by kc dyer
What people are saying about FINDING FRASER…
"Jamie Fraser would be Deeply Gratified at having inspired such a charmingly funny, poignant story—and so am I."
Diana Gabaldon, author of the New York Times Bestselling OUTLANDER series
"I loved this book. It transported me to a Scotland I wished I’d grown up in. Everything about it is a delight, and it’s all authentic—the environment, the characters, the dialogue and the sheer enjoyment of it all.”
Jack Whyte, best-selling author of, most recently, THE GUARDIANS OF SCOTLAND series
“Finding Fraser is an absolute must-read for any Outlander fan. The story is both hilarious and romantic, as well as guaranteed to have readers turning the pages until the wee hours to discover if the heroine finds her very own Jamie Fraser.”
Laura Bradbury, author of the best-selling MY GRAPE ESCAPE series
“FINDING FRASER is for everyone who ever fell in love with a fictional character. Dyer blends humor, a love of Scotland, and romance into a page turner that will keep readers cheering on the main character and turning pages.”
Eileen Cook, Author of REMEMBER, and other books for teens and adults
Finding Fraser
by kc dyer
Copyright © 2015 kc dyer
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher – or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Dyer, K. C., author
Finding Fraser / kc dyer.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-0-9940817-0-4 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-0-9940817-1-1 (kindle).-- ISBN 978-0-9940817-2-8 (ibook).--ISBN 978-0-9940817-3-5 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8557.Y48F56 2015 C813'.6 C2015-902696-2
C2015-902697-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover photo by Martin Chung of StudioImpossible.com
Published in Canada by Lions Mountain Literary.
Visit kc dyer’s website at kcdyer.com, or find her sweetly tweeting @kcdyer.
Visit Emma Sheridan at FindingFraser.com or email her at [email protected].
This book is for Kathy and Pamela
who have been with Emma from the beginning,
and for Diana,
without whom there would be no Jamie to love.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Map
THE DEPARTURE
Facing the Future
Fond Farewells
Feeling Fine
Figure Four
Feet Forward
Fortuitous Fate
Forever Fan
Full Failure
Fall & Forget
Finks & Fortitude
Flurries & Flashbacks
Fans & Fiction
Fear of Flying
THE RETRACING
Fantastic Flight
Firth of Forth
Fortunate Foreigner
Fumbling Fraser
Further Fieldwork
Football Fellas
Fate & Faith
Filthy Fiasco
Fickle Fortune
Forts & Friendship
Following Figments
Future Feelings
Filleting Fish
Flogging Fiction
Financial Flagging
Fried Food
Feeble Finish
Flabbergasting Fate
Fins in the Firth
THE FINDING
Fraser, Found
Faraway Fellow
Fabulous Findlay
Farm Family
Freaking Felon
Fantastic Figment
Finally Finished Fever
Fondness in the Fields
Fair Form
Fine, Fine, Fine
Final Farewell
Facing Forward
Fleeting Foray
Channelling Claire
Acknowledgements
About the Author
FINDING FRASER
I met Jamie Fraser when I was nineteen years old. He was tall, red-headed, and at our first meeting at least, a virgin. I fell in love hard, fast and completely. He was older than me. He was taller than me. He knew how to ride a horse, wield a sword and stitch a wound. He was, in fact, the perfect man.
That he was fictional hardly entered into it.
I loved him then, and I love him now. Three boyfriends——one live-in——and an ex-husband have not changed my mind. Ten years have passed since I first met this man, yet somehow——somehow he is more important to me than ever.
And this is why, at twenty-nine years (and one day) old, I have decided to drop everything, to leave my life behind, and regardless of the cost to my wallet or my self-esteem, go forth and find my own James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.
About this Blogger
I’ve never been much of an adventurer. I’m pretty sure that’s about to change.
Part One: The Departure
Facing the Future…
11:30 pm, February 15
Chicago, Illinois, USA
Well.
My first blog post.
I have to admit to being a little nervous. About the writing I mean. Actually, I’m nervous about the whole thing——this whole adventure. But the writing…I don’t know. I’ve never been trendy, so maybe that’s why this is working for me now. Now that the rest of the world has moved on to Twitter and Pinterest and Tumblr, it’ll just be me and my travel blog. Yeah, that’s right. It’s a travel blog. Until yesterday, I was night manager at the Hitchhiker’s Coffee Bar in midtown Chicago.
Today, everything has changed.
I’ve decided to go on a quest. A quest to find a living, breathing, twenty-first century warrior who will fight off every villain life can throw at us to remain stalwart by my side. And since I don’t have anyone able——or willing——to travel with me, this is the next best thing. To share with you, my readers, all my adventures.
Let’s see what happens, shall we?
- Emma Sheridan
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I closed the lid of my laptop. One post and I was sick of my online persona already. Who was this falsely cheery person? She sounded like she knew what she was doing.
Let’s see what happens? More like “Let’s document the debacle.” Or … “Let’s have some kind of a record so that the police know where to look when I disappear on this ill-fated potential disaster.”
My birthday is February 14th. Which, this year, was yesterday. Now, when I was a kid, it was kind of a double-win. Cake, presents AND valentine chocolate all in one day? Total bonus.
But something changed as I got older. The first year of middle school, I was excited. I brought the usual bag filled with paper valentines to class, only to find some invisible force—one that I could not hope to tap into—had declared them uncool. High school was worse and by the time I made it to my twenties, I began to face the day with something like dread. If I had a boyfriend at the time, it was usually fine. Still, out of the nine birthdays I have lived through in my twenties, I’ve had a boyfriend for only two of them. I also had a husband for one, but that birthday was the worst of all.
Until now.
Yesterday, I turned 29. No valentine cho
colate. Three cards: a birthday card from my sister, one from my friend Jazmin—and a valentine from my bank. Apparently they’d “love” to send me a new credit card at a reduced rate … ‘specially for me.
As of yesterday, I also had a boss who went ballistic when he found out I was adding free shots of chocolate to people’s mochas in honor of the day.
I guess I should say … Ex-boss.
Look, I know there must be other people in the same situation. Valentine’s Day is a particularly lonely day to turn twenty-nine. It shouldn’t be worse than having a birthday on Christmas, right? Statistically, at least 1/365th (which my calculator tells me is 0.274%) of the world’s population must at least have a chance of sharing my birthday. But it doesn’t feel like it’s the case at all.
What it feels like … is something has to change. Something big. I’m not sure what this is going to look like. I’m scared.
But I’m going.
Fond Farewells…
7:45 pm, February 16
Chicago, Illinois, USA
Saying goodbye is hard. My parents live down south, but I have siblings in the city. A sibling, anyway. But farewells are just part of a new adventure, right?
Right?
- Emma S
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My sister loves me. I’m sure she does. But we come from practical stock: good, solid English grandparents, sensible and organized parents. She’s true to her roots. My more — ah—unique ideas have never met with her approval.
The conversation we had earlier today did not go well.
“Emma, you are completely, entirely, without-a-doubt, batshit crazy.”
“I’m not crazy. I just—I just need to do this, Soph. I’m not asking for your approval.”
“You wouldn’t get it if you were.” She held up a finger. “In the first place, you’ve hardly been anywhere, and never on your own.”
“Then it’s high time I tried it, right?”
She glanced over her shoulder, pushed her chair back and closed her office door. Behind the glass walls, sensible people buzzed by, doing sensible, salary-earning work and living sensible lives. With Sophia that worked up, I was relieved I hadn’t mentioned the whole searching-for-Jamie blog thing when I said I was leaving. No need to stir the pot even further.
Luckily, my sister is not an Internet time-waster. There are not, in her words, enough hours in the day to “squander a single minute reading the uneducated drivel produced by people with too much time on their hands.” All the better.
But I digress.
My sister is a broker. (Funny, really, considering I’ve always been the broker one …) Sophia’s position as CFO of Angst & Argot was hard-won, and as a rule, she doesn’t tolerate interruptions in her day. But when I’d emailed her with my plans, she’d called me immediately and insisted I stop by her office.
“Look,” she continued, perching on the corner of her desk in her Ann Taylor suit, “I know you’ve been struggling at work. And … I’m sorry the thing with Egon didn’t work out.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’re sorry? You were against my relationship with Egon from the start. ‘He’s a graphic artist, Emma. He drinks lattes, for Christ’s sake. And what kind of name is Egon, anyway? It’s the name of a flake. He’s nothing but a latte-drinking hipster artist flake.’”
She shrugged, and directed her gaze out at the 38th-floor vista. The Chicago skyline had the dark and lowering look it often has in February, reminding us resident mortals that winter isn’t even half done with us yet. My sister blinked at me. “All I’m saying is that no matter how bad things are at home, it’ll get better.”
That made me snort. “I’m not struggling with my sexuality here, Sophia. I’m not suicidal.”
“Egon was all wrong for you, Em. You just need to find the right man. If it’s about a guy, why not try Internet dating again? Didn’t you meet Egon online? You can find someone without leaving the country.”
“This is not about a man,” I said, waving my hand as dismissively as I could manage. “I’m just going to leave town for a while.”
“On a fool’s errand. A journey to nowhere.”
“Scotland is not nowhere. It’s a viable tourist destination.”
It was her turn to make a disgusting nasal sound.
“Maybe in July. Take a look out there, Emma. It’s the dead of winter, and we’re in a civilized country. In Scotland, it’ll be sleet and snow and no sun for six more months at least. If you’re going to run away, why not head for the Caribbean? Maybe you’ll meet a rich guy who’ll make you forget all about Egon and his penchant for teenagers.”
That was hard to take sitting down, so I stood up.
It was hard to take standing up, too, but by that time, I’d at least thought of a response.
“Tiffany’s twenty, and he’s welcome to her,“ I retorted. “Anyway, the whole thing with Egon was over almost a year ago. And I don’t want to go to the Caribbean for a fling. I’m almost thirty. I’m embracing my agency as a woman. I need to see if I can have an actual life experience.”
Sophia slammed her fist down on the desk. It looked like a gesture a CEO would make. I think maybe she’d been practicing. “I knew it! This idea has midlife crisis written all over it. Listen, Emma, what you should be doing right now is finding a decent job and solidifying your financial portfolio. You’re half way to retirement age. You can’t start ticking things off your bucket list when you don’t even own a bucket.”
She was, of course, depressingly correct. Half way to retirement, and I’ve never even held a job that offered benefits. But I was disinclined to remind her of that fact, and anyway, there was no arguing with my sister when she was on a roll. That she’s two years younger than I am didn’t help, either.
So I began to nod—and back away, slowly. “Okay, Soph. I’ll think about it, I swear.”
Her phone rang, and she held up a hand. “Wait a sec, I’ll just put this on hold. Sophia Sheridan, here—”
But as soon as she picked up the phone, I waved back, smiled apologetically, gave her the universal finger-thumb gesture that I would call her—and bolted.
She didn’t need to know that I hadn’t exactly quit my job. Or that I was in the process of selling everything I owned.
Feeling Fine…
1:00 am, February 17
Chicago, Illinois, USA
Warm family good-byes are behind me, and preparations for the trip are well underway. Scotland, here I come!
- ES
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Feeling fine? Feeling freaked, more like. I wakened this morning after a night spent alternately panicking between “Oh my god! What have I done?” and trying to remember how to attain Shavasana. Since I attended my last yoga class when I was twenty-three, mostly the panic won.
In the end, I decided the best way to combat panic was action, so I dragged myself out of bed and headed downtown to have business cards printed up. Nothing says Take Me Seriously like a business card, right? By the time I got downtown, I’d decided on a design in my head and everything, but I spent a long time looking at the various fonts and so on to make sure it was perfect. When I placed the order, it seemed insane to have more than about twenty done, but the printers had a special deal for a hundred and fifty at half price, so I went for it.
A couple of hours later when I picked them up, I realized I had forgotten to specify any contact information on the cards. They were beautiful, all right; a creamy off-white with raised print and a serious-feeling heft to them. But no number. No email address.
This wasn’t such a bad thing. My cell phone plan was ending in a week or so, anyway, and I wanted people to reach me through the blog. But—looking at those cards—god, things suddenly seemed so real.
So serious.
I hurried home before panic had me raving in the streets.
By noon I was lying on my back on my apartment floor, breathing into a fishy-smelling paper bag rescued from an old lunch I’d somehow forgotten in the
back of the fridge. Which had never happened to me before. I cannot recall missing a meal for any reason since I had my tonsils removed when I was seven. It clearly speaks to the unsettled nature of my mind. Or maybe the fact it was tuna on rye. I really hate tuna.
I would have tried elevating my feet on the couch, but the guys from Goodwill had come and taken it away. The removal of the couch made it seem like everything was happening so fast, and the paper bag just wasn’t cutting it, so I thought fuck it, and drank the last of the Chablis in the fridge. It was early, I knew, but I’d have to clean out the fridge at some point, right? Good enough reason on its own. Besides, the wine was in a box. Juice comes in a box and people drink juice at two in the afternoon all the time.
Right?
The paper bag smelled like tuna, okay? And there’s a reason I hate tuna. All fish, really.
I haven’t always hated fish. Barbecued salmon. Golden-fried halibut. Even oysters in the half-shell. Used to love ’em all.
Not any more. I lay on the floor beside the empty Chablis box and remembered …
The old clock by the front door had chimed eight that night as I set the shrimp cocktail on the table. It was our first anniversary and I was determined to do it up right. A veritable feast was lined up, ready to serve after the shrimp: creamy clam chowder to start, pan-fried trout for the main course and an enormous chocolate torte for dessert.
