Finding Fraser (27 page)

Flabbergasting Fate…

Noon, May 15

Nairn, Scotland

In a flabbergasting twist of fate, I’m
actually working now, and at a job I like. I still haven’t got a computer of my
own, which makes regular posting pretty tough.

On every other front, though, life is
good. The people of this little town have taken me in and made me feel like I
belong. I’ve found a job in a cafe, and I even helped a baby come into the
world——which I would blog about in more detail if the experience
hadn’t been so disgusting. Let me just say, when I met the baby again after she
was all cleaned off and dressed, she was a beautiful, perfect little human
being. I’m meeting all kinds of other amazing humans here, too. No sign of my
Fraser, yet, but I still hold out hope!

- ES

Comments: 3

SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

Working? Well, I suppose actual
employment is a good thing. At least you are taking responsibility for
yourself. How long will it take for you to earn enough to come home? A month?
Six weeks? If you will be so kind as to let me know, I may even be able to
arrange to have Paul meet you at the airport.

(Read 2 more comments
here
…)

To:
 
[email protected]

From:
    
JackFindlay@*range.co.uk

May 15

Hey Emma,

Thanks for the email. Nice to have your
email address. I feel special!

And yeah, around here, summer starts in
May. Midsummer’s Eve is on the solstice, ye ken? It’s only you Americans who
are crazy enough to insist summer begins at the very time the days start
getting shorter!

The ankle is mending quickly, judging
from the infernal itch right at the spot I can’t reach with even my longest
pencil. The book prep seems to be going well at the publishing house. My editor
tells me it should be out late this summer.

Hope your quest continues apace. If the
Highland warrior falls through and you do end up down here in Edinburgh for a
bit, let me know. I’d love to take you for a ‘thank you’ cup of tea.

Jack

Katy
the librarian began to make closing-up noises, so I quickly logged off, after
sending Jack a quick note suggesting he use a ruler rather than a pencil to
address his itchy ankle.
A broken leg on my first
attempt on an Adirondack ski hill as a teenager had given me a plethora of
experience on how to best deal with the discomfort of six weeks in a cast, and
I was fairly certain things hadn’t changed much in the technology of scratching
an itch in that time.

My first couple of weeks in the new job had
been far less eventful than the first hour, but I have to say that I liked it
that way. It was kind of reassuring to get back to the routine of regular
employment after the series of disasters in Glasgow. Whoever said that the
Scots are cheap had obviously never worked in this cafe—my tips were
accumulating in the jar on the wee counter of my flat very nicely.

And—for the time being, at least—I
got to stay in my beloved Highlands.

It turned out the kid in the kitchen whites
was the owner’s son, Ashwin. Ash’s dad was named Sandeep Patel, who was, in his
turn, the son of Indian immigrants who had moved to Scotland during the time of
partition. Sandeep had a Glaswegian accent as strong as Rabbie the Gnome. Our
first conversation had been tempered both by his suspicion of me as a foreigner
and his relief that I actually had experience as a barista in the US.

“We’d thought we’d hae plenny o’ time afore
Cara’s babby arrived,” he said, kneading the dough for tea biscuits as we
spoke. “Another month, at least. I were halfway to Glasgow on mah supply run
when I go’ the call from Ash. Turned aroun’ fair quick, I did! As for findin’
another girl, I havenae even posted a note on the board at the local Jobs Center.”

He punched the dough viciously with his
flour-coated hands, and then rolled it flat and began cutting out rounds using
one of the drinking glasses from the dishwasher. “So yeh worked at the
Starbucks in Chicago, did ye?”

I nodded. “Can make a caramel macchiato with
the best of ’em,” I said, proudly, thinking it pays to trumpet one’s
accomplishments to one’s new boss.

He rolled his eyes. “Ach, there’ll be none
of that shite here, luv. Jes’ serve ’em the coffee out of the perc and change
the grounds every coupla hours, and it’ll all be fine.”

That had been the full extent of my
interview. After a bit more than two weeks, it turned out that the job was
seventy five percent serving and the rest of the time wiping tables and lugging
dish trays. Pretty much zero percent barista, in fact.

I didn’t mind a bit.

Fins in the Firth…

2:00 pm, May 31

Nairn, Scotland

Spent an amazing, glorious day chasing a
pod of dolphins along the shores of Moray Firth. Dolphins!

I’ve never even seen one dolphin, except on
television. Today, there were thirty or more of ’em, bobbing and dancing and
playing in the distance. I counted dorsal fins, and it was hard to keep track
but still!!!!

There were a few other people out walking
along the shoreline. The rain has been falling pretty much every day, but today
was supposed to be fine, and it was my day off. I headed over the shore on my
bike, following Morag’s directions, just planning to read and catch a little
sun. But when I got to the beach, I could see a young family hurrying up the
shore, the two kids leaping up and down madly.

So exciting to see. And to think——in
Scotland!

I overheard the mother of the young kids
insisting it was good luck to see dolphins, so when I went back home after they
had swum away, I asked Morag to confirm.

“Ach——that’s a pile o’
nonsense,” she sniffed. “They’re here all the time, rain or shine. Some
tourist’s story, nothin’ more.”

Still——I like to think the
dolphins might auger something special.

Why not?

- ES

Comments: 3

HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

Dolphins do bring luck. To old sailors,
seeing dolphins mean land was near, but I think they carry spirit of joy
inside. Do you still have joy even though you have no Jamie, Miss Emma?

(Read 2 more comments
here
…)

Well.

I hadn’t heard from HiHoKitty in a few
weeks, so I was delighted to see her name. I totally agreed with her take on
dolphins, too. The last sentence set me back a bit, though.

Strangely enough, when I really stopped to
think about it, I did still have joy, even with no Jamie.
I had found a nice rhythm, riding to and from work every
day. The owner
,
Geordie, of the garage across
from the cafe gave me a generous deal on the bike, essentially waiving any
charges “until I found my footing” as he called it, with the new job.

The cafe turned out to be great. I enjoyed
the people I worked with, and I was learning how to help Morag on her farm. On
top of that, I was making money, which I needed so desperately.
And with little to worry about apart from the three pieces
of crockery I’d broken in a minor dishwashing disaster, the rest of the month
seemed to fly by. I couldn’t believe when I put up my post that it was almost
June already. June!

I’d collected my first two paychecks, and
managed to set a decent amount aside toward my flight costs home before
disaster struck hard.

But this disaster? Best. Silver. Lining.
EVER.

Katy strode back to her desk, shooting me
a glare as I slunk away from the public terminal. I was going to have to find
another place to post my blog, as her patience for me tying up the only free computer
station at the library was wearing thin. Plus, I was waging a
passive-aggressive seat war with an old dude who came in every single day to
play solitaire on the computer. Mind you, if Katy caught him at it, she threw
him off immediately. Tough broad—she would do well in Chicago.

Anyway, now that I was working, I guessed I
could afford to pay the two pound fee at the only Internet cafe in town. It’s
just—I felt kinda bad going in there, since they
were
our competition. They sold their coffee out of a vending
machine. Also, the place was pretty sketchy-looking, and smelled like Lysol.

I made it into work with a couple of minutes
to spare, but ran straight into the back to get my apron because it was so
busy. Sometimes the lunch crowd runs really early in Nairn, where everyone seems
to get up before dawn for some reason.

Things went fine until the stroke of twelve
noon. I’d managed to wipe down all the empty tables, and Ash hadn’t burned
anything for at least an hour. Up front, I had a young couple in one of the
booths, and was just about to pour coffee for them when their baby leaned
forward and smacked his mother’s cup off the table. The mom pulled her baby
back into his seat, the dad retrieved the cup and I managed to swoop my carafe
back in time so as to not scald anyone at the table.

Unfortunately, the guy at the next table was
not so lucky.

As I swung my arm away, the competing forces
of gravity and arm momentum took their toll on the lid of the carafe, which
flew into the next booth. Centrifugal force kept most of the coffee inside, but
the steam that had condensed under the lid poured down the collar of a man
sitting with his back to me.

“Christ Jesus,” he roared, and jumped out of
his booth, frantically trying to brush the steaming droplets away from the back
of his neck.

I didn’t know who to handle first, so I
quickly turned to check that the young couple were okay, before dealing with
the man still swearing behind me.

“I’m so sorry, “ I began, as he swung around
to face me—and I stared at him while his features clicked into place. It
was Hamish.

Hamish of the bar in Edinburgh. Hamish of
the spilled beer in lap. Hamish with the well-muscled forearms.

Hamish, now freshly scalded. By me.

“You!” he choked. “The American girl from
Edinburgh.”

“Em—Emma,” I said. “I’m
so
sorry—are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

He untucked the dishtowel from my apron and
wiped the back of his neck with it.

“No harm done,” he said, and then hummed in
a slightly strangled voice: “It’s all right—to be a redneck …”

“No—no, it’s not. It’s not all right.
It’s all my fault, is what it is. Let me at least get you some ice, okay?”

He put his hand on my arm. “I’m grand, Emma.
I promise yeh. Now, tell me how it is yeh come to be here in mah own town?”

The lunch rush had gotten in the way, but
Hamish had promised to come by after work, and he did. He told me that he
worked across the street in Geordie’s garage.
And how
he never ate at the Nairn Cafe but his favorite Chinese takeaway happened to be
closed that day. We walked through Nairn and talked about how much I loved h
is
country. He told me how he’d yelled at his boss for not telling him that he’d
rented the bicycle to a lovely American. I made him repeat the words “lovely
American” several times, just to be sure. Then we talked about how much he
loved
my
country.

Afterwards, we went for dinner at the Chinese
takeaway, where it turned out the owner had just slept in that morning. And after
dinner …

He took my hand as we walked over to my
bike, which was leaning up against the coffee shop. He had long, square fingers
that fit just perfectly between my own. The air was quiet and balmy—the
first truly warm evening I had experienced in Scotland.

“I’m so sorry about splashing you today,” I
said, to the sound of our feet on the gravel.

“It doesnae hurt a bit,” Hamish said. “An it
means I can welcome yeh to mah town properly, aye?”

Before I could ask what he meant, he leaned
down and made himself clear by kissing me. A dizzying, head-spinning, perfectly
wonderful kiss.

And I pedaled off into the moonrise as
purely, sweetly, and divinely happy as I had ever been in my life.