Page 39

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the old wooden table, his pint in one hand. His face softens.

“Yer mum… Fiona’s no’ had it easy. She was in foster care from when she was eleven.

Bounced around, one place ta another. Her mum, yer grandmum, died when she was nine.

Cancer. Wasna the best mither, either. She wasna just poor.

The woman was mean, dog mean. After she died, Fiona lived wi' her aunt, who demanded money from her da and complained about every bite Fiona ever ate.

Then her da skipped town and her aunt gave her up.

Just took her to the office one day and left her there wi' a rubbish bag of belongings.

Nae warning. Like she was getting rid o' rubbish. "

"Jesus," I mutter. “I ken she was in foster care. She told us about how her mum died and her da left. But she refused ta say more. And ye ken how Mum is when ye push and she doesna want ta talk.”

“Aye,” Da says with a wry half smile. “Like tryin’ ta get a cat ta ride a bicycle.”

“Don’t give Marie any ideas,” Jason mumbles.

Da sighs and continues. "Fiona knew nothin’ stable. Nothin’ hers. No one wanted her. Seven years o' foster homes, four of them in two years. She hardened, got tough. The system does that to ye. Either ye let it break ye or ye become someone who breaks others.”

Amy stills beside me. I don’t move.

“I met her when she was eighteen. I was forty-two.”

Amy’s eyebrows lift high.

“I ken what yer thinking, my dear. She was older than her years, and I was, well... kind.” He shrugs. “She was babysittin’ ta earn a bit. Showed up wi' three kids in tow at the ice cream van window. Asked me if I was hirin’.”

“That’s how you met?” Amy asks gently.

“Aye. I ran ice cream vans. Had routes. Worked wi’ a few local lads.

She looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I can work harder than any lad ye’ve got, and I dinna steal.

’” He smiles faintly. “There was somethin’ about her.

Sharp. Beautiful. Sarcastic. Gritty. So I said aye.

I hired her. Hard worker, she was. Turning eighteen meant no more foster care.

She needed a job and she loved her freedom.

But freedom takes its toll as much as being controlled. ”

He takes a slow sip of his pint.

“One morning, a few weeks later, I found her sleepin’ in one o’ ma vans. Curled up in the driver’s seat wi’ a backpack as a pillow. I put two and two together.”

Amy’s lips part, just barely.

“I offered her a room in my house. Just for a while, until she got on her feet. We were boss and employee for a good two years after that. Nothin’ improper." Da's chin goes up in defiance, daring us to say otherwise. His pause gives ample opportunity.

No one says a word.

"I let her take the guest room, made sure she ate. Kept her safe.”

He looks away, blinking once.

“And then… we fell in love. Fiona's sae easy ta love.

How all those numpties and arseholes in her life let her pass by is a bloody crime, but damn if I didna benefit.

Because she's been all mine, all these years.

I'm the luckiest man in the world because other people thought she was rubbish, the bastards.” Da's voice goes hoarse and I can tell he's fighting tears.

My throat tightens.

“Eight kids later,” he says, spreading his arms, “here we are.”

Silence settles over the table, the kind that holds more than words.

“For so long, she was fightin’ for a place ta belong, son.

A place that’s hers, that no one can take away.

No one can tell her ta pack up, move on, get out.

No one can put her entire world in a trash bag and make her leave.

She’s built that for herself, through us. The family. That’s how she feels safe.”

Amy wipes at one eye.

I don’t say anything right away, because now I get it.

All of it.

And I feel like one of those bastards, too.

Da’s voice goes a little rough.

“She’s always been fightin’ ta keep her place, son. And ta make her kids tougher, stronger, better than she ever was. To have more than she ever had. And ta be able to take on a cruel world with as much fight as needed. That’s how she shows love. It’s no’ perfect, but none o’ us are.”

Amy’s hand tightens around mine.

Da looks me in the eye.

“But cuttin’ her off from the weddin’? That was worse than lyin’ to her. When she figured out what ye two were doin’, it didna just sting, it broke somethin’. Made her feel like ye were killin’ off who she was.”

I exhale slowly, the air in my lungs burning.

“She’s no’ wantin’ a big Scottish weddin’ just ta show ye off. It’s no’ about spectacle. It’s about roots. ”

He taps a finger against the table.

“She wants ta pin ye down, lad. Settle ye. Make sure there’s a center ye always come back ta. Home, babies, noise, chaos. Her circle will get wider every time one of ye grows up and starts yer own family. She’s tryin’ ta surround herself wi’ love so she never has ta feel that old ache again.”

Amy’s eyes are shimmering with unshed tears. Her free hand covers her mouth.

“And the way she loves,” Da adds gently, “it’s no’ quiet. It’s fierce. Consumin’. She’s scared ta death that one day she’ll blink and ye’ll be gone for good.”

My chest tightens, emotion wedging itself behind my ribs like I’m taking a free kick straight to the sternum.

“I didna mean ta shut her out,” I murmur. “I just wanted somethin’ that felt like mine. Ours .”

“Aye,” he says. “And ye deserve that. But so does she, Hamish. Some part, some piece. Even if it’s messy.”

Amy lowers her hand and whispers, “I think we need a new plan.”

I nod slowly.

Not to cave, or to surrender.

But to understand .

And maybe, somehow, build a bridge between the wild woman who raised me and the one I’m about to marry.

The front door opens with another gust of cold air and the kind of tension that can only mean one thing.

Archie.

He steps into Bilbee’s as if he’s breaching a compound—dark clothing, eyes scanning, jaw clenched.

He moves through the tavern like a heat-seeking missile in a windbreaker, coming straight for our table with the kind of composed energy that says something’s on fire and I will not be the one who panics.

“Status update,” he says, flat and calm. “The mothers are in town.”

We all nod.

“I haven’t pinpointed their exact location yet,” he continues. “They’ve gone fully rogue. Stormed Wedding Protectors’ Boston office a few hours ago. Ranney and Nilly did their best to manage the situation, but it escalated quickly.”

He pulls out his phone, swipes, then shows us a blurred screenshot. “One of Marie’s yoga students sent her this video. You two, at the hot springs.”

Amy groans. “We’re viral. Again.”

Archie tucks the phone away with precision.

“Apparently, the moment she saw it, Fiona went nuclear and Marie followed suit. They ransacked our headquarters. Nilly tried offering them chocolate and meditation. Ranney attempted to redirect them with sample invitations and prosecco. Neither tactic worked.”

He turns to Da and Jason. “Gentlemen, thank you. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Jason gives a weary nod. Da lifts his pint like a salute.

Archie pauses. “They went back to Mendon to look for you. Found your houses empty. We have Ring doorbell video from your home," he says, looking at Jason, "indicating that you two are targets of their rage."

Da snorts. "What else is new?" He and Jason clink beers and laugh.

Archie straightens. “I’m off to confer with Chief Luview. I have eyes on the town common, the bakery, and Love You Forever Inn. Your best plan right now is to stay put. I’ll alert you if I intercept.”

And with that, he disappears out the door like a man with a mission and a stun gun in his back pocket.

Jason exhales. “I need another beer.”

Rider, already pouring, slides two fresh pints over without a word.

Da stares into his foam. “Matt. Yer a priest?”

Matt smiles faintly. “Minister.”

“Close enough,” Da mutters, raising his glass. “When Fiona gets here, say a wee prayer for ma eternal soul.”

Matt lifts his glass in return. “I’ll say two.”