by kc dyer
GenesieFanGirl, New York, USA:
Hey Emma,
You probably don’t remember me, but we met last winter at an OUTLANDER Fan Fiction event. I’ve been following your blog since then, and have to admit it’s been pretty entertaining. But since you haven’t posted in a while, I figured you might well have given up the chase, having found your Jamie Fraser clone and all.
But in case he turns out to be a dud, (I mean——have you even slept with him yet?) I thought you might like to know the rumor here is that your friend Jack Findlay is retelling the Braveheart story, and it’s all the buzz. Now, William Wallace is truly a man worthy of chasing down! Maybe you’d have more luck getting it on with Braveheart…?
- Genesie
(Read 65 more comments here…)
Genesie. I couldn’t believe she was actually reading my blog. After all, we hadn’t parted on the greatest of terms. If she was still upset with me, though, she’d certainly gotten her own back with the crack about Hamish.
I slipped out of the library before Katy even had a chance to give me the stink-eye. I had bigger worries than Katy, anyway. Outside, the sun had begun to shine like it really might be summer. A breeze swirled up from the Firth, cooling the heat that had sprung to my face reading Genesie’s comment.
What if she was right? Was Hamish a dud? Or worse—what if I was? I counted backwards as I pedaled toward the cafe. I’d spilled the hot water down his neck almost a month ago. Almost a month. And the closest we’d come to getting naked together had been thwarted by farm animals.
Cute farm animals, but still.
Maybe Genesie was only pointing out what I hadn’t been willing to face. Why hadn’t I pushed harder to get alone time with Hamish?
And why should I have to push, anyway?
The minutes until my lunch break ticked by more slowly than tenth grade physics class. Sandeep flicked his fingers impatiently at me when I asked him for the third time if he thought the worst of the rush was over.
“What’s so important that you have to race out of here?” he demanded.
“I’m—I’m just going to run across the street a minute. I have to ask Geordie a question. I’ll be back right away …”
He rolled his eyes and viciously dug coffee grounds out of the strainer. “Geordie? More likely Hamish, aye?”
“No—well, maybe. I just want to find out when he’s coming back.”
Sandeep snorted. “In the old country, girls don’t chase after boys. They let their fathers handle the arrangements.”
I untied my apron and cracked open the back door. A blast of warm air swirled in. “I’m not chasing anyone. Just asking a question. Besides, weren’t you born in Glasgow?”
“Close the fookin’ door,” he yelled, and I bolted.
Less than a minute later, I ran into the garage office. Genesie’s comments had made me more desperate than ever to see Hamish. Seeing him would quiet that doubting voice in my head, I knew it. Earlier in the week, when I had stopped by and asked Geordie, he said Hamish would be back in a day or two. It felt like an eternity since we’d been together.
When I burst into the office, I was surprised to see Hamish standing inside the first garage bay, large as life. He and Geordie were laughing uproariously.
“You’re back!” I said, and threw myself into his arms.
Geordie gave me a sideways glance. “Two minutes, man,” he said to Hamish, and grabbing his coffee cup, stalked into the office. Hamish picked up a rag and began to wipe the grease from his hands.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said, and leaned in for a kiss.
He gave me a little kiss on the tip of my nose, and then hurriedly stepped back, still wiping his hands. “Ach, ye’ll no’ want this grease on yer uniform, lass,” he said, and walked round to the far side of the small car in the bay.
“Okay, you’re probably right,” I said, reluctantly. “I missed you so much, though. It feels like you’re always away.”
He nodded, and started digging around under the hood of the vehicle. “It’s been a bi’ of a busy season,” he said, his voice muffled.
I stepped closer, and stuck my head under the other side.
“So … where’d you go?”
“After the pickup in Glasgow, I had to turn around and head to Fort William. It’s down south a bit.”
“I know it. I have a friend there. Maybe I could hitch a ride with you the next time you go?”
“Mebbe,” he muttered, and dropped the wrench he was using inside the engine. “Aw, fer fook’s sakes,” he said, and dove in to try and reach it. “Em, ye’d better get back to work, hadn’t yeh?” he gasped, as he felt around inside. His voice reminded me of Morag the time she was dealing with the mama sheep.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I said. “But I feel like we haven’t spent any time together lately. I miss you.”
He grunted loudly and then held up the wrench triumphantly. “Got the bastard!”
Geordie stuck his head in from the office. “You still here?” he said to me.
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” I said. “But since I never get to see my boyfriend any more, maybe next time you send him away on a weekend, I can go along to navigate?”
Hamish was making wild hand gestures at me, but Geordie crossed his arms over his chest and stepped inside the door.
“Aye, well your boyfriend is makin’ a short trip tomorrow evenin’ all the way doon to the fine municipality of Dores. I’m sure you’d be a welcome distraction to his drivin’, if yer free.”
I nodded eagerly. “I’m off at five. That would be perfect!”
He turned to Hamish. “Weel, now that’s settled, mebbe we can get a little godDAMNED WORK DONE AROUN’ HERE?”
I blew Hamish a kiss and fled.
I didn’t have a chance to see my favorite mechanic before work the next day, but when things slowed down after the lunch rush, I followed Ash outside to ask him where Dores was, exactly.
“It’s a wee place, doon the south shore of the Loch,” he said, shielding his cigarette from the rain. “Bou’ forty minutes drive, give or take. Plenty o’ time fer a booty-call, afterwards.”
“Never mind about that,” I said, hastily.
“Wha—ye think I don’t know what’s goin’ on wi’ you two?”
“Well, it’s none of your concern,” I said, primly folding my arms across my chest.
An incredulous look spread across his face. “Fer fook’s sake, Emma—don’t tell me ye haven’t done the nasty, yet? What’s the matter wi’ yeh?”
I punched him in the arm. “Shut up,” I hissed. “I have no intention of discussing this with you. You’re—you’re just a child!”
I stomped back into the kitchen.
“A child who’s plainly gettin’ more than you,” he yelled after me.
I refused to speak to him for the rest of the day, but his stupid remarks—in chorus with Genesie’s—kept replaying in my mind. By the time I needed to leave, I had myself worked up into quite a mental frenzy.
What was the matter with me? Hamish was gorgeous, especially without the baseball cap, and I wanted to see more of him. But whenever we were together, something always seemed to get in the way.
Ash was right. He probably was getting more than me. For God’s sake, Morag was probably getting more than me, since what I was getting was a big, fat zero. But I was convinced all I needed was less talk and more getting-to-know you time with Hamish. He was everything I was looking for in my Jamie—tall, strong, handsome. And, if you thought about it, having come all the way from America, I was even more of a Sassenach than Claire, right?
Right?
Sadly, driving a truck down what was little more than a country lane turned out to be less than ideal for a bonding-without-chatting time. As I climbed into the passenger seat, Bob Seeger implored me to take my old records off a shelf. I leaned forward to turn the volume down a little, and nestled into the seat beside Hamish. He grinned at me, and cranked the volume again.
<
br /> “I love that old time rock n’ roll,” he crooned, using both hands to push me back into my own seat.
“Um …” I began, but he patted my hand reassuringly.
“Need yer belt, pet,” he said, buckling me in place. “It’s not such a winding road, but safety first, aye?”
Aye.
Once I was fully buckled and Bob had finished his song, Hamish ground the gears, and we were off.
“Ah love that man,” he said fervently, as he flipped the volume down. “He represents everything that’s right about America. Hard work, success—believin’ in yer dreams …”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a grandfather by now,” I said. “You don’t actually hear his music that much any more.”
Hamish waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, I know he’s mostly on the oldies stations, but—good music like tha’ will never die.”
He shifted gears—literally—and then launched into a dissertation about how he’d saved his money for years, waiting for an opportunity to move to America. This opportunity had finally presented itself in the form of, apparently, me.
“Don’t you need a work permit …” I began, but he waved my concern aside.
Or maybe he was just conducting the Silver Bullet band.
“Jes’ a formality,” he said, grinning. “They’re always looking for good mechanics in California.” He shifted gears and looked over at me. “When is it ye have to return?”
“I’m not actually sure,” I said, glumly. “I guess I’d better look it up. Sometime pretty soon, I expect.”
Hamish’s face took on an anxious expression. “Will it still be summer in California by then?” he asked.
I nodded. “And in Chicago, too. ’Cause that’s where I live, y’know. I need to save enough for my ticket home.”
He smiled happily, and flipped on his signal. “Ach, maybe Sandeep’ll give yeh double-shifts. By then, ye’ll have enough cash to get rid o’ those glasses and move to LA!”
I was still feeling a little burned by the glasses remark by the time we pulled into Dores. I mean, I hated my glasses, too, though I’d gotten pretty used to them since Susan had made off with my contacts. Still. I didn’t think they looked that bad. And according to all the fashion magazines, four-eyed nerds were finally in.
Weren’t we?
The village was nestled on the shore of Loch Ness, along a narrow road that wound through farm fields before swinging back toward the water. As there was little to be seen other than a scattering of houses, Hamish dropped me near the village inn.
“Is this where you are going?” I asked. There didn’t seem to be any commercial buildings at all, apart from the inn. “I don’t see a garage.”
“It’s a private home,” he said, looking through his papers. “Called—ah—Sunshine Motors. Must be a fella workin’ in an outbuilding behind one of these houses. I won’t be long—the place cannae be hard to find in this wee town.”
The little splatter of rain that had fallen while we were driving seemed to have cleared, and to the west the sky began to wrap itself in faint pink streaks. I hopped out at the end of the road and he drove off, promising to be back in fifteen minutes.
The breeze off the water caressed my face as I walked along the shoreline. With the cool air, the embarrassment about the glasses faded and my good intentions returned. I just needed to spend some time NOT talking with him, I reasoned. That was the whole purpose of this little jaunt together. And this was the fabled Loch Ness, after all.
I hadn’t even had a glimpse of it before, when I’d traveled in the dark to Drumnadrochit to find Gerald’s stone circle. It was amazing to see now, and another ‘Claire site’ that I could check off my list. I decided to scour the park for a romantic spot where Hamish and I could watch the sun set together.
Within five minutes of wandering down the lane away from the inn I had found the ideal location. A section of low, flat rock lay just above the waterline, out of sight from any prying eyes on the road above. An old log had floated up on the shore and jammed itself on the rocks. Perfect for leaning against.
I sat down on the rock, pulling my jacket beneath me to cushion the surface a bit—and decided it was just right. Private enough for a little canoodling, especially now that the light was failing. It was time I took matters into my own hands and move things forward, to see if Hamish and I were as physically compatible as I believed—I knew—we would be.
At that very moment, a small child covered in equal parts dirt and scabs came tearing out of a little lane that emerged behind some of the larger houses.
“Hide me!” he demanded, and dove behind me.
I jumped to my feet.
“What …? Who are you running from?”
The child grabbed my coat and dove under it.
“Big Bunny,” came his muffled reply. “Big Bunny’s gonna get me.”
I looked around wildly, half expecting to see a giant pink rabbit bounding up. Instead, a weary-looking woman came jogging out of the lane.
“Have you seen a …?” she began; when she caught sight of the wriggling creature, unsuccessfully trying to hide his lower half under my jacket.
“Ach, Ruardh, yeh little shite. I’ve got yeh now.”
She reached down and, grabbing the fugitive by the arm, looked up at me apologetically. “Ah’m ’is auntie,” she said. “He’s bolted on me three times this afternoon alone. My sister owes me big time, I swear.”
She handed me back my jacket. “Ice cream, Bunny?” the little boy pleaded, as she scooped him up.
“Yer ma can give ye sweeties, laddie,” she said. “Auntie Bonnie’s all tired out.”
They walked a few steps, and then she paused and turned back to me with an odd expression on her face. “Y’er not sittin’ down here by yerself, aye?”
“Oh, I’m just waiting for my boyfriend,” I said. “Why?”
But at that moment, the boy gave a joyful shout and wriggled loose. With a cry of despair, she broke into a run. The two of them disappeared back into the thick green foliage of the lane.
I listened for a moment, but the echoes of the little boy’s giggles and his auntie’s threatening shouts soon faded away into the shrubbery. I folded my jacket to sit on again, as the peaceful evening enveloped me once more.
The water was completely calm, and I stared out across the surface, my eyes following the gentle ripples left by the evening breeze. The loch itself was long and narrow, but my little section of beach was in a bit of a protected inlet. Across the water the yellow afternoon light briefly gave a golden glow to the trees on the opposite shore.
I had just leaned back against the log experimentally, imagining Hamish’s body pressed against my own, hot and insistent …when I heard a little splash. I opened my eyes and scanned the water. Had the kid made his escape again? It couldn’t be him—everything was completely silent.
A low fog was rolling in with the dusk. And breaking the surface—just at the forefront of the twilight creeping across the loch—was a head. I rolled up onto my knees and peered through the gloom. Maybe it was a dolphin, like the ones in the Moray Firth?
A long, white head was emerging from the dark green waters of the loch.
Not a dolphin head.
I scrambled to my feet, staring. Was it—could it be …?
Jumping up onto on the log I’d been leaning against, I rubbed my eyes and blinked, but the head didn’t disappear. It came closer. My heart pounding like a bodhran, I stood frozen with fear atop that splintery bit of log.
The nostrils belonging to the head snorted out a blast of water and steam. The head turned, and huge brown eyes blinked as it swam toward me.
There was nowhere to go. I was on top of the log, with my back against the rock wall that I had been valuing for its privacy just moments before. I opened my mouth to call for help, but nothing came out.
In seconds it was over.
The head, which turned out to be attached very firmly to a neck and below that to a body,
emerged from the water’s edge. It belonged not to a disembodied monster after all, but to a fine, white horse, draped in a bit of lake greenery. After arising like Venus from the cool waters, the horse paused to shake itself from head to tail. Small fragments of algae or seaweed littered the pebbly shore at its feet. The animal stood a moment, regarding me, and then blinked its eyes once before trotting into the bushes that lined the lane leading off from the main road.
A horse—in the waters of the Loch?
The feeling came back into my legs just as I heard gravel spatter above me, and I ran as if my life depended on it up the hill to meet Hamish’s truck.
“Sorry I was a bi’ long, luv …” he began, but stopped when he caught sight of my face. I blathered out the whole story to him, stumbling over my words, but was so caught up in the magic of it all I could hardly articulate.
When I was done, he chuckled.
It was not a “laughing-with-me” kind of chuckle.
“Yer havin’ me on,” he scoffed. “I’ve niver heard of a horse swimmin’ in the loch. It’s too deep, for one, and it’s near freezin, still, innit? Now jump in to the lorry, will yeh? I’m right starvin’. Let’s go see if we can find a McDonalds, aye?”
I climbed in the truck. “No—no, wait,” I cried, but he’d already spun the truck back onto the main road.
“But—I found a nice little place we could have a picnic,” I pleaded. “I could show you the splash marks from where the horse came out. Then you’d know it was real.”
He jammed his hat down on his head. “It’s a quarter-pounder for me, luv,” he said, shifting gears on the truck. “Dontcha know that’s what every McDonald has unner his kilt?”
He slapped his leg and roared.
“I haven’t had a chance to find out,” I said mournfully, but he’d pushed a button on his dash and Springsteen came on to drown me out, singing Tunnel of Love.
Fantastic Figment…?
