Finding Fraser (37 page)

Fine, Fine, Fine…

6:15 pm, August 12

Nairn, Scotland

Things are much the same here.
Everything’s fine. Just fine. The town is busy planning the upcoming Highland
Games, and the farmers are staring at the sky and fretting over the weather.
Harvest time is near.

- ES

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Harvest time is near?
No wonder my followers were dropping like flies. I had lost all
ability to write anything remotely compelling. Instead, I sat slumped at my
terminal, scrolling through pictures of a collection of starlets pre- and
post-cosmetic surgery, and thought back on my day.

Work had unfolded as usual. Sandeep was a
little crankier than normal, and Ash alternated between smoking furiously behind
the cafe and killing zombies on his mobile phone. But sometime mid-morning, I’d
spied Geordie’s van parked behind the garage, and that meant Hamish had to be
around. I ran over on my break, and as soon as I opened the door, I could hear
yelling in the back. That was usually a good sign.

I rang the bell until the yelling stopped
and Geordie appeared.

But his story hadn’t changed. “He’s no’
here, I tell yeh.”

“But the van is there. I saw it, parked in
the spot behind the garage.”

“Aye. He left it las’ night. He’s gone
again, righ’?”

“Geordie, he’s your mechanic. How can you
survive if he’s not here working on cars?”

“Weel—ah’ve got Jimmie, aye? And
Hamish’ll be back soon. He’s just done a delivery for me to—ah—Aberdeen.
Righ’.” And he had stomped off into the back, where the yelling began again.

So yeah, same as usual.

The van had been gone again by the time I
left work.

I sighed and clicked through to the next
screen. Maybe he’d be back by tomorrow. If I could just talk to him again …

I heard a sudden scrambling noise, the sound
of a chair falling and a rush of wind.

And in front of me? Stood Katy.

“Emma,” she said, and I noticed that her
hair had actually come free from the tidy knot she always wore at the back of
her neck. “This has got to stop. You are no’ alone.”

“Not alone…?” I began, but by this time she
had my shoulders clutched tightly in her hands. She gave me a shake and my
chair rolled a little.

“It’s no’ so hard, once ye jes’ accept it,”
she said. “We’ve all been there. Janey down at the chippy. Agnes in Tesco’s.
And Eilidh righ’ before you—he really broke Eilidh’s heart, I haveta say.
She still hates ye for it, didja know?”

“Eilidh? I don’t know anyone by that name …”
I said, weakly. Even though I sort of did.

She carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“I admit I thought you might be the one,
bein’ American an’ all. And some might say—Eilidh for starters—that
ye deserve bein’ cast aside like this. But I was one o’ the first, Emma. I’ve
had time to get over it. And workin’ here, I see you every day—how bad
you’re failin’. Everythin’ has an end, Emma.”

I stared at her face as a light shone into
my own murky skull.

“No—no. It’s not like that. He hasn’t
dumped me. We just have a few things to sort out. He’s just been really busy,
and—and I don’t want to lose my Jamie.”

She shook me again, gently.

“Just listen to yerself. You’re babblin’,
girl. The man’s name is
Hamish
. And
maybe the person you are losin’ … is not him.” She dropped her hands to her
sides.

“I’ve done all I can do here,” she said,
maybe to the universe. “All I know is that you’re lookin’ at more nearly-naked
girls lately than the twelve-year old boys I have to shoo out of here during
the school year. It’s got to stop, Emma. Or you have to buy a computer of your
own. I’ve go’ tourists to deal wi’, and I’m tired of having to clear mah
browser cache!”

I hung my head. There was nothing left to
say. I stood up, tucked in my chair and walked out quietly.

In the distance, I could see Geordie’s truck
parked outside the garage. And in Hamish’s little apartment upstairs? The light
was on.

So.

He
was
home.

I thought about everything Katy had said,
and instead of running to throw myself on his mercy, I resolutely pointed my
bicycle toward Morag’s place.

A balmy breeze blew back my hair as I
pedaled. The evening was so warm that part way home I had to stop and pull off
to the side of the road to take off my hoodie. Maybe Katy was right. Hamish had
been honest with me—how much more honest can you get then handing your
girlfriend the business card of the nearest gym?

But… what kind of a dick move was
that
, anyway?

I tried to picture Jamie suggesting that
Claire had
problem areas
and actually
drove myself right off the road, gravel spraying, at the very thought.

I steered myself back onto the road, my
glasses sliding down my nose as I pushed my pedals through the final uphill
leg. Katy was right. I had been so worried about losing my dream Jamie that I
had accepted behavior from Hamish that I would have kicked any American boy to
the curb for.

I pedaled into Morag’s driveway just as she
stumped out of the barn, carrying a large stoneware pitcher.

“Been shifting hay all day,” she said by way
of explanation. “Think I need a little medicinal pick-me-up before dinner. Care
to join me?”

“Why not?” I said, and followed her inside.

The pitcher turned out to be full of
cream, freshly skimmed.

“Look,” Morag said, as she set it on the
table. “I’ve a mind to make buttermilk scones for mah dinner. What say we whip
up a bit o’ butter before you head over to the barn? It’ll take yer mind off
things.”

I stared at her blankly. She looked
heavenward and pulled a tall, slender ceramic jar out of a drawer. From the
cupboard beneath the sink she removed a large bottle of scotch and slammed it
on the table beside the jar.

“You use Scotch to make butter?” I said. “Is
it an old family recipe or something?”

Morag barked a laugh and pulled a teacup out
of the dish drainer. She slid it toward me along the scrubbed-smooth top of the
wooden table.

“Scotch makes anythin’ better,” she said,
“but only a clot-heid would put it
in
the butter.”

She poured the cream from her pitcher into
the ceramic jar and screwed the lid on tight. “Now take this and gi’ it a wee
shake, will ye?”

The jar was about the size of a large travel
mug. Morag turned it on its side and showed me how to roll it back and forth on
the table. Then she poured a finger of scotch into the teacup and slid it back
in front of me. She collected another cup from the dish drainer—a much
larger coffee cup—and poured two fingerfuls for herself.

“Ye can sip it, or ye can slug it back,” she
said. “Your choice entirely.”

“What do you do?” I asked, eyeing the amber
liquid doubtfully.

She blinked her eyes at me, and her cup was
empty. I let go of the butter jar to pick up my teacup.

Morag gazed at me sternly. “Ye mustn’t stop
wi’ the shakin’ or t’ butter won’t be as sweet.”

I hastily resumed rolling. She took the
opportunity to pour herself another scotch, clinked my teacup with her own and
downed it.

“
Sláinte,
”
she said, and seized the butter jar from me. The ridges on the outside of the
jar rumbled like thunder against the wooden tabletop.

“Yeh need ta put some energy in,” she said
sternly. “Now. Abou’ this Hamish.”

I swallowed the contents of my teacup.

“He’s a good man,” she said, eyeing the
scotch bottle while she rolled her butter.

I poured her another and she beamed at me.

“A bit of an inclination toward the ladies,
I’ll admit, but ’e’s nobbut a lad yet. On’y ta be expected.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed. “Katy thinks he’s
dumped me for someone else. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. When we were
together, all he would talk about was moving to the US, and how I needed to get
into bikini shape for California.”

One side of Morag’s mouth twisted upward. “Bikini
shape, eh? Mebbe he jes’ likes who ye are an’ where ye come from?”

 
I toyed with my teacup. “Right—that’s
what I said. But, I can’t help thinking he seems to have some odd …ideas about
America. Or his concept of America—and—and what Americans should
look like.”

Morag snorted. “Far as I can tell, ye look
jes’ like Scots. P’raps a wee bit less pale. And I’d be hard-pressed to choose
which is the fatter, wi’ all them fried Mars bars we Scots have taken to these
days. Present company excepted, of course.”

“Oh, well you know Hamish. He’s pretty fit,
right? He seems to think that’s a part of the American dream, or something. I’m
not quite clear on it …”

Morag rolled the jar back and forth, back
and forth. “He’s never been to the States, I’m fair certain,” she said, and
neatly managed to pour us both another drink without missing a beat on the
butter. “Picked up all his views from the telly, like the rest of us.”

I finished my drink and then had to take my
eyes off her mini butter churn for a bit, because the rocking was starting to
make my head feel funny. “Have you noticed anything a little—odd—about
the way he sings all the time?” I said, enunciating carefully. “About how he
seems sort of influenced by American music?”

“Ah, American music,” said Morag, sighing
rapturously as she rocked her butter. “
We
could have had it a-a-alll, Rollin’ in the De-ee-eep!”

She had an amazingly rich contralto, and
dipped her head in a little bow when I told her so. I didn’t tell her she was
singing a song by a British artist, however. It wasn’t the time to spoil her
moment.

We sat in silence, but for the rocking of
the butter jar, until Morag cleared her throat at last.

“Speakin’ of having it all, my dear, I
reckon you need to decide what it is you really want. If this young man is it,
go after him.” She leaned back, tilting up onto the rear legs of her chair. “I
remember back in ‘85, I had a wee flutter for a fella by the name of Willie
MacBride.”

She licked the rim of her coffee cup
contemplatively, her eyes distant. “Ach, the boy was well-named. He had a cock
on ’im ten inches long and thick as a baby’s arm.”

There was a long moment of silence, as her
last sentence had rendered me entirely speechless, and Morag was clearly lost
in thought.

“We had some good times, me and Willie,” she
said at last, closing her eyes and smiling.

I set my teacup carefully on the table.

Morag’s eyes snapped open and she slammed
her chair legs back down to the floor. “But it came to nothin’, for all that.
It ended because he decided to step out on me, and no piece of man-flesh is
worth that, girlie.”

She leaned forward across the table and set
the jar upright with a thump. “Ye have to love yersel’ first, Emma. My greatest
regret is that I walked away from Willie without chasin’ him down and showin’
him what he’d lost. I’d hate tae see ye make the same mistake, lassie.”

She pushed herself to her feet and leaned
over to twist the lid off the jar. “Perfect!” she yelled, and stumped over to
the counter. She expertly poured the liquid off into a little stone pitcher,
and scooped the remaining lumps of butter into a small bowl. She shook a little
salt on it, stirred it around a few times and handed me the bowl.