Finding Fraser(98)

“Weel—ah’ve got Jimmie, aye? And Hamish’ll be back soon. He’s just done a delivery for me to—ah—Aberdeen. Righ’.” And he had stomped off into the back, where the yelling began again.

So yeah, same as usual.

The van had been gone again by the time I left work.



I sighed and clicked through to the next screen. Maybe he’d be back by tomorrow. If I could just talk to him again …

I heard a sudden scrambling noise, the sound of a chair falling and a rush of wind.

And in front of me? Stood Katy.

“Emma,” she said, and I noticed that her hair had actually come free from the tidy knot she always wore at the back of her neck. “This has got to stop. You are no’ alone.”

“Not alone…?” I began, but by this time she had my shoulders clutched tightly in her hands. She gave me a shake and my chair rolled a little.

“It’s no’ so hard, once ye jes’ accept it,” she said. “We’ve all been there. Janey down at the chippy. Agnes in Tesco’s. And Eilidh righ’ before you—he really broke Eilidh’s heart, I haveta say. She still hates ye for it, didja know?”

“Eilidh? I don’t know anyone by that name …” I said, weakly. Even though I sort of did.

She carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“I admit I thought you might be the one, bein’ American an’ all. And some might say—Eilidh for starters—that ye deserve bein’ cast aside like this. But I was one o’ the first, Emma. I’ve had time to get over it. And workin’ here, I see you every day—how bad you’re failin’. Everythin’ has an end, Emma.”

I stared at her face as a light shone into my own murky skull.

“No—no. It’s not like that. He hasn’t dumped me. We just have a few things to sort out. He’s just been really busy, and—and I don’t want to lose my Jamie.”

She shook me again, gently.

“Just listen to yerself. You’re babblin’, girl. The man’s name is Hamish. And maybe the person you are losin’ … is not him.” She dropped her hands to her sides.

“I’ve done all I can do here,” she said, maybe to the universe. “All I know is that you’re lookin’ at more nearly-naked girls lately than the twelve-year old boys I have to shoo out of here during the school year. It’s got to stop, Emma. Or you have to buy a computer of your own. I’ve go’ tourists to deal wi’, and I’m tired of having to clear mah browser cache!”

I hung my head. There was nothing left to say. I stood up, tucked in my chair and walked out quietly.

In the distance, I could see Geordie’s truck parked outside the garage. And in Hamish’s little apartment upstairs? The light was on.

So.

He was home.





I thought about everything Katy had said, and instead of running to throw myself on his mercy, I resolutely pointed my bicycle toward Morag’s place.

A balmy breeze blew back my hair as I pedaled. The evening was so warm that part way home I had to stop and pull off to the side of the road to take off my hoodie. Maybe Katy was right. Hamish had been honest with me—how much more honest can you get then handing your girlfriend the business card of the nearest gym?

But… what kind of a dick move was that, anyway?

I tried to picture Jamie suggesting that Claire had problem areas and actually drove myself right off the road, gravel spraying, at the very thought.

I steered myself back onto the road, my glasses sliding down my nose as I pushed my pedals through the final uphill leg. Katy was right. I had been so worried about losing my dream Jamie that I had accepted behavior from Hamish that I would have kicked any American boy to the curb for.

I pedaled into Morag’s driveway just as she stumped out of the barn, carrying a large stoneware pitcher.

“Been shifting hay all day,” she said by way of explanation. “Think I need a little medicinal pick-me-up before dinner. Care to join me?”

“Why not?” I said, and followed her inside.





The pitcher turned out to be full of cream, freshly skimmed.

“Look,” Morag said, as she set it on the table. “I’ve a mind to make buttermilk scones for mah dinner. What say we whip up a bit o’ butter before you head over to the barn? It’ll take yer mind off things.”

I stared at her blankly. She looked heavenward and pulled a tall, slender ceramic jar out of a drawer. From the cupboard beneath the sink she removed a large bottle of scotch and slammed it on the table beside the jar.

“You use Scotch to make butter?” I said. “Is it an old family recipe or something?”