June, Reimagined (4)
June had not come prepared. Her large roller bag was filled with all the needs of a twenty-year-old sorority girl—toothbrush, toothpaste, makeup, thongs, velour jumpsuits, wind pants, silk camisoles, white tank tops, black pants, J. Crew sweaters, Tri Gamma Tshirts, a hooded Ohio State sweatshirt (Matt’s), tennis shoes, pointy black boots, and flared jeans. She should have come dressed more like Paddington Bear—a raincoat, Wellingtons, a hat, and a pair of gloves.
She knocked, forcefully, but had no response. A chill ran down her arms. No wonder the plane ticket to Inverness had been the cheapest option. The airline sales agent hadn’t been forthcoming about the dismal weather, and June had only cared, at five in the morning at Cincinnati International Airport, that her destination was an ocean away from Sunningdale. June imagined cobbled streets, quaint shops selling kilts and wool blankets, pubs and restaurants with cozy fires, all surrounded by the gorgeous rolling hills, lochs, and mountains of the Highlands. All of this and they spoke English.
But in January, the hills surrounding Inverness were covered in snow. And as for English, June wasn’t sure what the locals were speaking, but it was not a language she understood. Since landing, she had kept her composure, but as she stood at the Thistle Stop Café, shivering, June’s confidence began to falter. What was she thinking, running away to Scotland? In the winter! If she were back in the States, June would be curled up in her warm bed at the Tri Gamma house, slightly hungover, leftover pizza in her mini fridge, dreading her 9:00 a.m. childhood development class. And she’d have her stack of Friends DVDs and heat. Lots of heat. Her stomach growled again.
She had been crazy to answer an advertisement for a job in a town she had never even heard of. Inverness was at least recognizable, but Knockmoral? June wasn’t even quite sure where she was. She had seen water on her way into town, but there was water all over this country. Had she seen a loch, or the ocean, or just a really big puddle? Was this hamlet seaside, lakeside, or just waterlogged like everywhere else?
When she had called the café to enquire after the job, she had spoken to a barely understandable man named Hamish. He told her to take the 61 bus toward Ullapool; from Ullapool, take the 809 north and get off at the Knockmoral stop (which she almost missed on account of a staticky microphone and the language barrier). Then walk across the street to the taxi stand and tell the driver to take her to the Thistle Stop Café.
“He’ll know the place,” Hamish had said.
“Are you sure?”
“You’re in the Highlands now, lass. Everyone knows everyone in this town.”
She had followed his instructions, but Hamish had neglected to confirm whether he would be at the café. June hadn’t thought that necessary. She held her hand out to catch the rain drops, which were coming down even faster now. Since she had landed, June had been damp all the time. Her shirt, her socks, her bra, her skin, her hair. She felt constantly chilly. And there wasn’t a clothes dryer in sight. How was she supposed to clean her clothes without a dryer? She certainly couldn’t line-dry them. She had taken to blow-drying her clothes, just for the heat.
June felt like she was going to cry. She couldn’t survive on her own. She had spent the past two and a half years at Stratford College, a small party school tucked away in nowhere Tennessee, living in a sorority house with a maid and a chef. Her only concerns had been attending enough classes and avoiding an STD. What had she expected—that traveling abroad would magically make her more capable? That the fog she had been living in would miraculously lift in Scotland? If anything, June was incapacitated, her mind altered by grief and regret, standing in the rain in the middle-of-nowhere fucking Scotland, with no plan forward. Jet lag had made it worse, and to top it off, she didn’t even have an umbrella. As it turned out, windbreakers were windproof, not waterproof.
She was about to sit down on the sidewalk, curl into a tiny ball, and cry for Matt, when the café door opened, startling her backward.
“Can I help you?” A tall man with rosy cheeks and a long brownish-red beard stood before June, wearing an apron and a kind smile. He eyed the bag at June’s feet. “Are you lost?”
“I’m here about a job. I called yesterday and spoke with Hamish.”
“Right! That’s me. I’m Hamish.” He ushered June inside, June dragging her roller bag behind her. “Can’t keep my own head straight these days. Can I get you a cup of tea? Warm you up. You’re soaked through.”
Hamish took down two stacked chairs from a table and went behind the counter. June shook out of her soaked backpack and windbreaker and hung them to dry on the back of a chair. Hamish pulled a cup and saucer from the piled dishes. “How about a wee plate of biscuits, too? Can’t have tea without the cookie. It’s the best part. We make them from scratch here. My wife’s secret recipe. Even after fourteen years of marriage, she still won’t tell me what they’re made of. Bleeding stubborn woman insists on making them herself.” Hamish chuckled. “That lass went into labor three weeks ago and wouldn’t hear of leaving the house until she’d frozen enough biscuit batter for three months. Thank goodness it’s low season, or she would have given birth with a spatula in her hand on our kitchen floor.” Hamish set a cup of tea and a plate of cookies in front of June and took a seat. “So.” He leaned back and smiled.
June took a long sip of hot tea, feeling it all the way to her bones. “Your advertisement said you need an assistant.”