Finding Fraser

by kc dyer

  I waved goodbye and headed along Princes Street. It was Edinburgh’s main street, filled with shoppers despite the dreary day.

  I stared at all the lovely spring outfits and shoes that I could not afford in the shop windows and thought about Hamish, delivering car parts today somewhere far north of me. We both were in the same boat, in a way, earning money to go to America. Except he was desperate to go, and I—I wasn’t so sure any more.

  I didn’t want to think that way. I’d found my Fraser, right? A big, beautiful Scot—not really a red-head, but close enough. And if he wanted to see my homeland, too—all the better. After all, Jamie and Claire had ended up in America, and for both of them it had been the most foreign of lands.

  I leaned against the cool stone of a shop exterior, and pulled my copy of OUTLANDER out of my pack. Flipping open the cover to look at the map, I was horrified when it came away in my hand. I stood there on the street, staring in blank shock at the naked book in one hand and the torn cover in the other.

  “Ye can git another jes’ oop the street, lass.”

  The man speaking to me was sitting on the ground, leaning against a pole. His dog was asleep on his lap and propped against one knee was a sign that read Destitute and Hungry. I took a moment to be impressed with his facility with the written word, Austenesque capitalization and all, but then he spoke again.

  “Wha’za matter? Ye deef? THERE’S A BOOKSHOP JES’ OOP THE STREET.”

  The sheer volume made me jump back a little. “Yes—ah—thank you, sir,” I babbled, backing away. I jammed my hands in my pockets and hurried off, embarrassed that I hadn’t had the presence of mind to drop a coin in his cup.

  Two doors up I discovered the well-educated panhandler was correct. It was a bookshop. I stepped inside, feeling just as torn as my copy of OUTLANDER.

  Of course I could buy another copy. But this copy had brought me all the way here from Chicago. It was filled with my notes. It held Gerald’s map, folded neatly in between the pages. Inside the torn cover, it held my own travel plan in passionate purple ink, alongside the signature of the author Herself.

  I couldn’t bear to give it up.

  But maybe one of the clerks would have some tape I could use. I wandered over to the front desk, to find the cashier talking on the phone.

  “An God, he was SO drunk, I tell ya I laughed me arse off …”

  She caught sight of me and put her hand over the receiver. “Can I help yeh?”

  “I’ve just torn the cover off my book—do you have any Scotch tape?”

  “Nah—sorry. Got some cello, if ye want it.”

  She slid a roll of what was clearly Scotch tape over to me and turned back to her phone call. I spent ten minutes carefully repairing the damage. When I was done, it looked like it might hold, but most of the tape was gone. As I slid the dispenser back across the desk to the cashier, I remembered Claire’s quest.

  The cashier was still talking, but I finally caught her eye and she replaced her hand on the receiver again.

  “Thank you so much,” I said, handing her the dispenser. “Listen, I’m looking for an old book makers nearby here. Do you know of one?”

  She paused, twisting her mouth in concentration. “Dunno,” she said at last. “But this here is a book sellers, no’ a book makers. Cheers, aye?”

  She showed me her back and returned to her call.

  “Eh, sorry, Gert. So he’s drunk, mind, and I’m right tipsy meself, and ‘e says ‘have another’, and I’m like, ‘don’t mind if I do, luv,’ and he’s like, ‘fair play to yeh’ …”

  I cleared my throat.

  This time she was glaring as she swung back to face me. “I’m sorry, d’ye still need summat?”

  “Look, I know you sell books. That’s why I came in here. But I’m looking for a place that makes books— binds them, and so on. Like with a printing press.”

  “Oh! I thought you was havin’ me on, and you were lookin’ for the bookies—them guys you make bets with, yeah?”

  “No. It would be an old shop, you know, or an old collection of buildings where they bind books.”

  She shrugged and chewed the end of her ponytail. “Most of the books we sell is printed in China, from wha’ I can see,” she said. “Bu’ if ye look on that shelf ower there—unner the plaid banner, see? There are books about Edinburgh neighborhoods. Historical-like. Maybe that’ll do?”

  I nodded and she smiled with relief before turning back to her phone. I headed over to the shelf she’d indicated and propped my hands on my knees in the universal technique for reading spine titles on low bookshelves.

  I’d just pulled one out of the shelf that looked promising: A HISTORY OF BOOK-BINDERIES IN SCOTLAND, when someone walked right into my personal space. I shuffled back to get out of the way, before looking up into the eyes of Jack Findlay.

  He was carrying a book in one hand and was wearing a cardigan—and a kilt. It was a dark green and navy plaid that cut nicely over his narrow hips and down to just above the knee.

  And before I knew what was happening, he’d wrapped his arms around me and kissed me.

  Twice.

  One on each cheek.

  With the second kiss effectively right on the corner of my mouth. I found myself completely speechless.

  He smelled so good—like wind and wood smoke and ink. Not even a whiff of machine oil.

  “I can’t believe you came, Emma,” he said, stepping back with his hands still clutching my arms. “I am so happy to see you.”

  “I was just—hunting for books,” I babbled, when I found my voice at last. “But look at you! You look great! How’s the foot?”

  A strange light dawned in his eyes and he dropped his hands hurriedly and stepped back.

  “Oh, of course, hunting for books, right, right. It’s a bookstore—that’s only natural. What a coincidence!”

  Honestly, as an embarrassed babbler, he had me totally beat.

  Finally he acknowledged my question and pointed down at his feet. He wore a heavy boot on one foot, complete with the hilt of a dagger peeking out above his wool sock. The other foot didn’t look quite as dashing.

  “Still in the walking cast, as you can see. I thought it would be off by now, but it’s taken its time healin’.”

  There was a long, awkward silence, where we both tried not to look right at each other and instead listened to the cashier regale her friend on exactly how drunk she had become the night before.

  “Well,” he said at last, “I’d better …”

  As he spoke, I suddenly caught sight of a poster on the pillar behind him with a picture of his face on it. “A reading…” I interrupted. “You are here to do a reading, then? Is your new book done already?”

  He shook his head. “It’s done, or nearly, but not out yet. This is a reading for the one that came out last year.”

  “The one about the dragon bones?”

  He sighed and held up the book in his hand. “That’s bane, not bone. It’s not about dragon bones. It’s a Scots legend, re-imagined.”

  “Um, okay.” I glanced at the poster again and then up at the clock. “Weren’t you supposed to start fifteen minutes ago?”

  He flipped through his book nervously. “Ah, yeah—just waiting to see if the crowd would—ah—grow any larger. But, as it hasn’t, well … See you sometime, aye?”

  His voice trailed away has he turned and walked toward the front of the large, open area behind us. I could hear the girl at the desk, still on the phone, shrieking with laughter and assuring her conversational companion that “Yeah, she really were that drunk.”

  I hurried after Jack as he walked down the aisle between the chairs set up for the event.

  At least fifty chairs.

  In them, sat three people. Including me. And judging from the smell, the guy hunched in a chair at the back may well have been out with the cashier the night before. He had long, dirty hair, and his beard was actually braided and fastened with a yellow rubber band. I recognize
d him right away as the man who had directed me here in the first place. His dog was asleep beside him on the floor.

  The man himself was out cold.

  I took a seat about half way along the right hand side, out of scent-distance from the panhandler and far enough up so that it would make the room look a little more … occupied.

  Jack stood up at the front of the room by a podium with a microphone attached. He took a deep breath and then squared his shoulders and stepped in front of the podium.

  “Uh—thanks for comin’, everyone. I’m here tonight to read from my last book, BANE OF THE DRAGON-LAIRD. So—ah—if no one has any objection, I’ll jes’ read a selection from the first chapter.”

  The old lady sitting in the front row on the other side of the aisle waved her hand at him. “Ach, Mister Findlay—a wee moment before ye begin?” She set her large handbag down on the seat beside her and using her cane, pulled herself to her feet.

  “Aye jes’ wanted ye to know I loved this story. It’s even better than the last one, lad. Well done. Well done.” She beamed at him like a fond auntie.

  Jack gave a little half bow. “Thank ye, Missus McCarthy. I’m glad ye liked it. Is there any part you’d ‘specially enjoy hearin’ tonight?”

  The old lady waved her cane, having settled back down in her seat. “Nae, nae, laddie—ye jes’ go on and read the bit ye chose fer us. I’ll be delighted wi’ whatever ye read, son.”

  Jack set the book on the podium, and gave a last hopeful look toward the front of the store.

  No one else appeared.

  “Right, then,” he said, and pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket. “Here goes.”

  He cleared his throat. “Sleet slashed across the cast iron sky and collected in tiny glass pebbles around the body at his feet. He knelt carefully, the …”

  The old lady suddenly made a loud Scottish noise at the back of her throat.

  “Ye know, lad, I’ve only jes’ thought of it,” she called out from her spot in the front row. She waved her copy of the book at Jack. “What about the bit where he meets the peasant girl in the rain?”

  Jack closed the book with his finger marking the place he’d been interrupted. “Ah—all right, then, Missus McCarthy. Shall I finish this bit first?”

  “As ye like, as ye like, pet. It’s on’y—ye did ask the question. Go on, go on, finish this bit first, o’course.”

  He nodded and cleared his throat again, a little painfully to my ear. “He knelt carefully, the …”

  “Because it’s the sexy bit, innit? All yer books have a little rumpy-pumpy, aye?”

  Jack sighed and flipped through the pages. “I’ll jes’ read it now, since you are so looking forward to it, shall I?”

  “If ye like, pet.”

  The panhandler at the back awoke with a snort. He looked around blearily and focused on Jack, who was still flipping through pages at the front.

  “I hear yer next book is about the Wallace, lad,” he yelled from his seat at the back. “Dozzat mean yer acquainted with that there Gibson fella, then?”

  “Aye—tha’ Gibson fella, he’s a sexy one, too,” added Mrs. McCarthy.

  Yeah, things went pretty much downhill after that.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Jack said, afterwards.

  I’d let him buy me a pot of tea in the shop next door, and we sat at a small table in the back, cups steaming.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” I said. “You sold a few copies, and …”

  “Two. I sold two copies. One of them to you, which, with your financial situation, I should force you to return.”

  He closed his eyes and breathed in the steam from his cup. Eyes still closed, he said, “Take it back. They’ll give you your money. The mercy buy doesn’t apply when you weren’t even expecting to find me here.”

  I nudged his arm with my hand and his eyes opened. “Look, you made sales and a few new fans today. Your discussion with that man on the flaws in Braveheart was fascinating. I had no idea there were so many historical errors in that movie.”

  “He was a drunk, Emma.”

  “Okay, I did know that,” I admitted. “After his racist rant awhile back …”

  “Not the actor. The man at the reading was a drunk. He was just here for the refreshments. He did know his movie trivia though …” His voice trailed away, and he tapped one finger lightly on the table as we sat in silence.

  “Right,” he said at last. “Let’s talk about you. Sounds to me like you’ve found your Fraser. So—mission accomplished for the blog?”

  I could feel myself blushing. I fought it down. “Yeah—no—I don’t know,” was all I could manage.

  He smiled. “Oh. Sore subject? No need to be embarrassed. It seems to me you deserve a little happiness, after all ye’ve gone through to get to this godforsaken country.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s an amazing place. I love it here. Did you read the post about the stone cairns?”

  “Aye. That I did. And the truth is, I do hope ye keep at it—the writing, I mean. You’ve a flair for storytelling. Those cairns are a bit before my era, though I’ve done my time at plenty o’ Historic Scotland sites. I’ve more of a Middle Ages focus, I guess, so when I read your post, I learned something, and enjoyed it, too.”

  “Hamish told me he thinks the pre-historic monuments are good for nothing except pulling down.”

  “Ah,” he said, looking pointedly at something in his cup. “It’s Hamish, is it? So he’s the one, then? Ye’ve hardly been postin’ to yer blog at all since ye’ve made his acquaintance.”

  I felt strangely tongue-tied again. “He’s—yeah, he’s pretty wonderful,” I said. “And anyway, I am still blogging. It’s just been slower since my laptop was stolen.”

  He grinned wryly. “Hmm. I don’t know about that. It seems these days the content leans more toward a paean to the country than it does a description of your fella. Your fan base certainly seems to be demanding more details. I reckon they are ready to marry you off to the man.”

  I snorted. “My sister is convinced that I’ve made them all up, just to show her that someone out there thinks I’m not crazy. Which—I would have, if I’d thought of it. But they’re just … I dunno …”

  “Living out their dreams vicariously?” he finished.

  I nodded.

  He fell silent a moment, and we both sipped our tea.

  “As long as you have found your dream, Emma,” he said, at last. “I mean, commenters aside, it’s your dream that’s important here.”

  I looked up at him, but as soon as I did, he dropped his eyes. “Well, anyway,” I said, hurriedly. “We’re supposed to be talking about you. This is your event. Look at all the amazing books you’ve written.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Each one has had its struggles, no doubt about that.”

  “Well, it doesn’t show. I’ve been borrowing your books from the library and enjoying every one.”

  “Really?” His eyes lit up.

  I traced my finger over the silhouette on the cover of my new book. “Yep. And what about that old lady? She has to be your biggest fan. Do you know her lips were moving when you read her favorite sexy bit aloud? She’s obviously committed the whole passage to memory.”

  He allowed himself a half smile. “She literally is my biggest fan. She’s president of the Scottish chapter of my fan club.”

  “See? I didn’t even know you had a fan club! I will join the American branch, for sure when I get home.”

  “There is no American branch. There’s just the Scottish branch, and I’m pretty sure Mrs. McCarthy is the only member. But thanks for the thought.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m with Mrs. McCarthy. I like the sexy bits, too. Except …”

  “Except …” His face took on a look I remembered. From the time he was trying to walk on a freshly broken foot. I mentally punched myself in the head a few times.

  “Nothing—it was fantastic, really. I can’t wait to read the whole
thing.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”

  “It’s not that big a deal, really.”

  He opened his eyes again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make something of nothing. It’s just—I don’t know. Hearing how wonderful the book is doesn’t sell copies, you know? There is something I’m missing. Something that I’ve not managed to capture jes’ right. I’d like if a few more people wanted to read my books than just the sum total of the Scots fan club, aye?”

  “I get that.” I thought for a minute and then plunged ahead. “I mean, I haven’t read this book all the way through, obviously. And I know your stories take place in an historical context where things were different. But I’ve kinda noticed that your heroines are always so perfect. Like, too perfect. They are gorgeous, they are sexy, they’re great in bed, and—well, like this one tonight was even a fantastic hunter. So they’re—not really human. The one you read in the book tonight is a goddess. But in the end, he still has to rescue her.”

  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