It had been a lovely wedding on this bright October day, when the hills of Skerrabost were brown and purple and the wind sent red and gold leaves skittering down the high street.
St Margaret’s church had been packed. The bride had been very bonnie in a ivory skirt and jacket and cream blouse, and the groom cut a fine figure in his kilt and dark green jacket.
Cassie and Mary had been asked to be maids of honour and Paul Bryant officiated as minister.
As Maura and Gideon came out of the church they were greeted by a piper playing “I Love A Lassie”.
The wedding reception had been held at the Stanecroft Hotel, and the beaming groom, in his witty speech, had recommended that all bachelors in search of a beautiful bride should immediately take up yoga. For himself, Gideon insisted, he had found it “most fortuitous”!
The happy couple had been seen off on the ferry to Glasgow, from where, the following day, they would fly to romantic Paris for their honeymoon.
* * * *
Towards the end of the day Andrew, Cassie and Jess stood for a few moments by Murdo’s bench. The sea had darkened but there was still a ribbon of light on the horizon and there was still the occasional call of a gull carried on the wind.
Andrew slipped his arm around Cassie’s waist. She smiled up at him.
“It was a lovely wedding. They both looked so happy. I’m so glad they found each other and, of course, we have another wedding to look forward to in the spring. Mary’s getting her trousseau together.”
“Trousseau? Do people still say that?”
“On Skerrabost, yes,” Cassie replied. “This island is full of romance.”
“Yes,” Andrew murmured. “A place where people find each other. And find peace. A place of healing.”
He squeezed her waist.
“Look!” Jess cried. “A star!”
“The evening star,” Cassie said. “Quick, Jess, make a wish.”
Jess clapped her hands.
“I wish we can live on Skerrabost for ever.”
Andrew and Cassie looked at each other.
“A good wish,” Andrew said.