Authors: kc dyer
Finding Fraser (5 page)
So,
yeah—it turned out the commenters on my blog had all been bots.
When I checked back, there wasn’t a single voice of support for my
adventure. Nor a single vote of dissent, if you come right down to it.
But that’s okay. I don’t need external
validation. Something — something larger than me is guiding this journey.
Otherwise, how do you explain the presence of Herself in the very city I’ve
ended up in?
Fine, so technically I didn’t need to travel
to Philadelphia in order to make my cheap New York flight. But it was pretty
much on the way. I had to get to New York somehow. And the very thought of meeting
Herself in the flesh made my hands start to shake. She was the woman who
created Jamie Fraser, who built him up from clay—or from ink and paper,
at least. She has gone on to beat him, wound him, torture him in every possible
way, and still nurture his unending love for Claire over the course of the
entire series.
The questions I had? Beyond number. The
chance to meet Her, to talk with Her about Jamie, to ask Her where I should best
seek out a real flesh-and-blood version of him? It was just too good to pass
up.
When I’d finally made it into Philadelphia (with
the help of the cop’s Ativan), I discovered the station happened to be less
than three blocks from the hotel where the event was being held.
It was meant to be.
The hike from the bus station had given me a
chance to stretch my legs and allow the icy Philadelphia wind blow the last of
the anxiety away. I’d made it. I was still on American soil, but the journey
was truly underway. And as I stepped up to the hotel doors, a doorman in a top
hat swept forward and held it open for me.
An open door held by a handsome man felt
like an omen.
There was a small registration booth set up
in the foyer. The special hotel rate offered to conference-goers was just about
triple what I had budgeted to spend, but a hotel stay was not mandatory.
“We have loads of locals coming in,” the
lady behind the desk said. “In fact, the Belles are upstairs right now,
planning a celebration for after the signing tomorrow.”
I didn’t know what bells she meant, but
nodded anyway, mentally calculating the distance from the hotel venue to the
nearest hostel. A mere fifteen blocks away. Nothing more than a quick and easy
cab ride.
I was, however, required to join the romance
writing group.
“Members-only event,” chirped the
ever-helpful lady behind the desk. “Are you a published writer?”
I thought about the little message that
popped up every time I entered a blog post.
Please
wait—post publishing …
“Oh, yes,” I assured her. “That is—if
published writers get a discount …?”
They did indeed.
I handed over the thirty-five bucks for
membership, and decided a city bus would do just as well as a taxi in the
morning.
“… And as a member, you only have to pay
twenty-five dollars to attend the conference!” she said, exuding charm and
delight from every pore.
I’ve heard Philadelphia is a lovely city to
walk through. Guess I’m going to find out soon enough.
Forever Fan…
Noon, February 21
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA
Seventeen blocks through downtown
Philadelphia in February. NOT for the faint of heart or the unscarved of face.
And yeah, it was seventeen. Seems I miscounted on the local map yesterday. But
I’m here at last. I have my lanyard declaring me a writer in good standing. I
have my dog-eared copy of OUTLANDER, for Herself to sign. (Glory!) AND I have
access to the hotel’s free Wi-Fi on the main floor, which is where I am sitting
as I type this. Literally. On the floor. Because the line-up for the signing
was already three hundred people long when I got here at 9 a.m.
There are other conference events
throughout the day, but the author, it turns out, will not be speaking here.
She’ll sign books, accept the award and be spirited away by sometime this evening.
Clearly, the gods of time travel shine on
me today. Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser might have been a somewhat unwilling inter-dimensional
wanderer, but I am not. I plan to sit here on the floor and trace out Claire’s
journey on the map inside the cover of my copy of the book. It will be the
blueprint for my journey. I shall walk in her footsteps.
For that reason, I will not be attending
the panel on The Value of Vivid Verbs, nor the likely very instructive talk on
Whipping up Sex Scenes by Adding Leather.
I am in line for a chance to meet the
author of the man of my dreams.
The organizers here tell me I may only
have time for one question.
The agony…
- ES
Comments: 0
Full Failure…
11:15 pm, February 21
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA
Totally, totally blew it.
Complete and utter failure.
I don’t deserve to live…
And now, she’s gone for good. I saw the wholeontourageentourajegroup pack up and leave over an hour ago.
There was no sadness in her wake, however. All night this bar has been filled
with cheery women bubbling with joy over their encounters with her. How sweet
she is. How considerate. Great
sense
of humor——joking about her writer’s cramp after five hundred
signatures——imagine!
My only hope is that the river of eager faces
demanding signatures obliterates her memory of the encounter with me forever.
I wonder if anyone has ever managed to actually
drown in a martini?
- ES
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“Well,
that’s a long face.
Howie, I swear that’s the
longest face we’ve seen tonight, wouldn’t you say?” The woman leered cheerfully
at me as she balanced two beers in one hand and slapped her companion on the
shoulder with the other.
I smiled guiltily, swiveled my stool in the
other direction and slid my laptop into my bag. The woman was not put off by my
chilliness. In fact, she appeared to take it as a challenge.
“I’m guessing you got here too late for the
autograph line. Am I right? AMIRIGHT?” She nudged me with an elbow, which had
the effect of spinning me back into her presence.
I swirled the olive around in my glass, but
there was no escape. The woman downed her beer in a single gulp and beamed at
me.
I took a shaky breath. “No—no. She
signed my book. She was lovely.”
The woman slapped the empty mug onto the
bar, and, using only that same right elbow, slid the other beer to the man
known as Howie with impressive agility. She was a bear of a woman, six feet
tall in her stocking feet—which I can entirely attest to, since for some
reason she was not actually wearing shoes—with a halo of gray wiry hair
that reminded me somewhat endearingly of a dead dandelion. She wore an enormous
cross between a caftan and a housedress in an eye-searing combination of green,
purple and pink plaid.
Her companion was a tidy little man perhaps
half a foot shorter, with four or five strands of hair neatly pasted across the
crown of his head. He stood out not for his height or his shiny baldness, but
simply for his gender. Apart from the busboy, he was the only male I could
discern in the vicinity.
“Then why so glum?” the woman shouted,
easily drowning out the vaguely Celtic Muzak that had begun emanating from
somewhere in the ceiling. She slapped her hand on the bar. “Give this lady
another martini,” she demanded. The bartender had a new glass in my hand before
my ears stopped ringing from the command.
I fished around in my bag for my wallet, but
a large hand came down on my own before I could pull it out. “It’s on me,
honey,” she said, using her talented right elbow to lever Howie off the stool
he’d been sitting on.
“Sharan Stone,” she bellowed, and held out
her giant hand for me to shake. “Not the movie star,” she clarified, and
guffawed loudly. “Though Howie thinks I am, dontcha, How?”
The little man crinkled his eyes at her and
nodded, burying his moustache in his beer.
“I’d better be going,“ I said, standing up.
“Thanks for the drink.”
“Aw, honey, the party’s just starting,”
Sharan Stone said. “And you shore look like you could use some cheering up. But
never fear—you’re with the Belles, now, and whatever’s got you down is
gonna be history fer sure. Check this out.”
She stood up so forcefully the stool she’d
usurped from Howie flew backwards and took out the busboy.
I was standing by this point, too, but one
of those big hands clapped onto my shoulder and my knees gave out. I collapsed
back down onto my stool, shocked into sobriety by sheer terror.
Sharan Stone put a finger and thumb into her
mouth and blew the most piercing whistle I’d heard since grade school. The bar
fell instantly silent.
“Belles!” she cried, and a cheer went up
around me. I began to feel that I’d fallen into some bizarro-dream scenario, so
I took a big gulp of the martini.
“BELLES,” repeated Sharan Stone, “I do
believe we’ve waited long enough.”
Her voice, which likely had some decent
staying power even at regular conversational levels, rose to a crescendo. “It’s
time for Ja-a-a-a-A-A-A-A-MIE!”
I clapped my hands over my ears as everyone
around me took up the chant.
“Jaaa-MIE, Jaaa-MIE, JAAA-MIE!!!”
I say everyone, but in the sea of women
chanting Jamie’s name, Howie sat placidly, still sipping his beer with a gentle
smile on his face.
“Jaaa-MIE, Jaaa-MIE, JAAA-MIE!!!” the crowd
roared.
And in he came.
Over the previous week there had been
many moments when the folly of my quest threatened to sink in and send me
sensibly back to Chicago. Losing my shit on the bus. The fourteenth block of
the walk from the hostel, when a massive truck splashed my legs with a wave of
salty sleet from Philadelphia’s biggest pothole. But let me tell you, NOTHING was
as discouraging as seeing the buff guy in the kilt coming toward me along the
top of that hotel bar.
His skin was spray-tanned to a shade of
orange that matched the leather of his sporran. He’d leapt onto the bar like it
was nothing, and strode the full length in a cloud of baby oil scent so thick
it even cut through the smell of beer in the air. He wore nothing but a tiny
kilt that I’m quite sure no self-respecting Scotsman would blow his nose into,
and a plaid tam atop a vivid orange wig.
I think my heart broke a little at the sight
of that wig.
The stripper pranced down the bar,
jig-stepping over glasses to the sound of an electro-bagpipe drone. And the
crowd?
The crowd went wild.
Even Howie was screaming as the Faux-Jamie
gyrated and coyly lifted the hem of his kilt.
“Show us yer COCK, Jamie,” screamed Sharan
Stone out of one side of her mouth.
She was standing on her stool matching his
every gyration, dancing along with him in her sock feet. Women scrambled over
each other to jam money into his socks, his sporran, whatever they could reach.
“SHOW US YER COCK!!!!”
I was pinned to my stool as the crowd of
women surged toward the bar in a shining-eyed, sweaty wave. I dropped to my
hands and knees and crawled for my life.
After what seemed an eternity of dodging
legs of both the human and table variety, I accidentally smashed my face into
an overturned chair, which knocked me back a little. But I realized I’d cleared
the stampede, and somehow managed to escape alive. The knees of my jeans were
soaked with beer, and I couldn’t even bear to look at the palms of my hands,
but I was still hammered enough to not really care. Someone reached a hand down
to help me to my feet, and I found myself looking into a pair of calm, and
clearly sober, blue eyes.
“Thank you,” I gasped. “Sorry about the
stickiness.”
“No’ a problem.” He pulled a packet of
antiseptic wipes from his pocket and cleaned his hands off. Then he won my
heart completely by offering me one, too.
My rescuer stood about six feet tall, his rusty
brown hair with a thread or two of gray at the temples. He had a messenger bag
slung over one shoulder, and was in the process of winding a long woolen scarf
around his face and neck.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like tha’,”
he said, nodding back at the melee.
I looked back, too, to see the guy on the
bar had lost his wig, and had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt what a Scotsman
wore under his kilt. As a matter of fact, the kilt was long gone. He had, somehow,
managed to retain the sporran.
I nodded, too discouraged to speak.
“That’s not Jamie,” I managed, at last.
“No, you’re right abou’ that,” he said, and he
tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the back of a chair. “I’m fair certain his
name is Steve-o, and he specializes in Cowboy or Disco Dude, as a rule, but
this was apparently such a big money-maker he couldnae turn it down.”
I shot him a look.
“I heard him in the lounge earlier, talking
on his mobile.”
“You were listening to a male stripper talk
on his cell phone?”
He smiled a little. “Aye. I was sitting
in the lounge, working. I’m a writer. Eavesdropping is part of my job
description.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He shrugged, and I regretted the sarcasm in
my tone. It wasn’t his fault my night had turned out the way it had.
“Well, I’m heading to my hotel,” he
continued. “Sure you’re all right? You’ve got quite a bump on your forehead,
there.”
I felt my face. There was a definite goose egg
forming over my left eye, but other than that I seemed to have escaped
unscathed.
“I think I’m good,” I said. ”Thanks again.
It was scary in there.”
We walked toward the entrance of the hotel
when his cell phone rang. He smiled at me apologetically as he took the call,
and I stepped over to the front desk.
Outside the windows, the snow swirled in a
street-lit maelstrom.
“Is there a bus I can get from here to—uh—West
Oregon Avenue?”
The girl behind the counter shook her head.
“Not at this hour, I’m afraid. And our shuttle service is down—our driver,
Nathan, can’t get the battery to hold a charge.”
Another long walk, then. I zipped up my coat
and held a moment of silence for all the winter clothing I had sold at Second
Hand Rose’s the week before.
Beside me, my rescuer was just finishing his
call. “See you soon, Becks. Dinner, fer sure.” He turned and looked at me as I
zipped my hood up like South Park Kenny.
“No bus then?”
Before I could do more than shake my head, the
front door of the hotel opened and one of the doormen blew inside clutching his
top hat, his face glowing frostbite-red.
“Share a cab?” my rescuer asked, and I
didn’t even check my wallet before agreeing.
It’s amazing what you can learn about a
person over the course of seventeen blocks. We exchanged cards, to begin with,
and I managed to keep my mouth shut and not tell him that mine was the first
card I’d ever given out in my life.
His name was Jack Findlay, and he had just
wrapped up a freelance gig for the BBC, profiling several prominent American
writers. He’d come to this event in hopes of asking a few questions of the
guest of honor. When he learned she was not going to be speaking, he thought he
might try his luck with a few of the local romance writers—and that was just
about when things began to disintegrate in the bar.
“Apparently they’re known as Beauchamp’s Belles,”
he said, grinning at me as the cab bumped over ice ruts in the road. “The sort
of fan club every author aspires to, aye?”
“I guess.” I looked across the back seat of
the cab at him, sitting with his messenger bag on his lap. “So, the BBC, huh?
Are you English?”
His neck, the bit I could see over his
woolen scarf anyway, took on an even rustier color than it had in the frozen
air outside.
“Born in Fife,” he said, stiffly. “Nowhere
near England, as a matter of fact.”
Great. I’d insulted him after he’d swept me
away from the night’s disaster. The first Scottish man I’d met in the flesh,
too.
I studied his face for a minute as the
streetlights flashed by. I’d seen no sign of a ring before he put his gloves
on, but the phone call had marked him as taken. Besides – my Jamie would
never share a name with Black Jack Randall. All the same, I didn’t want him to
think me completely ignorant.
“I’m sorry,” I said, humbly. “Your accent is
pretty soft compared to the ones I heard tonight. Are you here for long?”
He laughed. “Any accent you heard tonight
sounded nothing like a true Scotsman, I’ll tell ye that. And, no, America is
finished wi’ me for the present,” he added. “I’ve a project at home I’ll be
finishing up next—should keep me out of trouble awhile. You?”
