, pushing my reading glasses up on my head for a sec. “All I need is a cat beside me and a knitting basket.”

I was trying not to think of my divorce. I was trying not to think about losing this blue beach cottage with its view of cliffs, surfers, and crashing waves. I was trying not to think of the reporter coming soon and whether or not she would hate or, worse, laugh at my alternative wedding dresses.

Most of all I was trying to stop thinking about Reece because I didn’t want my mind all twisted up by a man. I would especially not think about kissing him.

I thought about kissing him, ocean water swirling around our ankles.

I shook my head and tried to concentrate.

I thought about hugging him down by the tide pools.

I stomped my foot and told myself to “reconnect” with the pattern.

I thought about him naked, on the beach, at night . . .

“Argh!” I said, out loud. “Stop it!”

I pictured myself taking a red wedding dress off in front of Reece down by the cliffs. I swallowed hard.

Now this motorcycle bride needed to straddle her bike so we would need . . .

What if I straddled Reece?

“Oh, for goodness sake!” I semishrieked out loud at myself. “Think about . . . think about cats! Small cats, black cats, gold cats . . .”

I put the pattern down.

“Dammit,” I whispered, holding my head, as a 3D image of kissing Reece, three black and gold cats purring beside us on a boat in the ocean, branded itself onto my poor brain.

But this time, following the lust, I felt a wave of acute sorrow, then a deep, penetrating sadness, the same sadness I had fought through many times.

It was the Grayson sadness. I must get him out of my life.

“You never mentioned being married, Reece, so I assumed that you hadn’t been, is that right?” Reece and I sat on his deck, the sunset only beginning its magnificent display across the white crests of waves, an art form in itself.

“No. Not married, no kids. Engaged once.” He put a plate of omelets and French toast in front of us. Breakfast for dinner. My favorite.

“What happened?”

“It was years ago. I was twenty-two. She’s a great woman. Our families have been friends forever, generations back. She was cute.” I tried to stamp down a rising red tide of jealousy. “She was smart.” The red tide rose.

“She was fun and loyal.” The red tide was now frothing.

“She would have made a great mother.”

Now the red tide was arching over my head in wave form, ready to make an ugly crash. I had no right to be jealous, but I was.

“And I would have been bored to death.”

The red tide receded, pulling back down into a puddle. I almost gasped for breath. “Why?”

“I left when I was eighteen for college and I’ve worked and traveled between places for years.

Quite frankly, I’d like to settle down in one place, have a home.

” He smiled at me. “Maybe the beach. Or Portland. Anyhow, as you know, there’s a whole world out here and she wasn’t interested in it and didn’t want to see it.

Her conversation was limited to what she loved best. She could talk about her family, her horses, and how she was a rodeo queen.

That was about it. I knew what we wanted out of life was completely different and we broke up.

She’s married to an ex-rodeo cowboy, has lots of horses, and six kids. She’s a kind woman.”

“But not for you.”

“That’s right.”