The rain, thankfully, had eased off into that steady drizzle all too familiar to me after the summers I'd spent here.

Tealights guided the path up to the marquee's entrance. The tent had those plastic window sides that allowed in enough light for the candles and torches not to be needed yet. The interior took my breath away—the marquee team helped by the villagers—had festooned the tent's ceiling and sides with bunting and swags of dark tartan that covered the sides of the windows.

Moss-green coloured flooring stopped heels sinking into the grass, and the tables around the outside featured arrangements of thistles, representing Colm, and roses for my brother.

"D'you think it's okay? Lachlan and I have been running round like blue-arsed flies all morning."

I shoogled Donnie, willing to forgive his father for abandoning him if this was the result. "More than okay, and I um..."

He tilted my face up and kissed the tip of my nose. "Don't cry."

"It's not because I'm sad, it's because I'm happy. This is so beautiful!"

He took Donnie from me. "If you're crying like this now, I dread to think what'll happen when Dylan says, 'I do'. I'm going to find Mhari. Or Lachlan. Or Lachlan's mum and dump the wee man here on them."

He wandered off. Jack's father, also a Jack, spotted me and waved. "Aye, aye, Gaby," he said, as his granddaughter broke free from my mum and pelted herself at him. He whirled her up and around him as she laughed her head off.

"Is there your first gay wedding?" I asked, and he shook his head.

"I've done a few of them this summer," he said, "though this is definitely the first time I've done any ceremony without electricity. Just as well you dinnae need it tae pledge your troth tae a' body."

Fair enough. A qualified humanist celebrant, Jack Senior would be conducting the marriage ceremony. He took his vocation seriously, spending a lot of time with couples ahead of their weddings to find out more about them to ensure he was able to personalise the ceremony.

"Where wee Ranald?" he asked, "so's I can get a cuddle wi' him?"

I gestured in the bar's direction, which had been set up at the end of the marquee, and where my nanna was. The ceremony was due to start in fifteen minutes when a vintage Morris Minor would drop off the groom and groom. Dylan had told me they didn't need to bother with the traditional 'one partner waits at the altar thing' for the other to arrive.

(Hmm, I said, are you sure it's not because you're scared Colm will do a runner if you're not there to march him up the aisle because he's finally seen sense...?)

As family members, Jack and I would be seated at the front along with Nanna Cooper, my mum and dad, and Caroline, Colm's parents, sister and her family on the other side. Nanna Cooper, who was on the waiting list for a hip replacement, hobbled over to join me.

I took in her outfit—a bright pink ballgown she'd found in one of the charity shops in Oban with a matching stole. When I'd questioned its suitability at the time of purchase, she'd screwed up her face. "Kathleen said it made me look like Judy Garland. And Kathleen says all gay men love Judy Garland."

Oh, God. Kathleen—Nanna's best friend and purveyor of all sorts of 'wisdom'. I'd need to keep an eye on Nanna all night to make sure that gown didn't get anywhere near a naked flame. It would go up in seconds.

"Do you want to sit down, Nanna?"

She took my arm, and I deposited her at the front next to Caroline, where they immediately embarked on a hip operation conversation and all the gory details that such a procedure involved, which you might think Nanna would want to avoid talking about.

At the entry to the marquee, Jack beckoned me over. Although there weren't that many guests, steering the Lochalshie villagers to their seats on such a day was a bit like herding cats. Every single person stopped on their way in or wandered off towards the bar. It took forever to get them to sit down; me worrying that Dylan and Colm would arrive and find their grand entry blocked by ten people vociferously bitching about Scottish Power, exclaiming about the rain and admiring the marquee.

"They're here!" Jack nudged me.

A broad white ribbon in a V-shape decorated the bonnet of the maroon-coloured car. My ex-boyfriend's family had owned a vintage car dealership, and the Morris Minor I recognised as one of the iconic, classic models.

The chauffeur got out, brandishing one of those giant golf umbrellas. Colm stepped out first, shooting me a nervous smile, followed by Dylan.

Remember, I'm Dylan's younger sister. It's my God-given right to slag him off, but those tears that had threatened earlier started up again. It was not so much his outfit that I hadn't seen until now—the longline, slim-fit black jacket with its velvet collar and silk handkerchief, the baggier grey trousers—but his expression. The eyes that kept darting to Colm, the way he blinked at me several times. Nervous then. And that smile—one that almost created a bubble around him and Colm sheltering them from the rain.

Glory be, too. His face no longer resembled a glow-in-the-dark beacon.

Mhari, finally, finally, finally holding her own child, slid in next to me. "Worked a treat that stuff on his face, didn't it?"

"Ah! So that's what was in that tube! Skin cream."

"Aye, prescription stuff for rosacea. Did ye think—pick your filthy mind oot o' the gutter, Gaby McAllan! Here, take Donnie. I need to get on wi' ma job as the photographer."

"But I—"

Too late. She'd retreated so she could snap Dylan and Colm coming in. Jack took Donnie from me, rolling his eyes. "Do your bit. I'll take care o' him."

I lined up behind Dylan and Colm and broke the habit of a lifetime with a compliment. "You look great, big brother." He smiled at me. "Thanks. Can't believe the effort everyone's gone to."

Wait till he clocked Nanna.

Inside the marquee, a hush descended as everyone twisted in their seats to stare. One of Dylan's old Great Yarmouth mates wolf-whistled, making everyone laugh.

"Ready to go?" I asked, as Evie ran towards me, prompted by her father. She held a posy of flowers. She and I were supposed to follow the groom and groom up the aisle, but Evie took one look at me, another at her uncle and his spouse-to-be, and insisted she take Dylan's hand instead, working out, rightly, that she'd get much more attention that way.

Our small procession sailed up the aisle to a chorus of "Aw's".

The ceremony had me digging in my handbag once more, searching for tissues—the nose blowing coinciding with a sudden pause in proceedings, which made it far louder than it should have sounded.

As the best (wo)man, I had the all-important task of handing over the wedding rings, so of course I pretended for a few seconds I couldn't find them in my handbag. Dylan poked his tongue out at me; I did the same back, making everyone laugh yet again.

But the words he exchanged with Colm, "This ring is a token of my love. I marry you with this ring, with all that I have and all that I am," quietened everyone once more.

Simple, and just right.

Cheers erupted when Jack Senior declared them husband and husband. Dylan threw Evie's posy of flowers up in the air. It landed on Mhari, her face a picture. Horror, though not half as horrified as Lachlan, both of them swearing all the time that marriage was their idea of hell on earth.

The food went down a treat. As my best friend always declared tortilla chips and hummus are a combination that is hard to beat, and the various curries we'd made the night before received much praise. Perhaps we ought to think about extending the vegan section of the menu at the Lochside Welcome and make a name for ourselves as the premier plant-based destination in the Highlands.

Xavier turned up, happy to help. I noticed him getting friendly with one of Dylan's friends. Heartbreak's always a little easier if there seems to be someone else on the horizon. Mark Goulding, the author, had come along too. We could hardly not invite him, given that he'd come up with the tent at a vastly discounted price.

The TV series, he said, had turned his book sales from tens of thousands into millions, so he saw this as his way of giving something back. When he asked Caroline to dance, she accepted.

I joined Jack standing at the edge of the area we'd cleared of tables and chairs to create the dance floor. "Maybe you're about to get another stepfather," I said, tipping my head in Mark and Caroline's direction.

"Mebbe. Wouldnae be a bad thing."

The Bagrock Pipers were a great hit. They specialised in big anthems – We Will Rock You, Don't Stop Believin', etc. Dylan and Colm danced to that one for their first dance, the words all that more poignant when I thought about how long it had taken Dylan to find true happiness.

Evie loved the band and danced with every single wedding guest, accompanied by Tamar, Stewart and Jolene's kid. At six, he considered himself a much loftier being than Evie, but tonight he didn't seem to mind her dragging him onto the floor the whole time as they flung themselves into the music with far more enthusiasm than style.

The torchlight and candles lent a romantic, dreamy air to the marquee. I kept not recognising people; their faces more mysterious in the half-light. At one point, even Jack seemed like a stranger—a reminder of the man I'd initially seen for the first time all those years ago.

Tall, muscular, red-haired. Gorgeous.

We all gathered outside to wave Dylan and Colm off when they left for Oban just after 10pm. As was traditional, someone had fastened tins to the back of the car, and they rattled as it drove off to cheers and waves.

My mum, glass of Prosecco in hand, headed over. "We'll take the kids for you tonight," she offered, "seeing as you two have had little sleep the last couple of nights."

Jack protested half-heartedly. I didn't. We sneaked off before anyone could notice and grab Jack, insisting he phone Scottish Power yet again to demand their immediate appearance.

As our house was close to the Lochside Welcome, the noise of the band penetrated the walls. Didn't matter—the minute my head touched that pillow it would take an earthquake to wake me. And perhaps not even then.

Upstairs, Jack stretched out on the bed and patted the space next to him. He'd stripped off, bar a neat-fitting pair of black briefs. The old oil lamp we'd found added that soft, dreamy light to the atmosphere in here, too. It picked out the planes of his face and illuminated the reddy-gold of his hair.

I stepped out of the dress and shoes and lay next to him. He slung his arm over me, the crook of it pressing against my breasts.

"Aye, aye. No' a bad day, eh?"

Scotsmen prefer understatement. 'Not a bad day' was praise indeed.

"An excellent one, considering. Maybe we'll never get the electricity back," I said to Jack, leaning back against him as he rested his head on top of mine, "and that won't be so bad. No more screens, better for the environment, people coming to stay here for the novelty of living off the grid—"

"Nae washing machines," Jack said, squeezing my waist.

Ah, now that was a thing. You try living with two small children and no means to clean their filthy clothing. Three days power-free stretched the limit of living without a washing machine.

"How long d'you think your mum will keep Evie and Ranald?"

"Until the end of the week? Perhaps even the month. Ideally, until they're at least 15 and 13 and able to look after themselves."

He snickered at that. Sometimes, when we were alone, we played this game. Do you remember when we used to—OMG—sleep through the night? Or, once upon a time we packed our bags in the middle of the week, all spontaneous, like, and drove off to big hotels and spent all day in bed! Bloody children.

Neither of us meant it. Well, only a bit.

"I know you're shattered," Jack murmured now, his hand shifting downwards, and mouth dropping butterfly kisses on the back of my neck, "but it seems a bit o' a shame not tae take advantage o' the peace and quiet."

On cue, the bagpipes burst into an earth-shattering rendition of Flower O' Scotland, 50-odd drunken voices singing along.

I flopped onto my back, giggling. "Go on then! But only if you're super quick and you don't mind if I fall asleep half-way through."

"Gaby!" The mock outrage made me giggle all the more, which Jack took as an invitation to tickle me—a dirty move, as I am ridiculously ticklish.

"Okay! I surrender! I promise not to fall asleep and will even take an active part in the proceedings."

Some promises that are easier to keep than others. When he took up where we'd left off the other night, my body did all the right things, shoving aside tiredness and moving to adjust to his with some degree of enthusiasm. The lack of children helped—while the pipes played along in the background, at least we knew there was no danger of a small child bursting in any second, and exclaiming, "Mummy! What are you and Daddy doing, and why are you making all that noise?"

Afterwards, he curled up around me, breath warm against my back.

"That stuff Dylan said when he was making his vows..."

"Oh, the bit where he talked about moving to Lochalshie?"

"Mmm-hmm."

He'd also—shock, horror—thanked Jack and I profusely for taking him in, giving him a job and making him a partner in the business.

"Sometimes," Jack continued, his words slurring slightly as exhaustion took over, "I have these wee dreams. Those weird ones you get early in the morning when your bladder's full to bursting. In them, I'm no wi' you because you never moved to Lochalshie, and there's this ache in me. Then when I wake up, the relief's something else. Overwhelming, almost."

I twisted. "Do you? That's so sweet of—"

But he'd fallen asleep, eyelashes fluttering and that slight whistle of breath drawing in and out, one cheek squidged against the pillow. I kissed his cheek, careful to keep the movement gentle.

Jack, king of faint praise and the understatement. And yet sometimes he came out with words so beautiful, I knew I'd be replaying what he'd said in my mind hundreds of times over the next few days.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot...

More bagpipes and raucous singing from the marquee to the right of the house, where guests at any wedding in Scotland crossed their arms, linked hands with their neighbours and sang along, signalling the end of the festivities.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine...

They could repeat the chorus however many times they liked. It wouldn't keep me awake any longer than another few seconds. Really, though, I mused as sleep tugged at my consciousness, you couldn't have hoped for a better wedding. The circumstances—no electricity, a mad downpour—had enriched the whole experience, instead of detracting from it.

My eyes closed as I snuggled up against Jack and fell asleep.

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE - thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this wee excursion back in the Highlands. I don't do much research for writing (you can probably tell...) but my Google searches for this short story included 'what happens when there's a power cut', 'male outfits for weddings' (the things I do for my readers) 'vows for weddings' 'how to decorate a marquee', 'words to Auld Lang Syne' and the Red Hot Chilli Pipers, who are the real Bagrock Pipers, look 'em up on Youtube.