Finding Fraser(66)

The evening was clear and cold, and as I pushed my bike down the walk, I thought about Gerald. A rest home—what the heck was that? The words conjured up images of stately Edwardian manors and starched aprons. It seemed odd that he hadn’t wanted to return to the warmer climes of his southern home. Presumably, though, he had to take the medical advice he was given. I felt badly for him, being so sick, so far from home. If there was any way for me to stop and visit him on my journey south, I vowed to try and do it.

I shivered a little with the cold, and walked my bike across the street to the garage to ask about the cost of keeping it until the following day. In the back I could hear pounding and clanking, accompanied by someone singing.

“Bar-bar-bar-bar-barbara-ann … ”

I leaned across the grease-covered table that stood in for a desk and tried not to touch anything.

“Come take my ha-ha-hand,” crooned the voice.

“Hello?” I called, hoping to save myself another verse.

Sure enough, the door to the back swung open and man I had met the day before came out, wiping his hands.

Unfortunately, the singing continued from the back.

I tried to ignore it, and pitching my voice over top, asked the garage owner if he would mind if I kept the bike another day. He waved a hand at me, told me I could keep the thing for a week and shooed me out into the street.

“Ye look fair frozen, Miss,” he said, kindly. “They’ll give ye a spot of tea at the cafe to warm ye up before ye head back to Morag’s place.”

I was feeling more like a cup of hot chocolate than tea, but his advice seemed sound, and I was starving, besides. Perhaps a Nairn scone would solve at least that problem, for the moment.





By the time I had walked my bike across the street, the sky had a lowering look I didn’t like at all, and I decided to make it a quick drink and maybe a sandwich to take away with me. I stepped inside and the wind caught the door, so I needed both hands to pull it closed. As I turned back into the cafe, the warmth of the place enclosed me for a single, welcome moment.

Then I got hit by what felt like a freight train, in the form of a young, blonde woman.

Screaming.

“Ay-ay-ay-ayiiiiiiiiiii,” she yelled, as we hit the ground. I say “we” loosely, since it was I who hit the ground first. She literally bounced off me onto her knees. I ended up flat on my back on the rain-soaked mat by the door, the wind entirely knocked out of me. But instead of helping me to my feet or apologizing—all the things one would expect to happen after being suddenly and unceremoniously bowled off one’s feet, instead she grabbed my arm and wailed again.

I took a whistling gasp to try to suck air back into my lungs, and the woman continued to clutch my arm with what felt like a death grip.

I sat up and managed an “Ooof,” not really having enough oxygen left to express the true nature of my shock and outrage. Her fingers squeezed like a vise on the flesh of my upper arm.

It was then I realized she was pregnant.

And not just pregnant.

“Oiiiiiii … ,” she cried, neatly ripping the collar off my jacket with her death grip. “It’s COMING.”

I looked around wildly. It was not yet five, but if this place had a late-afternoon rush, it hadn’t materialized. The cafe was deserted.

By this time, we were both on our knees and I realized the mat might not be just rain-soaked after all. The woman had my jacket collar bunched up in one hand, and the other hand still clenched around my arm.

“Uh—hello?” I called, now that the breath had been shocked back into my lungs. “Anyone? We need some help out here!”

“Unnnngggghhhhh … ,” the woman groaned. “Don’t leave me. The bairn …”

“I—I won’t leave,” I said, trying not to freak out. I wasn’t even an auntie yet, and I‘d had zero experience with birthin’ babies.

The woman let go of my torn collar and clutched her midsection, groaning. I noticed with some shock that, though she was clearly well along in the pregnancy, she wore a waitress uniform. It was buttoned to the waist and she’d unbuttoned the lower half, covering the baby bump with a voluminous white apron.

“Is there anyone in the kitchen who can help?” I asked her, but she was beyond answering for the moment. Her head was down, and she was panting urgently.

I heard a door slam in the back, and a cloud of cigarette smoke floated gently in through the serving window. “Hey, hey—we need some help out here,” I yelled in the direction of the smoke, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

A startled face appeared around the corner of the kitchen wall.

“What the hell …” he said. The face disappeared and I heard the door slam.