Finding Fraser

by kc dyer

  Yes.

  It’s true.

  I have signed up to attend a conference where the guest speaker is the creator of the man I seek.

  Herself.

  Should I have skipped this event and gone straight through to New York City? What would you have done?

  - ES

  Comments: 0

  So, yeah—it turned out the commenters on my blog had all been bots. When I checked back, there wasn’t a single voice of support for my adventure. Nor a single vote of dissent, if you come right down to it.

  But that’s okay. I don’t need external validation. Something — something larger than me is guiding this journey. Otherwise, how do you explain the presence of Herself in the very city I’ve ended up in?

  Fine, so technically I didn’t need to travel to Philadelphia in order to make my cheap New York flight. But it was pretty much on the way. I had to get to New York somehow. And the very thought of meeting Herself in the flesh made my hands start to shake. She was the woman who created Jamie Fraser, who built him up from clay—or from ink and paper, at least. She has gone on to beat him, wound him, torture him in every possible way, and still nurture his unending love for Claire over the course of the entire series.

  The questions I had? Beyond number. The chance to meet Her, to talk with Her about Jamie, to ask Her where I should best seek out a real flesh-and-blood version of him? It was just too good to pass up.

  When I’d finally made it into Philadelphia (with the help of the cop’s Ativan), I discovered the station happened to be less than three blocks from the hotel where the event was being held.

  It was meant to be.

  The hike from the bus station had given me a chance to stretch my legs and allow the icy Philadelphia wind blow the last of the anxiety away. I’d made it. I was still on American soil, but the journey was truly underway. And as I stepped up to the hotel doors, a doorman in a top hat swept forward and held it open for me.

  An open door held by a handsome man felt like an omen.

  There was a small registration booth set up in the foyer. The special hotel rate offered to conference-goers was just about triple what I had budgeted to spend, but a hotel stay was not mandatory.

  “We have loads of locals coming in,” the lady behind the desk said. “In fact, the Belles are upstairs right now, planning a celebration for after the signing tomorrow.”

  I didn’t know what bells she meant, but nodded anyway, mentally calculating the distance from the hotel venue to the nearest hostel. A mere fifteen blocks away. Nothing more than a quick and easy cab ride.

  I was, however, required to join the romance writing group.

  “Members-only event,” chirped the ever-helpful lady behind the desk. “Are you a published writer?”

  I thought about the little message that popped up every time I entered a blog post. Please wait—post publishing …

  “Oh, yes,” I assured her. “That is—if published writers get a discount …?”

  They did indeed.

  I handed over the thirty-five bucks for membership, and decided a city bus would do just as well as a taxi in the morning.

  “… And as a member, you only have to pay twenty-five dollars to attend the conference!” she said, exuding charm and delight from every pore.

  I’ve heard Philadelphia is a lovely city to walk through. Guess I’m going to find out soon enough.

  Forever Fan…

  Noon, February 21

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

  Seventeen blocks through downtown Philadelphia in February. NOT for the faint of heart or the unscarved of face. And yeah, it was seventeen. Seems I miscounted on the local map yesterday. But I’m here at last. I have my lanyard declaring me a writer in good standing. I have my dog-eared copy of OUTLANDER, for Herself to sign. (Glory!) AND I have access to the hotel’s free Wi-Fi on the main floor, which is where I am sitting as I type this. Literally. On the floor. Because the line-up for the signing was already three hundred people long when I got here at 9 a.m.

  There are other conference events throughout the day, but the author, it turns out, will not be speaking here. She’ll sign books, accept the award and be spirited away by sometime this evening.

  Clearly, the gods of time travel shine on me today. Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser might have been a somewhat unwilling inter-dimensional wanderer, but I am not. I plan to sit here on the floor and trace out Claire’s journey on the map inside the cover of my copy of the book. It will be the blueprint for my journey. I shall walk in her footsteps.

  For that reason, I will not be attending the panel on The Value of Vivid Verbs, nor the likely very instructive talk on Whipping up Sex Scenes by Adding Leather.

  I am in line for a chance to meet the author of the man of my dreams.

  The organizers here tell me I may only have time for one question.

  The agony…

  - ES

  Comments: 0

  Full Failure…

  11:15 pm, February 21

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

  Totally, totally blew it.

  Complete and utter failure.

  I don’t deserve to live…

  And now, she’s gone for good. I saw the whole ontourage entouraje group pack up and leave over an hour ago. There was no sadness in her wake, however. All night this bar has been filled with cheery women bubbling with joy over their encounters with her. How sweet she is. How considerate. Great sense of humor——joking about her writer’s cramp after five hundred signatures——imagine!

  My only hope is that the river of eager faces demanding signatures obliterates her memory of the encounter with me forever.

  I wonder if anyone has ever managed to actually drown in a martini?

  - ES

  Comments: 0

  “Well, that’s a long face. Howie, I swear that’s the longest face we’ve seen tonight, wouldn’t you say?” The woman leered cheerfully at me as she balanced two beers in one hand and slapped her companion on the shoulder with the other.

  I smiled guiltily, swiveled my stool in the other direction and slid my laptop into my bag. The woman was not put off by my chilliness. In fact, she appeared to take it as a challenge.

  “I’m guessing you got here too late for the autograph line. Am I right? AMIRIGHT?” She nudged me with an elbow, which had the effect of spinning me back into her presence.

  I swirled the olive around in my glass, but there was no escape. The woman downed her beer in a single gulp and beamed at me.

  I took a shaky breath. “No—no. She signed my book. She was lovely.”

  The woman slapped the empty mug onto the bar, and, using only that same right elbow, slid the other beer to the man known as Howie with impressive agility. She was a bear of a woman, six feet tall in her stocking feet—which I can entirely attest to, since for some reason she was not actually wearing shoes—with a halo of gray wiry hair that reminded me somewhat endearingly of a dead dandelion. She wore an enormous cross between a caftan and a housedress in an eye-searing combination of green, purple and pink plaid.

  Her companion was a tidy little man perhaps half a foot shorter, with four or five strands of hair neatly pasted across the crown of his head. He stood out not for his height or his shiny baldness, but simply for his gender. Apart from the busboy, he was the only male I could discern in the vicinity.

  “Then why so glum?” the woman shouted, easily drowning out the vaguely Celtic Muzak that had begun emanating from somewhere in the ceiling. She slapped her hand on the bar. “Give this lady another martini,” she demanded. The bartender had a new glass in my hand before my ears stopped ringing from the command.

  I fished around in my bag for my wallet, but a large hand came down on my own before I could pull it out. “It’s on me, honey,” she said, using her talented right elbow to lever Howie off the stool he’d been sitting on.

  “Sharan Stone,” she bellowed, and held out her giant hand for me to shake. “Not the movie
star,” she clarified, and guffawed loudly. “Though Howie thinks I am, dontcha, How?”

  The little man crinkled his eyes at her and nodded, burying his moustache in his beer.

  “I’d better be going,“ I said, standing up. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Aw, honey, the party’s just starting,” Sharan Stone said. “And you shore look like you could use some cheering up. But never fear—you’re with the Belles, now, and whatever’s got you down is gonna be history fer sure. Check this out.”

  She stood up so forcefully the stool she’d usurped from Howie flew backwards and took out the busboy.

  I was standing by this point, too, but one of those big hands clapped onto my shoulder and my knees gave out. I collapsed back down onto my stool, shocked into sobriety by sheer terror.

  Sharan Stone put a finger and thumb into her mouth and blew the most piercing whistle I’d heard since grade school. The bar fell instantly silent.

  “Belles!” she cried, and a cheer went up around me. I began to feel that I’d fallen into some bizarro-dream scenario, so I took a big gulp of the martini.

  “BELLES,” repeated Sharan Stone, “I do believe we’ve waited long enough.”

  Her voice, which likely had some decent staying power even at regular conversational levels, rose to a crescendo. “It’s time for Ja-a-a-a-A-A-A-A-MIE!”

  I clapped my hands over my ears as everyone around me took up the chant.

  “Jaaa-MIE, Jaaa-MIE, JAAA-MIE!!!”

  I say everyone, but in the sea of women chanting Jamie’s name, Howie sat placidly, still sipping his beer with a gentle smile on his face.

  “Jaaa-MIE, Jaaa-MIE, JAAA-MIE!!!” the crowd roared.

  And in he came.

  Over the previous week there had been many moments when the folly of my quest threatened to sink in and send me sensibly back to Chicago. Losing my shit on the bus. The fourteenth block of the walk from the hostel, when a massive truck splashed my legs with a wave of salty sleet from Philadelphia’s biggest pothole. But let me tell you, NOTHING was as discouraging as seeing the buff guy in the kilt coming toward me along the top of that hotel bar.

  His skin was spray-tanned to a shade of orange that matched the leather of his sporran. He’d leapt onto the bar like it was nothing, and strode the full length in a cloud of baby oil scent so thick it even cut through the smell of beer in the air. He wore nothing but a tiny kilt that I’m quite sure no self-respecting Scotsman would blow his nose into, and a plaid tam atop a vivid orange wig.

  I think my heart broke a little at the sight of that wig.

  The stripper pranced down the bar, jig-stepping over glasses to the sound of an electro-bagpipe drone. And the crowd?

  The crowd went wild.

  Even Howie was screaming as the Faux-Jamie gyrated and coyly lifted the hem of his kilt.

  “Show us yer COCK, Jamie,” screamed Sharan Stone out of one side of her mouth.

  She was standing on her stool matching his every gyration, dancing along with him in her sock feet. Women scrambled over each other to jam money into his socks, his sporran, whatever they could reach. “SHOW US YER COCK!!!!”

  I was pinned to my stool as the crowd of women surged toward the bar in a shining-eyed, sweaty wave. I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled for my life.

  After what seemed an eternity of dodging legs of both the human and table variety, I accidentally smashed my face into an overturned chair, which knocked me back a little. But I realized I’d cleared the stampede, and somehow managed to escape alive. The knees of my jeans were soaked with beer, and I couldn’t even bear to look at the palms of my hands, but I was still hammered enough to not really care. Someone reached a hand down to help me to my feet, and I found myself looking into a pair of calm, and clearly sober, blue eyes.

  “Thank you,” I gasped. “Sorry about the stickiness.”

  “No’ a problem.” He pulled a packet of antiseptic wipes from his pocket and cleaned his hands off. Then he won my heart completely by offering me one, too.

  My rescuer stood about six feet tall, his rusty brown hair with a thread or two of gray at the temples. He had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and was in the process of winding a long woolen scarf around his face and neck.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like tha’,” he said, nodding back at the melee.

  I looked back, too, to see the guy on the bar had lost his wig, and had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt what a Scotsman wore under his kilt. As a matter of fact, the kilt was long gone. He had, somehow, managed to retain the sporran.

  I nodded, too discouraged to speak.

  “That’s not Jamie,” I managed, at last.

  “No, you’re right abou’ that,” he said, and he tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the back of a chair. “I’m fair certain his name is Steve-o, and he specializes in Cowboy or Disco Dude, as a rule, but this was apparently such a big money-maker he couldnae turn it down.”

  I shot him a look.

  “I heard him in the lounge earlier, talking on his mobile.”

  “You were listening to a male stripper talk on his cell phone?”

  He smiled a little. “Aye. I was sitting in the lounge, working. I’m a writer. Eavesdropping is part of my job description.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  He shrugged, and I regretted the sarcasm in my tone. It wasn’t his fault my night had turned out the way it had.

  “Well, I’m heading to my hotel,” he continued. “Sure you’re all right? You’ve got quite a bump on your forehead, there.”

  I felt my face. There was a definite goose egg forming over my left eye, but other than that I seemed to have escaped unscathed.

  “I think I’m good,” I said. ”Thanks again. It was scary in there.”

  We walked toward the entrance of the hotel when his cell phone rang. He smiled at me apologetically as he took the call, and I stepped over to the front desk.

  Outside the windows, the snow swirled in a street-lit maelstrom.

  “Is there a bus I can get from here to—uh—West Oregon Avenue?”

  The girl behind the counter shook her head. “Not at this hour, I’m afraid. And our shuttle service is down—our driver, Nathan, can’t get the battery to hold a charge.”

  Another long walk, then. I zipped up my coat and held a moment of silence for all the winter clothing I had sold at Second Hand Rose’s the week before.

  Beside me, my rescuer was just finishing his call. “See you soon, Becks. Dinner, fer sure.” He turned and looked at me as I zipped my hood up like South Park Kenny.

  “No bus then?”

  Before I could do more than shake my head, the front door of the hotel opened and one of the doormen blew inside clutching his top hat, his face glowing frostbite-red.

  “Share a cab?” my rescuer asked, and I didn’t even check my wallet before agreeing.

  It’s amazing what you can learn about a person over the course of seventeen blocks. We exchanged cards, to begin with, and I managed to keep my mouth shut and not tell him that mine was the first card I’d ever given out in my life.

  His name was Jack Findlay, and he had just wrapped up a freelance gig for the BBC, profiling several prominent American writers. He’d come to this event in hopes of asking a few questions of the guest of honor. When he learned she was not going to be speaking, he thought he might try his luck with a few of the local romance writers—and that was just about when things began to disintegrate in the bar.

  “Apparently they’re known as Beauchamp’s Belles,” he said, grinning at me as the cab bumped over ice ruts in the road. “The sort of fan club every author aspires to, aye?”

  “I guess.” I looked across the back seat of the cab at him, sitting with his messenger bag on his lap. “So, the BBC, huh? Are you English?”

  His neck, the bit I could see over his woolen scarf anyway, took on an even rustier color than it had in the frozen air outside.

  “Born in Fife,” he said,
stiffly. “Nowhere near England, as a matter of fact.”

  Great. I’d insulted him after he’d swept me away from the night’s disaster. The first Scottish man I’d met in the flesh, too.

  I studied his face for a minute as the streetlights flashed by. I’d seen no sign of a ring before he put his gloves on, but the phone call had marked him as taken. Besides – my Jamie would never share a name with Black Jack Randall. All the same, I didn’t want him to think me completely ignorant.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, humbly. “Your accent is pretty soft compared to the ones I heard tonight. Are you here for long?”

  He laughed. “Any accent you heard tonight sounded nothing like a true Scotsman, I’ll tell ye that. And, no, America is finished wi’ me for the present,” he added. “I’ve a project at home I’ll be finishing up next—should keep me out of trouble awhile. You?”

  He’d added the last politely, but luckily at that moment, the cab pulled up to the hostel, and I wasn’t forced to share my own plans. He waved away the five-dollar bill I thrust at him as the cab slowed to a stop, but I tossed it into his lap anyway.

  “For your sporran,” I said, still a little drunk.

  The look of horror he gave me as the cab sped away led me to believe he didn’t really get the joke.

  Fall & Forget…

  11:00 am, February 22

  Philadelphia, USA

  Well, I have to say the conference was a success for just about everybody who attended. Certainly the group of Belles I met in the bar seemed to be having a most excellent time. (Sharan, if you ever read this, say ‘hi’ to Howie for me, okay?) However, my own encounter with Herself was an unmitigated disaster, and I’m feeling very discouraged. I’m not sure if I can continue. I have resolved to never think of it again, let alone write about it here.

  - ES