by kc dyer
“Oh, soon …” he said, his voice trailing off. “Maybe we could go to the gym sometime. Have ye been at all, yet?”
And suddenly, everything became clear.
He waved goodbye, and I stood at the back door and watched him walk across the road. A sudden hot fury swept through me, and I leaned out into the street.
“Claire never went to a gym in her life,” I yelled so loudly it hurt my voice.
But the garage door had already closed.
I knew I wouldn’t see him again soon, and I didn’t. He didn’t come in the café next day or the day after that. And when I rode my bike past the garage, his truck was never there.
The anger carried me for the next three days. I threw myself into my work at the café. I scrubbed every corner of the place, adorned every latte with cinnamon masterpieces. But sometime on day four the doubt began to creep in. I admit it. I’m weak. It got so all I could think about was the feel of those abs under my fingertips.
And then…? It became an obsession. Even though I was feeling myself again, I lost all focus except to try to find a way to make it work with Hamish. I spent every spare hour haunting the library, mostly staring at other women’s abdominal muscles on the Internet.
In a way, Susan—or Gail or whatever her real name was—had saved me, because if I’d still had my laptop, I would never have left my room.
He had kissed me. We had nearly been together. We could be still. I just had to figure out how. I had so little time left—how could the time have gone so fast? How could I go home, knowing I had blown my chance with the only Fraser I had managed to find?
As days passed, a pattern began to develop. When I wasn’t at work, I spent as much time as I dared scrolling through image files at the library. The only thing limiting me was my fear that Katy would think I was downloading porn. (I don’t know how people watch porn. Even after only a week of looking at women’s midriffs, they all began to look the same…)
At night, I stood on a milking stool I’d stolen from Morag’s barn, in order to get the right angle to stare at my own stomach in the tiny mirror above the bathroom sink.
Then I’d lie on the floor, cry, and eat chocolate.
I’d had a boyfriend who wanted to take me away and live in California. As long as I managed to whip my abs into shape. And once my problem areas were spray tanned. And yet, even with all the obsessing, I still hadn’t managed to find the time to make a trip to Hamish’s gym.
Instead, I’d drag into work, sleepwalk through my shift, cross over to the garage on my break. Geordie (or the other guy, Jimmie, who only fixed transmissions and had one eye stuck in a permanent squint) would tell me Hamish was on the road or working in Dores. I’d go back to the cafe, finish my shift, then ride up to the library and monopolize the computer until Katy closed the place and I was forced to ride home and spend another night staring at my stomach in the mirror.
I’m not sure how long this pathetic circle of self-destruction would have continued—maybe forever—but one night, a little more than a week into my grim and blurry world of self-loathing, two things happened to change everything.
The first was Katy.
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
Comments: 0
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 ont
o 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.
“Fer yer porridge,” she said, then she reached up with one hand and patted me on the cheek. “Follow yer heart, lass. If ye can work things out, it’s all for the good. But if ye can do better, tell the bugger so.”
I stood beside her, my heart full and the little pot of butter in my hand. The thought of her kindness overwhelmed me a moment, and I leaned forward to hug her.
The look of horror on her face stopped me in mid-air. Clearly even six shots of whiskey were not enough to entice her to indulge in such a physical display. Instead she thumped me on the shoulder, held open the kitchen door and waved the scotch bottle at me as I headed out into the dark.
As I stumbled down the path to the barn, I knew she was right. One hundred percent, absolutely correct. After all, what was this whole trip about if not following my dreams? I couldn’t let my time with Hamish just melt away into the Highland mists.
The air was cool, now that the midnight hour was well gone. In this part of the Highlands at least, the heat of even the hottest summer day dissipated as dusk fell. But the fragrance of the warm grass and whatever else was blooming along the margins of the farmyard persisted. I gazed for a long moment up into the clear starry sky.
Morag was right. I needed to take her advice.
I didn’t even stop to go inside.
Carefully placing the pot of fresh butter on a little wooden shelf beside the door, I threw a leg over my bicycle. The air held a chill that only someone who had been in the Highlands in August could truly
appreciate, but I didn’t feel the cold. The talk with Morag had given me a fire in my belly.
Not to mention all the single malt scotch.
The whole ride into town, I replayed conversations with Hamish in my head. The way he recited song lyrics—that was endearing. It was. What kind of cold fish didn’t like to be sung to?
The recent rift was repairable. What good was falling in love with Scotland if I didn’t have a man to love, too? After all, the whole reason I’d come here was to find my Fraser.
I followed the glow on the road cast from the headlight on my handlebars. Hamish had adjusted that light for me—made sure it shone straight and true. The road surface showed clearly ahead of me, and if my trajectory was not exactly in a straight line on that dark night, the light gave me notice so I could correct before driving off the edge and into a ditch.
That headlight was his way of showing his love for me. So what if he’d never managed to refer to love without it being a part of a song lyric? That was his way. Scottish men were a breed apart. Anyone who’d read the OUTLANDER books knew that. And I’d never told him I loved him either, so how could I judge him by such a harsh standard? I loved his country. I’d come there to find my Jamie Fraser, and I’d found him— or as close to him as I could hope for. Any problems we had were fixable.
Rolling into town, I began to feel a certain chill in my fingertips. Morag’s fuel was burning low, and with the cold night air in my lungs, I began to think a little more clearly. I’d begun this journey on little more than a whim, but by the time I’d arrived in Scotland, I’d had a plan firmly in place.
What I hadn’t really thought about—beyond tracing the journey in the front of the novel—was Claire’s part in the love story. Claire’s heart was true, but there was never any doubt that the woman had standards. Jamie literally lived through hell and more to meet those standards. Even living with uncertainty and chaos all around her, she knew what she wanted.
