I slumped into my seat and dozed for a while, and then surfaced long enough to post the brief note to my blog. I tried several times to find the words to write more, but they just wouldn’t come. The truth was, I mostly mulled over the loss of the cute guy. Already, in my mind’s eye, I could see his face bathed in a kind of golden glow. Fair hair just verging on scruffy, and his crinkly smile as he sat down to talk with me. Apart from the whole blonde highlights thing, he was physically very similar to Jamie.
Kind. Considerate. Very, very cute. A spasm of something akin to pain shot through me at the thought that I hadn’t even offered to stay connected by email.
I mean—it’s not like I was about to hand him my card.
But there in the cold, hard light of a Scottish spring morning, on the bouncy back seat of a CityLink transit bus, the memory of the fleeting feel of those long, square fingers as they brushed mine was still enough to make my knees weak. I stared out the window into the darkness, feeling my face suffuse with heat. Get a hold of yourself, Sheridan.
The bus shuddered and lurched around a corner, and slowed to a stop at the on-ramp to the freeway – the MOTORway.
He was just a nice young man, welcoming a visitor to his country, I thought, brooding.
With his well-muscled forearms.
Reaching down, I yanked my pack onto my knees. I needed to think of something else. Time to look at the map again. I had just pulled out my copy of OUTLANDER from the bottom of the front pocket, when I felt someone slide into the seat beside me.
A merry face, creased as an old tortoise and topped with a greasy brown abomination of a hat, smiled into mine.
“Here from awa’?” he inquired, indicating the map inside the book with a nod and gently spraying my face with spittle.
I nodded back and fished a suspiciously crumpled napkin from my pocket to use when the old fellow turned away.
He didn’t.
I smiled damply back at him, and scrunched a little further down into my seat as he began to stub his thick finger onto locations on the map and narrate the entire history of Scotland, beginning with the Picts.
Inverness in February is … well, safe to say it’s pretty gray. Strangely enough, it was not terribly cold. Not seventeen-blocks-in-wintery-Philadelphia cold, at least. But now that I knew the complete history of the place from its role as an early stronghold of the Picts, through the likely-less-evil-than-Will-Shakespeare-would-have-had-you-believe reign of MacBeth, to the current standing of the Caley Thistle football club, it almost felt like I was returning home.
My seatmate, Alan MacLeod by name, squeezed my shoulder fondly as the bus slowed to a halt outside a downtown hotel.
“Ye know where to find me, lass, if ye have any questions. And mind ye keep that wee card…” he nodded at the scrap of paper I had safely clutched in one hand. “Jes’ gi’ us a call if ye need transport anywhere, mind. As I tole’ ye, mah youngest son’s got a Triumph he’s fair proud of, and he hires himself out all the time ta tourists in the season who need tae get to the golf links hereabouts.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacLeod. I’ll remember that.”
He reached a hand up to grasp the seat back, and groaned as he hauled himself to his feet, but the pretty much tooth-free smile never left his face. “Ach, it’s just Al, lassie, or Alan if yer feelin’ formal. Call anytime, love.”
And with that, he stumped off up the aisle of the bus to the front door. I glanced down at the card in my hand. Alec MacLeod, it said. Hired Car Service, Inverness-shire. Taxi, weddings, evenings out. No trip too small!
Could Alan’s taxi-driving son be another possible Jamie? I tucked the card into my pack and followed him off the bus.
Further Fieldwork…
5:00 pm, February 27
Inverness, Scotland
Arrived safely in Inverness.
The trip was much less eventful than earlier bus journeys, thankfully. I had a very informative seatmate who ensured I will never confuse Jacobians with followers of anyone but King James again! Perhaps the history lesson has cured me of my fear of traveling? I think it more likely that now I am here, in beautiful wintery Scotland, my sense of adventure has stepped back into the lead.
Thanks to all who wrote such kind comments about my time in Edinburgh. Many of you are worried I met and lost my Jamie Fraser on the first day in Scotland, and that I will quit trying. I want to set your minds at ease.
First of all, the man I met was blonder than Jamie. He might have been roughly the same size, and was quite kind and friendly——but——but, he’s gone, okay? He’s too blonde and he’s gone and I have no idea where he lives. Think of him as a practice Jamie. I’m moving on, and I hope you’ll do the same.