Page 44 of I’m Not Yours

“I had the man masseuse,” my great-aunt Kaitlin said, leaning on her cane. “I saw him trying to peep at my bust. I saw him!”

That morning, at my parents’ house, we MacKenzie women met in the kitchen.

September yelled, pounding her chest, “Let me choose my own husband, or let me perish!”

“We will walk for your freedom, Geraldine, and for our own womanly freedoms!” August shouted, holding hiking boots in the air.

“We work in sisterhood with you, Geraldine!” Aunt Tobias declared, holding up two huge sponges.

“We sail in harmony with your ocean’s voyage!” Cousin Ally hollered, holding up a paddle.

“And,” my mom said . . .

My mom’s mother, white-haired, fiery, crackled out, “We go to the spa for you, Geraldine!”

Together we all yelled, “For Geraldine!” and held up our orange juice glasses.

We cheered! We laughed! We toasted Geraldine!

It was a fabulous day. I hardly stopped thinking of Reece once.

“Whooeee! He’s on the front grass!” my aunt Belinda shouted from the deck the next afternoon.

“Come and have a look-see, everyone. See! That’s June’s man!

Is he a hunk or what?” She wore an Indian sari over one shoulder and a tartan over the other to respect both sets of her ancestors.

“The other man was a wimp. Pimpy. Snobby . . . he was a tarantula.”

Within seconds, the entire MacKenzie gang—at least a hundred of them—were out ogling Reece and me from the deck and front yard.

Most were dressed in Scottish tartans and kilts.

They held bows and arrows, swords and shields.

“This is my castle. I am the lairdette; you may enter!” my mom called, resplendent in the family tartan with blues, greens, and red.

My father held up a shield with the family crest on it. “You are welcome at our castle,” he boomed out, his voice ringing off the trees and hills surrounding the home.

“Why?” a hundred voices shouted at once.

“Because we’re the MacKenzie Scots!”

Then they burst into the family song, which started with, “Don’t bust our butts, we won’t bust yours,” and described how we’re the Clan MacKenzie, forever and ever we’ll be, we love each other, fight to the death, our swords up, our shields a defense against all our enemies.

“What do we do?” my father railed, again raising his shield.

“We stick together!”

Next, they burst into the family dance, which can be best described as an Americanized Scottish version of rap/bounce/ Scottish dancing.

They hooted, they sang off key, they’d been downing whisky like true Scotsmen.

“You’re in for an adventure,” I told Reece, putting an arm around him.

“I can see that.” He grinned. “Adventures are my specialty.” Soon Reece was wearing a kilt.

He was a mighty fine Scott. I flipped it up.

He’d kept his boxers on.

Later in the evening, amidst the hoopla, Reece and I snuck out to the river, away from a cacophony of noise and MacKenzie revelry.

Some of the family had stayed in hotels in town, but most had spent the night at the house, and many had pitched tents and camper trailers.

A line of fancy Porta-Potties out back had been strung with Christmas lights.

The night was young, the parties would go late.

He reached for my hand, warm and sure.

“I missed you,” he said.

“It was only three days,” I laughed, feeling that sizzle between us, the electric current of unfulfilled desire.

“I still missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” I so had.

We strolled along the winding path by the river, chatting, as it splashed and played.

We had a thousand things to say immediately, until he pulled me into his arms and hugged me close.

We didn’t kiss, but I wanted to, we didn’t take off our clothes, but I wanted to, we didn’t dive into the desire and the raging passion that zinged between us, but I wanted to.

“I’m trying my best to behave myself, June,” he murmured into my hair.

“Me, too, Reece.”

“It’s killing me.”

“Me, too.”

I hugged him as my need to rip off his kilt razzed me straight up.

He pulled away, breathing hard, and said, “I need to jump in that river and cool off.”

I took a shaky breath. “I’ll follow you in.”

We tiptoed, clothes and all, into that freezing water. I splashed him, he splashed back, we plunked ourselves down in the river, and he hugged me close, a deer watching us from twenty feet away, a crow cawing overhead in protest of our presence.

Later we snuck back into the house, or tried to.

My family laughed and chortled when they saw us, someone blared a bagpipe, another shook a tambourine. “A duet of love in the river!” my cousin Mimi shouted. Reece waved, I darted up the stairs to change. He winked at me.

I loved him. I knew it at that moment.

I loved Reece.

It scared me to death.

We ladies had our bachelorette party that night, which involved dancing outside in white dresses around the largest tree on my parents’ property (for eternal freedom), eating a three-tiered cake decorated in the Clan MacKenzie colors at midnight (Go, Mac-Kenzies!), and braiding a long, blue ribbon for August for “something blue” for her wedding.

The men had their bachelor party, which involved beer and football reruns.

There were no strippers, ever. Wasn’t even a consideration.

“The MacKenzie men respect women, we will never debase them,” my father said.

“The MacKenzie women respect men,” my mom said. “We will never debase them, unless they want to get in their G-strings in front of us. Daughters, do you think that Hippie Chick should develop a G-string for men?”

I met Reece outside at one o’clock in the morning, the stars brilliant up in the blackness of the sky.

“June,” he drawled to me. “This feels like family.”

“Sure does, Reece, sure does.”

Oh, how I wanted to lead that man down through the woods . . .

“I dressed conservatively for Benjamin’s family,” my mom declared the day before the wedding, as the entire clan stood restlessly on the porch waiting for Ben’s family to arrive.

“Me, too,” said my father.

They were both in dressy Hippie Chick wear.

My mom had sparkles on her white gown, which was tied at the waist with a dangling white rope, her blond hair up in a loose ball under her crown of wildflowers.

My father had a matching crown of wildflowers and a Hippie Chick Man blue suit jacket with a peace sign on the back.

“I feel very proper,” my mom said.

“Me, too. Quite formal. But I do feel slick in the jacket.” He rolled his shoulders. “Comfortable, but it makes a peaceful statement. Let’s put on our tartans.”

Some members of the clan/family wore Hippie Chick clothes, many wore kilts and tartans, and still others had donned bikini tops and shorts. The twins were, indeed, in their monster outfits. They gnashed their vampire teeth. My sisters were in Hippie Chick, March had a tartan over his shoulder.

On the porch, Reece put an arm around me and drew me close, which, as usual, took my breath away and gave me butterflies.

“Good afternoon, June,” he murmured. “Good to see you’re out of bed.”

I laughed. “Dancing outside until the wee hours of the morning makes a woman sleepy.”

“I can think of a few things that a woman can do until the wee hours of the morning that would make her even more sleepy.” How I sizzled, how I heated way, way up.

“Now I have a mental picture in my head, June.” He sighed. “Can’t seem to get rid of it.”

I chuckled in a strangled sort of way, as my own graphic image popped up.

“It’s a curvy image,” he said, that voice low and gravelly. “I’m thinking of a king-size bed. White bedspread, white sheets. Hey! It’s my bedroom at the beach house. Lights off, candles . . . chocolates in the shapes of butterflies. . . .”

I sighed.

“Yes, it makes me sigh, too, baby.”

I wriggled as he pulled me close, his heat and mine meshing, flowing.

“It’s a beachy image,” he said. “I can hear the waves outside the doors, I know later we’ll be down on the sand flying a kite, the sun shining, then we’ll head back to the bed and the butterfly chocolates—”

We were interrupted as my father shouted, “They have arrived!”

My family cheered as if greeting a victorious, returning army.

Hired limousines, one right after the other, turned down the long lane to my parents’ home.

“Fancy schmancy,” Great-uncle Tesh said, his Polish accent still heavy, even though he’d lived here for forty years. “Limousines. Money. Too much of it. Bah!”

The chauffeurs stepped out of the six limos.

With military preciseness they opened the door of each car, together.

A high heel emerged, followed by an impeccably dressed woman.

A black shoe emerged, shined and proper, followed by a man in a tailored suit.

There were fancy hats, gloves, jewelry, designer dresses, more heels.

In a dignified, formal clump, they stared at us.

In a giant, jostling group, in tartans, kilts, bikinis, and monster outfits, we stared back. I reached for Reece’s hand. August reached for mine, and whimpered, “Scary. Oh, they’re so scary.”

September moaned and pulled on a blue streak in her hair. “I don’t think they’re the groovy type that will want to get down to KC and the Sunshine Band’s, ‘Get Down Tonight,’ the Clan MacKenzie’s American wedding song.”

I patted August’s back as she made gasping sounds.

“I think they need a few shots of throat-burnin’ whisky,” Grandpa Stephen said, way too loud. His voice is never quiet. My father once said, about his thundering voice, “I am sure that Stephen’s ancestors were the ones who led the charge on the battlefields.”

“Yep. Scottish whisky,” Grandpa Stephen boomed once again, in case anyone within a mile couldn’t hear him the first time. “Loosen ’em up. I’ll go get it.”

“You see, June,” August stuttered, as her fiancé, Ben, a nice man totally in love with August, bopped down the steps to greet his family. “I don’t fit in. I mean, do you see those suits! Suits! Women in suits. I can’t wear a suit.”

“They probably have more money than the entire Scottish empire,” September said, her voice trembling.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to breathe in that family?” March asked, his brown hair sweeping his shoulders as he shook his head in concern. “You need air. Between the limos and the thousand-dollar suits, is there room to move and groove?”

Our parents were frozen beside us, which was so unusual, it made me freeze up, too.

“Is this a joke?” my mom whispered. “They’re seriously not this uptight, are they?”

“My love, I don’t know,” my father said, back straight. He was a wanderer, but the man was a stud. Strong, brave, hyperprotective of his wife and us kids.

“I don’t think they’re going to understand the magic behind our wands,” my cousin Harold said. He adjusted his flower crown over his mohawk.

“They’ll probably be frightened when Bill Jr. and Mack shoot off their guns.”

“Cousin Carrie, don’t do the Ouija board with them!”

“Sal, no witchcraft!”

So there the Clan MacKenzie stood, watching, waiting. I leaned into Reece. My whole body trembled with that lust problem I have for him and concern for August with her future in-laws.

But one should never judge first impressions.

An older gentleman nodded at the chauffeurs, who then turned smartly on their heels to the limousines and brought out what looked to be packages.

They handed the packages to each member of the family, then the older gentleman, clearly the patriarch, stepped forward to speak.

He hobbled up, leaning on Ben’s forearm, his hair white as a cloud.

He spoke in a thick Scottish brogue, his voice as loud as Grandpa Stephen’s.

“From the Clan Stewart to the Clan MacKenzie, we are united at last. From Scotland to America, I greet you now. This is a glorious day. May Ben and August be blessed with much laughter and many children, and a love for the homeland that never ends.”

He straightened up, back tall, and recited a poem:

May the best you have ever seen

Be the worst you will ever see. May the mouse never leave your grain store

With a teardrop in its eye. May you always stay hale and hearty

Until you are old enough to die. May you still be as happy

As I always wish you to be.

Struck dumb we all were. Struck dumb.

With that, the members of Ben’s family unfolded their packages.

Out came their tartans. Their colors: Red, black, blue, green, white.

They whipped them over their shoulders, covering their proper, expensive suits.

“To America first, then to Scotland!” the old man declared, his fist in the air, and I swear his voice bounced off my parents’ house, off the pine trees, off the mountains in the distance, and off the bubbly flow of the river. Clearly, his ancestors had led the charge on the battlefields, too.

My father stepped down, flicked his tartan over his shoulder, and shouted back, “To America first, then to Scotland!”

We MacKenzies woke up then, loud and hard, cheering and stomping our feet, waving our wands and flower crowns, adjusting tartans and kilts.

“The Clan MacKenzie welcomes the Clan Stewart! Welcome to our castle!”

And with that, members of the Clan MacKenzie and the Clan Stewart greeted one another, arms outstretched, long-lost family members from Scotland finally reuniting at a home in Oregon, near a rushing river, tucked between the hills.

“Ah! To Scottish whisky!” Grandpa Stephen yelled. “To throat burnin’ Scottish whisky for all!”