by kc dyer
As I rode my bicycle off the High Street and into the lane that led to Hamish’s flat, I noticed a light was still on in the back of the garage.
This stopped me in my tracks.
The light was off in his apartment, but still on in the garage.
The glow inside me from Morag’s scotch increased once more. The man was so dedicated, he worked until the job was done. That was why people from miles around came to his garage. How many nights had he been working late recently? This was a real man.
I choked up a little at the thought that I’d doubted him—that I’d doubted us, and swung myself off my bike. It was a little bit of a wild swing, I admit, and my foot missed the curb. But in moments, I was back on my feet again and had the bike leaned against the wall of Geordie’s shop. There would be no use trying the front door at this late hour, so I took the long way around to the back.
The lane was cobbled, and I had to concentrate on the footing. As I righted one of the bins I’d lurched into in the dark, I thought about a new plan.
A Hamish-friendly plan.
We needed to talk through what we both wanted—what was important to each of us as individuals, as well as together. I needed answers to a few questions, for sure. But after all that, if he still wanted to go to the US? We could go together. My allotted six months was nearing its end. Thanks to Sandeep and the tips from my Scottish customers who were more generous than the world gave them credit for, I had earned enough for my ticket home, with a little extra. Perhaps even enough for new contact lenses, as Hamish had suggested. We could start again, but this time in America.
And when he got homesick for his own beautiful country, which was sure to happen, I could be at his side on the return journey, too.
A perfect plan.
A foolproof plan.
Light shone around the frame of Geordie’s back door. The chill in the air had finally worked its way through the alcohol in my blood and I shivered a little as I thought about sitting in the garage with Hamish as he finished his work.
It would be warm inside. I would tell him all my deepest thoughts, and afterwards?
Well, his little flat was just up the stairs.
As I reached for the door-handle, I silently thanked the ancient gods for Morag and her scotch-fuelled butter making. Without her, I’d never have known to follow my heart.
The light blinded me as I stepped into the delicious, oil-scented warmth of the garage, but the first thing I heard was Hamish’s voice. He was still singing, god love him.
“I wish they all could be California Girrrllllssss …”
Though he had a little trouble staying on key, the man had a fine baritone. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I thought briefly how nice it would be to hear him singing with Morag. Stepping over a stray tailpipe on the floor, I walked into the repair bay.
In addition to his fine baritone, Hamish also had a fine, strong pair of buttocks. And they were the first things I saw as I stepped into the shop. A fine, strong pair of buttocks, leaning at a very odd angle against the hood of a car.
I watched them flex, and release, and flex again.
When I finally managed to drag my eyes away, I saw his work overalls were puddled around his ankles. My head was spinning a bit from the ride, and perhaps the scotch, so I was slow to take in the whole picture. But after a moment, it became clear that the pair of long, finely tanned legs wrapped around his waist were most definitely not his own.
Any remaining alcohol evaporated from my system in an instant.
“Oh, honey, you’re right. We are the best,” came a breathy voice from beneath Hamish.
That is to say, from the person lying on the hood of the car.
Apart from the legs, all I could see was impossibly long, straight blonde hair draped over the new chrome fenders on Alec McGuffin’s car. And a tiny Celtic cross attached to a narrow, silver chain around one ankle.
Final Farewell…
5:00 pm, Aug 14
Nairn, Scotland
Well, it’s been a long, crazy ride, but it’s over. I just noticed the date. I guess I am officially twenty nine and a half today. That is, if a person can still be allowed a half-birthday so far along into adulthood.
Thank you, each and every one, for your loyalty. For following me on all my adventures. For always asking the right questions, especially you, HiHoKitty. To all my followers in Japan and in Germany and around the globe, thank you.
I am a better person for having known you all through this blog. I am a better person for having been to Scotland. But my quest is over——I know it now to be the deluded, foolish thing my sister has insisted it was all along.
Time for me to go back to Chicago.
- ES
Comments: 197
(Read 197 comments here…)
A better person.
I leaned back in the chair and felt nothing but relief that I’d managed to post something that actually sounded sensible.
Not broken-hearted at all.
I couldn’t read more than a couple of the comments, though. They started flooding in almost immediately.
What about Hamish?
What has become of your Fraser?
At least the man had the decency to pull up his pants. In fact, as soon as Hamish had realized he wasn’t just serenading the girl who’d wrapped her legs around him, he’d had his pants up right quickly.
“Aw, baby,” he said, fumbling over his buttons. “I was gonna tell you about this, but—you know—breaking up is hard to do.”
He actually crooned the last line at me.
I would have thrown a jibe about Neil Sedaka being for grandparents—for GREAT-grandparents—into his face, but I was busy staring.
With my mouth open.
At the girl who had just pulled up her thong, smoothed down her skirt and adjusted white plastic sunglasses onto her nose.
In the middle of the night.
Now—who would do something like that? Wear sunglasses after midnight, even after being caught with her thong down?
I took a step closer and peered into her face. She opened her bag and took out a lipstick.
“Susan …?” I said. I could hardly push any voice past the giant lump in my throat, so it came out sounding pretty strangled.
“You must be mistaken,” she said, in a perfect middle-American accent. “My name is Sunshine.”
“As in California Sunshine,” added Hamish, helpfully.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from her face as she applied her lipstick. From her hair. She’d bleached it to an almost platinum blonde, and added the long extensions I’d seen draped across the hood of the car.
She looked so different. But there was no question in my mind.
“First my contact lenses and now—my Jamie?” I whispered.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about. Who is this crazy person, Hamish?”
I was able to look him in the face at last.
“Aw, baby,” he said. “I’m sure there’s a way for us to stay friends. Yeh know I’ll always ha’e a wee soft spot for ye.”
“A wee soft spot?” I repeated. “Hamish, do you know who this is?” I’d found my voice somewhere, as evidenced by the way Hamish kind of wilted back from the volume.
Susan tried to redirect him. “Don’t listen to her, Sugar. She’s jealous of what we have.”
But he answered me calmly, and with true conviction. “Her name is Sunshine, Emma. I met her the day we first drove to Dores. And we are goin’ to California together.”
“Aww, honey,” Susan said. “That’s so sweet!” Her lips were now a paler shade of pink than her skin. It gave me a moment’s satisfaction to see how orange they made her artificial tan look.
I turned back to Hamish, sure my head was going to explode. I wanted to scream at him.
But somehow I found it in me to swallow it all down.
When my voice came out, it was strangely calm. “Hamish, this isn’t Sunny Delight or whatever she’s t
old you her name is. This is Susan; Susan O’Donnell. She is an actress and a thief. She stole almost everything I had and ran away. And she’s skipped bail now, for stealing from other people too.”
He was back in his coveralls, and had the grace to look uncomfortable. “You’ve got the wrong person, Emma. My sweet Sunshine could never do that to you. To anyone.”
“Never,” echoed a sincere voice from somewhere behind me.
I ignored Susan and took a step closer to Hamish. “You’ve always had my heart, Hamish, from that first night in Edinburgh. And even when you let me down, I still held onto hope. Even tonight, I wanted to give you a chance to talk things through. But we are done talking. We are just— done.”
My voice broke, and I knew if I said another word I would sob like a baby.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said. “Maybe we can talk it through tomorrow?”
I took a deep breath, and by the time I had exhaled, I knew one thing for sure. They deserved each other.
“The luck of the Irish to you both,” I said, kind of regretting it as it came out of my mouth.
“Aw—ain’t that sweet?,” Sunshine Susan brayed. “Hamish, honey, ain’t that sweet?”
I stomped to the door. Hamish’s voice followed me, and I could hear where he was practicing the cadences of Susan’s accent already. “It shore is, Sugar,” he said, but then something of the Hamish I thought I knew kicked in.
He took a step toward me. “I never can say … good-bye,” he sang, and then awkwardly added “Emmaaaaaaahhhh.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, I can say it. Goodbye, Hamish.”
And I slammed that garage door behind me, knowing my dream of ever finding my Fraser had just come to an end.
That was it, really. When I checked my email the next day, Jack had written to say he’d read my post and wanted to see if I was all right. Sweet of him. He also wanted to invite me to the launch of his new book, but I didn’t even bother to click through to the details.
Gerald had written, too, expressing the standard condolences and asking me to at least come say goodbye before I left the country.
Reading their notes made me feel a bit better, but—well, the dream had died, and with it, a little part of my heart had died, too.
Morag took the news of my leaving stoically, though she did promise to “Gi’e the boot” to any field hand occupying her spare room in the barn if I ever decided to return. She tried to talk me into staying for the Highland Games, which were due to run in just a couple of weeks, even throwing the little lambs I had helped deliver into the mix as further incentive.
“They’ll have a place of honor, Emma, and you’ll get to see it happen!”
But she took my refusal pretty well, in the end.
When I gave my notice to Sandeep, he told me he’d accept it, but only if I’d stay until the end of the month.
“You’ll be harboring a fugitive if I stay that long,” I said. “I’m supposed to leave the country by the 25th.”
“You got yer ticket yet?” he asked.
When I shook my head he smiled. “Then I’ll have a fugitive making the best coffee in the place.”
I think it was the first real compliment he had ever paid me.
Ashwin refused to acknowledge I was leaving. He just stood outside in the back lane, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, viciously punching the buttons on his mobile phone.
Facing Forward…
12:15 pm, August 31
Nairn, Scotland
Saying goodbye to Nairn is just about the hardest thing I have ever done. But truthfully, compared to the panic attacks and nonsense that attended leaving the US to come here, things have been relatively calm.
I am facing forward with a steely resolve. This country has taken its place in my heart, and I know I will be back.
- ES
Comments: 1
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
So sorry you cannot stay just a short while longer, Emma-san. For we——myself and the members of our book club——have taken you and your adventure into our own hearts. We face the great unknown ourselves…and are set to join you as world travelers. Perhaps one day, we shall meet. We wish you Godspeed, Emma Sheridan.
That HiHoKitty. Loyal to the end. I had to admit to being a little confused by her comments now and again, and this final one that arrived right on the heels of my posting, was no exception. But I could not fault her sincerity, and I was strangely grateful for her good wishes. They had sustained me for so long, I couldn’t really imagine having done without them.
By the time I picked up my final paycheck, I’d been what the United Kingdom Immigration authorities apparently call an “Overstay” for six days. When I sat down and counted my money, I realized that if I passed on buying new contacts, I would have just enough to pay for my ticket home and still stop on the way to see Gerald. He’d sent me an address by email, and since it was walking distance from the bus station in Fort William, I would even be able to save the cab fare.
For all my talk of steely resolve in the blog post, when I climbed onto the bus heading south on that last afternoon of August, and saw Morag lift her arm to wave goodbye, I sat back in my seat and cried like a baby.
Clutching the address Gerald had sent, I walked up to the front door in Fort William, just as a warm, summer dusk was falling. Still, I could feel the cool wind slipping down the slopes of Ben Nevis, and I pulled my hoodie tightly around my waist as I waited for someone to answer my knock.
Gerald and Clarence came to the door together, and welcomed me into their home. Gerald introduced me properly to Clarence, and they shared the news he had been holding out—they were going to be married.
“None of this ‘civil partnership’ for us,” Gerald said, after we’d clinked our glasses. “We’re heading to Canada this fall and doing it right.”
“And then,” added Clarence with a grin, “perhaps a tour of the deep South.”
Gerald snorted, and poured us more champagne.
We had a lovely evening, eating Brie and cranberries melted on crackers, and laughing about our first meeting in that stone circle outside of Inverness.
“It feels like a lifetime ago,” I said, after Gerald had told his side of the story.
He smiled and squeezed the hand of his love. “I am a sucker for a happy ending,” he said.
I grinned at him, knowing I’d heard that somewhere before.
The boys had insisted I stay over, but early the next morning, clutching a cup of tea and leaning against a rock wall, I waited for the bus that would carry me to Edinburgh. I stared through the window of the teashop, watching images flicker across the television screen on the wall inside. Two impossibly perfect-looking hosts bantered as they prepared some kind of elaborate breakfast dish. None of the sound traveled through the window, of course, and for a moment I thought it might be Good Morning America.
I leaned up closer against the glass and caught a glimpse of the UK Channel 4 logo in the corner of the screen, and realized my mistake. I also caught the eye of one of the servers inside, who looked a little alarmed at the way I was fogging up the glass with my breath.
I hurriedly stepped back, my stomach twisting inside me. I would be watching Good Morning America or one of its dozens of clones within a couple of days.
It was time to go home. But somehow the thought of America just—didn’t feel like home any more.
I tried quelling the panicky feelings that rose up by focusing on the visit with Gerald. It had been great to see him looking so well, and so happy. We’d both been looking for a Highland warrior on that long-ago cold night, and in spite of the ghost-sighting, neither one of us had found him. But fate had sent Gerald into the arms of an English nurse named Clare. A happy OUTLANDER ending if ever there was one.
And I really couldn’t complain. I’d had an adventure of a lifetime.
Inside the teashop, a sports clip had replaced the cooking segment and I stared idly at images of Glasgow Rangers fans, roa
ring their joy at a goal. The camera panned the studio audience, filled with delighted, screaming faces, and I had a moment to wonder how such a large group of people could look so awake at such an early hour, when the picture changed again.
The hosts were welcoming a guest, who strode across the stage with his hands up, waving at the clearly delighted audience.
It was Jack.
I bumped my chin on the window, and the people seated at the closest table jumped back a little. I shot them an apologetic smile and focused on the screen.
He wasn’t wearing his kilt this time, and he looked a little startled at the audience reaction, as the camera panned back and forth. Many of them bore little Scottish flags that they waved in the air with enthusiasm. The hosts greeted him warmly, and along the bottom of the screen, the caption read: Best-selling Inverness author Jack Findlay brings William Wallace back to life.
I could see he still had a slight limp as he walked across the set, and I was trying to lip-read what the female host was saying to him when the bus pulled up. The driver allowed the bus to stand idling a moment, and then honked at me, so I was forced to tear myself away from the screen and jump aboard.
As I stepped inside the bus, I looked back. The teashop server emerged carrying a spray bottle and cloth, and shot me a nasty look through the window. The bus pulled out as I dropped my pack onto the floor and fumbled for my ticket.
So Jack’s new book was a success. That was certainly quick.
“Oi—I need yer ticket, Miss.”
I scrambled back up to the front, my warm glow at seeing Jack dissipating under the weight of the driver’s scowl. “Sorry. Here it is.”
He grabbed it from me, glanced at it, and shoved it back at me.
“Y’er on the wrong bus. We’re fer Glasgow. Ye need to get off at the next stop. Or ye can pay me ten quid to change yer ticket.”
