If I am forced to answer one more personal question from a nosy Scot--especially that question--they cannot hold me responsible for my actions . Outwardly, Elizabeth Martin affected a smile and took the brochure from the kindly clerk behind the desk at the Loch Awe Hotel. "No, I don't have 'a fine braw laddie' to go out on the loch with. I'm traveling alone."
"Ah, now that's a shame. Pretty lass like yourself with your great dark eyes . . . Did ye no' go and pick some St. John's wort last night? They say it will tell if you're to be married in the comin' year--if the flowers dinna wilt. It's best to do it on Midsummer's Eve, ye ken," the clerk explained with a twinkle in her eye. "But I'm sure it'd still work if ye tried tonight."
Midsummer. June 21st. Today was supposed to be my wedding day.
I knew I should have traded in the tickets and gone to Fresno, instead of this god-forsaken, rainswept, fogged in, bagpipe-obsessed, kilt factory. It figures. Scotland was his idea, the two-timing bastard.
I'll have to remember to send him some week-old haggis as a souvenir of "our" honeymoon.
Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: Anonymous