His expression was puzzled, but since this was so much better than hurt, I kept going. “In one of my—uh—other favorite books, the best part is that the female lead gets to help out the hero once in a while, too. There’s a bit of balance, somehow. A partnership. If you can write your female characters a little less physically perfect and a little more like rounded humans who can actually have a role to play in their own destinies, you’ll have it nailed.”
He took a big swallow of his tea and managed a smile.
I reached over and squeezed his hand. “The story was fantastic,” I said. “I can’t wait to read the whole thing.”
The color in his neck flushed right up his face. “Thank you, Emma. Your standards may even be higher than Rebecca’s, and that’s saying something. I think you may have offered the kindest slam any of my books has ever received. And now, I’m afraid, I have to run.”
He got up, paid the bill—gave me a wry smile and a wave, and was gone before I could say goodbye.
Fabulous Findlay…
4:00 pm, June 22
Edinburgh, Scotland
I’ve spent the last few weeks reading books written by Jack Findlay, a Scottish writer I met in——ah——extraordinary circumstances before I left the US.
These are marvelous stories. You can find out more about them at his website. And a little blackbird has told me that another one is due, based on the life of Scottish hero William Wallace. Watch for it soon!
- ES
Comments: 153
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
Jack Findlay is second favorite writer to Herself. His books romantic and adventure. You SO lucky to meet him! You live my dream, Emma. But still——we wait patiently to hear of your true love. Does he ride horse?
(Read 152 more comments here…)
After tea with Jack, I managed to find an Internet cafe to make the blog post and still be only twenty minutes late for Sandeep. No chance to read all the comments, though – they were coming in so fast and furious. For a guy who had so many empty seats at his reading, he sure had a lot of fans.
Sandeep spent the entire drive home raving about all the features on his new machine, so at least he wasn’t angry with me for being late. Ash slept in the back, curled in the one corner of the van that wasn’t filled with giant espresso machine parts. I listened to his father rave on, and thought about Jack Findlay.
I felt like I had spent two hours (and twenty-five minutes, according to my boss) kicking a puppy. I mean—bad enough that no one had shown up to Jack’s reading event. But then I had to add insult to injury by giving him my expert opinion on what was wrong with his books? His broken foot still hadn’t healed, he was clearly struggling with self-confidence issues and I had stomped all over the female character in his story.
The blog post was the only remedy I could come up with.
I’d missed seeing my boyfriend, AND ruined Jack’s day all in one.
I tried to take my mind off Jack by thinking about Hamish. About how I’d persuade him that a night out didn’t need to involve Geordie and the boys. About how much fun we could have, just getting to know each other better.
But even the idea of seeing Hamish soon couldn’t banish the look of pain on Jack’s face as he walked out of that tea shop. Well, maybe he could go home to his Rebecca for comfort. I’d actually forgotten her existence until he mentioned her again, just as I’d forgotten to look to see if he wore a ring or not. So, after all that time together, I still didn’t know if he was married or not. Not that it mattered—it had to be a pretty committed relationship, with the reverential way he referred to her.
As Sandeep chirped on about his new machine, I slumped in my seat and considered how big a vat of espresso I’d need to drown myself.
Five hours of winding roads and a major two-hour traffic jam brought on by an errant collection of sheep and a cranky farmer brought us back to Nairn just after ten. After helping Ash and Sandeep unload the enormous machine into the back of the cafe, I headed home to Morag’s on my bike. Sandeep had looked at me like I was crazy to refuse a drive, but my backside was tired from all the sitting, so it was a relief to stand up on the pedals and stretch out my legs. It looked like it might have been raining earlier in the village, but the evening brought a light breeze that cleared the sky, and a blanket of stars lit my way home.
The clean air smelled like spring, and I thought about sneaking some of Morag’s leftover bannock for a midnight snack before bed. My stomach rumbled at the thought.
I’d made it just past the outskirts of the town when I bumped through a pothole in the dark and my front tire began to make an ominous hissing noise. I tried to keep pedaling, but after a revolution or two the tire was completely flat. I hopped off and rolled the bike forward, hoping the valve had just been pinched or something, but the evil shard of green glass gleaming up at me from between the treads removed all hope.