Finding Fraser(84)

Right?

And even though I was considered the expert barista in the place, I messed up the next three lattes while I tried to figure out how I felt about that.





Ash was speaking to me again by the next day, and things seemed to be pretty much back to normal. We had a bit of a rush in the cafe in the morning, when a busload of tourists stopped for coffee.

The noise level rose the way it always did when Americans came in. The people from the tour bus were mostly European, but sure enough, two Americans were at the end of the line. Their delight at having “coffee like Starbucks” meant that they tipped me lavishly.

“Best mocha I’ve had since leaving Boston,” said the man. He wore a plaid tam that reminded me uncomfortably of the stripper in Philadelphia.

His wife nodded eagerly. “You’ve got the touch, honey,” she said, and threw another two pound coin into the cup with the chipped handle we used for tips. Then she blew her nose.

“Are you having a nice visit?” I asked.

The woman took a long, appreciative sip of her coffee. “Oh, yeah. I been cryin’ all morning after visiting that battle site. SO sad.”

The man nodded. “First Braveheart, and then that Bonnie Charlie—it was a sad time to be a Scot, and no mistake.”

“Oh, Braveheart …” I began, but the lady jumped in.

“Now THAT man was a hero if I ever saw one.” She swatted her husband’s arm. “Why can’t you be like that, Barry?”

He grinned at her. “What? Run around in a kilt with blue paint on my face, and then get cut to pieces in the end?” He bent his knees and brandished an imaginary sword.

“That wasn’t …” I tried again, but the wife squealed at her husband’s antics and he squeezed her tightly before hustling her back out to the bus. Historically inaccurate, maybe, but I was pretty sure that couple’s role-play was benefitting from their Highland tour.

It wasn’t until long after the bus had gone and the morning rush was over that I realized they had not recognized me as a fellow American.

I stuck my head in the kitchen. “Where’s your dad?” I asked Ashwin, who was pulling his cigarette pack out of his jacket pocket.

He shrugged. “Left. Think mebbe’s he’s gone for more beans—those tourists drank all the coffee in the place.”

He kicked open the back door and lit his cigarette.

“Ash, do you think I sound Scottish?”

He snorted at me and blew smoke out the door.

“Seriously. Do I still sound like an American to you?”

“‘Course ye do, eejit. Ye’ve on’y been here a month, aye? Anyway, Americans never get the accent righ’. They allus sound like themselves.”

I counted on my fingers. “Nearly two months here, actually. And four since I got to Scotland in the first place.”

He shrugged. “We’el, ye still sound American to me. Prolly allus will do, too.”

I walked back into the cafe, thinking.

An older man I didn’t recognize sat down at one of the booths. “Coffee,” he said to me, as I walked up. “And noon o’ tha’ fancy crap, mind. Jes’ plain coffee—black as mah soul.”

He shook open a newspaper and began to read.

I filled his cup from my carafe and turned to go collect up the dishes from another table, when a fleeting glimpse of a photo on the back of the paper he held caught my eye.

Without thinking, I grabbed the newspaper out of his hands.

“Oi, that’s mine,” he said, jumping half out of his seat.

“Calm down, you’ll spill your coffee,” I muttered, scanning the story underneath the photograph.

“Watch it, lassie, or I’ll have a word wi’ yer manager,” the man demanded, huffily. I pulled the outer page of the newspaper off and tossed him the sports and celebrity sections.

“Very sorry, sir,” I said to him, scanning the page. “I just need to read this one story. You read those sections first. I’ll be done in a second.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, pushed out of the booth and stomped over to the cash desk where Ash had returned and was playing a game on his mobile phone.

“Sorry, sir,” he echoed, dead-pan, and then added: “She is the owner.”

He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “And she’s righ’ crazy, so I wouldn’t mess with her. She stabbed someone with a plastic fork just last week.”

“A—a plastic fork?” the man said, looking over at me, nervously.

“Yeah, and you would not believe the mess. A carving knife woulda made cleaner work of it.”

The man slapped a few coins on the counter near the cash and, clutching the remains of his paper, dashed out the door.