Finding Fraser Page 5

  Twenty minutes after the library doors closed, we were gathered around a small table in the hotel bar across the street, next to the coffee shop.

  Did I mention nothing good happens in hotel bars? But the place didn’t smell too badly of stale beer and was fairly deserted apart from our small group, so I wasn’t too worried. What could go wrong?

  The Lady of the Members who had been the first to read, and whose real name turned out to be Marlene, ordered an Irish coffee. I picked the wine, because it was on sale. Another woman whose name I have forgotten asked for a regular coffee, black, which made me inwardly cranky, because I hadn’t thought of it before ordering the wine. I mean, I’d made my escape from Scary-tooth Dude, and I just needed to stall for a few minutes to ensure he was really gone before heading back to the hostel. Coffee would have been perfect. AND cheaper. But the server disappeared before I could change my order.

  Genesie regarded me seriously over the rim of her red reading glasses. I suddenly felt as though I was sitting an exam. A very important oral exam, for which I had forgotten to study.

  “Where is Nigel?” she asked.

  I racked my brain. “I—I don’t remember a character called Nigel,” I said. “Is he in THE SCOTTISH PRISONER? I’ve only read that one through once, and it was on a borrowed Kindle with half the screen that wouldn’t light.”

  She shook her head at me and tut-tutted gently. “Nigel. From our group at the library. You must have seen him—black jacket and long hair?”

  “Oh! The guy with the—ah—dental issues?”

  The nameless lady leaned forward. “I think he has lovely teeth,” she said, seriously.

  Genesie rattled her needles at me. She’d knit two rows since we’d sat down.

  “Nigel is a sweet young man. Writes very interesting stories, too—usually in the Harry Potter genre, but occasionally in the OUTLANDER universe. And we try never to judge based on appearance in this group.”

  “Perhaps he’ll join us later,” Marlene added placidly.

  Right about then, Genesie ordered two tequila shooters, and the evening took on a dream-like quality from that moment onward.

  “So,” she said, clutching me by the arm after downing the first in a single gulp. “You’re a fan of the OUTLANDER books, are you?”

  As I nodded, the table fell silent. It was like the group was collectively holding its breath.

  “Betcha like that Jamie Fraser, then, do ya?” she said, pounding the second tequila and waving her glass at the server in a smooth, practiced move.

  I nodded again.

  Genesie slammed her hand on the tabletop. “What—and I’m looking for details here, mind you—just WHAT do you think some fictional character like Jamie Fraser has over a REAL man like Braveheart?”

  “I—he —I guess what I really like is the relationship he has with Claire,” I stumbled. “I love Jamie because he is such a manly man. He’s a man of honor, but the love he holds for Claire is what really touches me.”

  Marlene sipped her Irish coffee, oblivious to Genesie’s change of state. “I do enjoy the OUTLANDER books,” she said, “but only in the way one enjoys the pioneers within any milieu. Certainly the series opened a door to the Scottish Time Travel genre, but it remains for those of us who REALLY care about the field to polish and improve upon the genre.”

  “Scottish Time Travel … genre …” I said, slowly. I’d never heard the expression before, and the idea that anyone could improve upon Jamie made me want to laugh.

  So I did.

  Genesie’s face turned an interesting shade of plum, beginning with her nose and slowly spreading outward. The server scooped up her empty shot glasses and replaced them with full ones. The yellow liquid danced in the light as Genesie threw the first one down her throat.

  “You think something’s funny?” she said to me, after she’d swallowed.

  I shrugged back into the sleeves of my coat. It didn’t seem like I’d be doing too much research here after all. “Well, yeah,” I said, taking a reckless slug of my wine. If she could shoot her alcohol, so could I.

  The problem wasn’t so much the wine, as the candor that came along with it.

  “I think the OUTLANDER books show Jamie as a man who all men could aspire to emulate. And I know a cop in Pittsburgh who agrees with me, too.”

  Genesie’s voice dropped dangerously low. “He is no man,” she snarled. “He is merely a character! The truth, no matter how you cut it, is that Jamie Fraser may have made a good lad in a story, but he never existed.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, the wine making me bold. “I’d like to believe there is a Jamie Fraser out there somewhere. In fact, I’m going to try to find him.”

  Genesie looked at me as if I was insane. “You’re going to find someone who’s never existed? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Look—Jamie’s more than a character to me. He’s—he’s like a sort of blueprint for what I’d like to find in a man. He’s smart and heroic …” I struggled to put into words all that I was feeling, but she waved me down.

  “Heroic? Emma, if you want a hero, you need only look to William Wallace. He was a real man. A true Scot. Just one look at those wild eyes, the blue woad on his face, avenging his family and his country—now THERE was a man of honor.”

  Marlene tilted her head. “You’ve got a point,” she said. “That Mel what’s-his-member did cut a fine figure in a kilt.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about the movie?” I swallowed the last of my wine in a single gulp. “I don’t think you can rely on that movie as a reliable historical source. I heard they got a lot of the details wrong. By contrast, I happen to know the Jamie and Claire books are scrupulously researched.”

  Genesie stood up so suddenly that her chair flew backwards onto the floor behind her. Her voice, after four shots of tequila, had taken on a certain movie-variety Gaelic twang. “Are ye questioning the director’s histor-r-r-r-ical accuracy?” she roared.

  Now, in just about any other circumstances, I would have indeed questioned that particular director’s veracity on any number of fronts. But I am no fool. And at that moment, I was pretty sure I could see steam emerging from the ears of the enraged woman in front of me. Also? She was in possession of knitting needles.

  She began pushing up her sleeves.

  “I—uh—I’m sure Braveheart was tremendously, uh—Brave,” I stammered, scrambling quickly to my feet. “From—from his heart.”

  “Couldn’t find a cab,” came a hissing voice from behind my left ear. “Who’s up for Jello shots?”

  I grabbed my backpack and fled.

  Fans & Fiction…

  2:30 pm, February 24

  New York City, USA

  So, it turns out Sophia and Paul are right.

  I am a novice. A lightweight. An abject beginner. A loser who gets her details wrong. And I am chasing a man to whom I have no right.

  But not because he belongs to Claire.

  The woman who set me straight is named Genesie. She’s a knitter who writes. I’m fairly certain she’ll never read this post, but, if she does… Well, here’s to you, Genesie.

  She’s a complete expert on all things Scottish, with a particular major in Braveheart.

  But right now I’m typing this on the subway on the way to the airport, and I don’t like the way a guy down at the end of the car is eyeing my laptop. I’m going to be massively early for my flight, so maybe I’ll find someplace to write the whole story out properly when I get there.

  - ES

  Comments: 2

  HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

  You crazy. Dream not crazy. I, too, wish marry Jamie. I envy you, Miss Emma.

  SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

  Know what? Your single, obsessed fan is correct. You ARE crazy. What kind of weird person takes off on a trip halfway around the world in search of a FICTIONAL BOYFRIEND? Give your head a shake, Emma. You’re pretty critical of Paul, but at least he’s a REAL man. And you know what else? Paul,
who is a much bigger person than you, says you need to educate yourself about Internet memes. This HiHoKitty person is playing you for a fool, as if you aren’t enough of one already.

  WHY WON’T YOU CALL ME????

  Holy crow. I am all set to go, with a boarding pass in my pocket and everything. I’m actually doing this. I can’t believe it.

  I feel strangely calm. Of course, right after I got here and checked in, I threw up for about half an hour in the restroom. My cover story involved copious amounts of drinking while partying it up in Manhattan the night before, but strangely enough, no one asked.

  It wouldn’t have been a total lie, anyway. I’ve decided never to enter a hotel bar again.

  Fear of Flying…

  9:00 pm, February 24

  John Fitzgerald Kennedy Airport, New York, USA

  Things I have learned since this journey began.

  I am not crazy. Or, at least less crazy than some.

  There are many, many people out there who know an encyclopedic amount about the world of Jamie and Claire. Most of them are warm and wonderful, but it is quite clear I will never know all they know.

  It is not ever a good idea to get into an argument with said well-researched people. I always lose.

  Perhaps the next time I try something like this, I should keep it to myself. The public humiliation element is perhaps More Than I Bargained For. (Resulting also in my growing need to Excessively Capitalize Items of Importance.)

  I really hope this information is helpful, because these are probably the final words I’ll ever write.

  My plane is due to board in five minutes.

  And…and…I have a confession to make.

  The truth is that I haven’t actually taken an international flight since I was in high school, when my Spanish class flew to Barcelona for a week. My financial situation has kept my travel pretty local since then. Not to mention the whole freaked out about leaving home thing.

  Yeah——you know that little issue I had on the bus to Philadelphia? I’m fairly certain the feeling of being strapped to a seat at 40,000 feet has not improved since high school.

  My earlier sense of calm has vanished. I’m pretty much in a state of dry-mouthed fear. There is no way I am going to make it to Glasgow alive. I’ve written a goodbye note to my parents on the back of my boarding pass, but it’s really small and I ran out of space before I got to my sister.

  And besides, looking back over these blog posts, I’m worried I’ve left the impression that I don’t like my sister.

  Therefore, now, as I face my death at age twenty-nine and ten days, it is the time to get real. The truth is, I do NOT dislike my sister. We don’t hang out much and we don’t agree on anything, really, but I love her, and in the event of my demise it’s important to me that she knows that. She’s my sister. I have to love her, right?

  So, Sophia——I do love you. Even when you invariably notice the rip in whatever I am wearing. Even when you point out the bags under my eyes from staying up all night playing Xbox. Even when you criticize my current quest.

  Okay. I’ve done it. I’ve said all I need to say. Now I can go to my end in peace. I wish I’d talked more to that writer Jack about Scotland when I had the chance in the cab. And it kind of kills me not to ever know what it’s going to be like to be thirty. I’ve heard the thirties as a decade really kick ass.

  Goodbye. I love you all. Remember me. Thank you for reading.

  - ES

  Comments: 2

  HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

  It so brave to fly to find Jamie in spite your fear. I read your earlier posts to my book club. We all behind you, Miss Emma.

  ParisiansLovePipers, Paris, France:

  We love Jamie, et nous vous aimont trop, Emma. Bon voyage!

  Part Two: The Retracing

  Fantastic Flight…

  11:00 am, February 25

  Edinburgh Airport, Scotland

  I’m here.

  Can you believe it?

  I can hardly believe it.

  I am HERE. That is to say, alive, and on the ground in Scotland. Tired, cricked-of-neck from sitting frozen with fear for over seven hours on the plane, but with a weird kind of adrenaline-optimism shooting through my veins. I actually made it.

  Not quite to the correct city, however.

  My Glasgow flight was redirected to Edinburgh, due to a massive snowfall. And it was even touch and go here in Edinburgh, with some talk of dropping us in Manchester. Apparently they are not used to big snowfalls here.

  But the pilot came on the p.a. system, and said he was going to give ‘er a go, and for the three thousandth time I closed my eyes and prayed to a God I don’t really believe in, and sure enough——whatever he gave ‘er actually worked. We didn’t even slide sideways on the landing, or crash into a snowbank, or anything. Not sure that the conversation with God helped. (But if it did——thank You…)

  So I am here in a teashop in the airport, eating my first Scottish——REAL Scottish——shortbread, and trying to take it all in. The air is alive with wonderful accents and I don’t know if it’s jetlag talking but I. Just. Feel. Wonderful!

  Because of the change of city, I’m going for broke and actually booking a hotel online through Sizzlespot. I’ve likely lost my deposit at the Glasgow hostel, I guess, but maybe I can get a note from the pilot and get my ten pounds back.

  A note from the pilot? Yeah, okay, so maybe it’s jetlag after all. I don’t care a bit. Once I get some sleep, I guess I’m actually going to make a few changes to my plan.

  But for now, I’m sipping bitter tea——just like Murtagh would make it!——and grinning like a fool at everyone who passes.

  I’m here. In the land of Jamie Fraser.

  I love it already.

  - ES

  Comments: 2

  SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

  Okay, Emma, I quit. I can’t believe you’ve actually gone through with this. There’s no turning back now, you know. No one is going to come rescue you when things go wrong. I can’t imagine your money will last long, so we can talk about this when it runs out. Then we’ll see if you remember my phone number.

  JackFindlay, New York, USA:

  Hey, Emma. Used the card you gave me to find your blog. This is quite an adventure you’ve planned! It’s nice to find you online after the odd meeting in Philadelphia, and I’m chuffed to see you’ve made it safely. Looks like I’m following in your footsteps, as I’m now in New York City, en route to heading home myself in a few days. My editor feels the final draft of the project I’m working on needs a fact check, so that’s my next job sorted. Maybe we’ll cross paths again, but anyway, just wanted to say it was lovely to meet you, and I wish you luck.

  Jack

  Ah, jet lag.

  I’d heard tell of it, but waking at five the day after my flight arrived, I marveled that anything could make such an early riser of me. While no one in the B&B was stirring, I took advantage of the ‘Wi-Fi-included’ option that I hadn’t had the pleasure of enjoying while staying at the American hostels, and read the most recent comments while my tea steeped.

  I felt an odd wash of pleasure at seeing Jack’s name. I’d forgotten I’d given him the card. This was followed by a complete wave of embarrassment. The nice journalist or writer or whatever he was who’d rescued me from the mob scene in Philly now knew all about my trip to chase down a fictional character. From his home country, no less.

  To make the embarrassment go away, I re-read Sophia’s comment five or six times before shutting the lid of my laptop. Nothing like the love and support one gets from family. And, yeah—that was nothing like it. After my trembling-on-the-edge-of-the-abyss love note to her, too!

  Standing up, I peered out the window of the tiny room in the Edinburgh bed and breakfast house. It was dark as a cell in Wentworth prison outside, so I was unable to even discern what the weather was like, though I did quickly learn that standing anywhere near the window guaranteed a swirl of icy-cold ai
r around the ankles.

  I drew the curtains across the window, counting on the heavy Scots wool to cut the worst of the cold. The heater was cozy, the kettle was efficient, and the lady of the house had even left me a little plaid packet of shortbread. I wasn’t really sure of the era of manufacture of said cookies—or biscuits, as they were called on the package. They might have been made ten years before, for all I knew. The wrapper looked suspiciously old-fashioned.

  I ate them anyway. The way I saw it, if they were old, maybe they were time-travel cookies. That had to help on this trip, didn’t it?

  The truth was that I had just spent the only night I would be able to afford in such luxurious circumstances, low-season discount notwithstanding. I had survived the flight and my first night in this gloriously brisk and brilliant country, and it was time to put my plan into action.

  Yes. THE plan.

  The one where I was to journey to Scotland, blink my eyes fetchingly and immediately meet a rugged, red-heided Scotsman who would endure any amount of suffering to remain stalwart at my side.

  Reality wrapped its cold fingers around my heart. The actual hard details of how I would find this man, and what I would do next remained decidedly unclear in my brain. I sighed, and leaned back against the wall, my sister’s words echoing in my ears in the pre-dawn light. And hers was not the only voice I heard in the gray of that Edinburgh morning.

  Sophia had told me I was an idiot on a wild goose chase. Sharan Stone had been strictly concerned with faux-Jamie genitalia. And Genesie had been right, at least about Jamie. He was fictional. I knew that. I did.

  But I also knew that right up the street was an enormous castle looming over the city. And wild goose chase or not, I could hear it calling my name. I pushed all my doubts aside, gulped the last of my bitter tea, and headed out to find my fate.