June, Reimagined (5)
“Right. You Americans, always getting down to business.” Hamish sat up straighter. “My wife, Sophie, and I usually run the place ourselves in the winter. Business is slow, only locals coming in. Not many tourists. Only a crazy person would want to come to Scotland in the winter. I should ask . . . Are you crazy?”
June gave an appropriate response. “Only as much as the next person.”
“What’s an American doing in Scotland in January, anyway? It’s dreadful here. Why aren’t you on a beach somewhere in Mexico?”
June thought of spring break in Cancun and sipped her tea. It was not as tasty as a margarita, but much warmer. “The beach is overrated. Too much . . . sunshine . . . and sand.” God, sunshine sounded nice.
Hamish chuckled. “You’re a masochist, then, are you? Well, you’ll fit in fine ’round here. Knockmoral has its fair share of hermits, misanthropes, and broken hearts.”
“Which one are you?”
“I’m a sucker. I can’t stand to see any of them starve, so I stay open all year when most places ’round here shut down.”
Between the food, tea, and warm smile, there was something incredibly nurturing about Hamish, who looked like a young Santa Claus, minus the huge belly. June felt as though she could trust him.
“Our little man hasn’t stopped crying since he took his first breath three weeks ago, so it’s been just me at the café. Sophie’s up all night, and I’m up wishing I could do something, but seeing as there’s only one set of breasts between the two of us, I’m useless. Then I come here all bleary eyed, messing up orders and burning toast. I need another set of hands.”
June held up her hands. “I have a pair.”
“Grand.” Hamish ran a hand down his beard. “Café opens at nine and closes at four. I do all the cooking, so you’d be in charge of taking orders, making coffee, bussing tables, and the like.”
“Great,” June said. “I have a lot of restaurant experience.”
“And you have a work visa.”
June’s heart sank. “A work visa? No. I don’t have one of those.”
Hamish’s smile deflated. “I’m afraid I can’t hire you without one.”
“Are you sure? We do it all the time in the States.”
“Aye,” Hamish said. “I could lose the café. And I can’t go doing that. Who would feed all the misanthropes?”
June sat back in her seat, still feeling damp. Rain lashed at the windows. Had she flown all the way to Scotland only to turn around in less than a week?
“I really need a job,” she said. What June needed even more than that was time. A month, maybe, to get her head on straight. Then she could return to the States, apologetic and composed. Her family would understand, because she would no longer feel as though she might crack open and spew toxins all over the people she loved. She’d plead with her professors at Stratford College. Claim bereavement. Promise never to miss another class. She’d make up missed assignments and tests, and by the end of spring semester, it would be as if June hadn’t missed a step. She would be back to her old self.
But time cost money. June had some savings, but the hostel in Inverness charged forty pounds a night. Add to that her airfare, food, and the money she’d need to spend on weather-appropriate clothes, and June’s bank account was shriveling up quicker than an old man in a cold pool. There was her college scholarship money from the Women’s Club of Sunningdale, but the account was monitored and strictly reserved for Stratford College. If June was caught spending those funds on anything other than designated costs—tuition and classroom expenses—the scholarship would be immediately revoked, imploding June’s return plan. If she lost her scholarship, June could no longer afford Stratford’s out-of-state tuition.
“Are you sure you can’t hire me?” she pleaded with Hamish.
“I hate that you came all this way only to be disappointed,” Hamish said, pushing the plate closer to June. “At least have the biscuits before you leave.”
Leave to go where? June hadn’t considered not getting the job. She had dragged her belongings with her under the assumption that she would be staying in Knockmoral. Now she’d have to go back to the hostel in Inverness with her roommate, Kasper, from Norway, who smelled like BO and wore tighty-whities as if they were appropriate dinner attire. Not to mention, June had no idea when the next bus left Knockmoral toward Inverness. For all she knew, she could be stranded overnight.
She took a large bite of a biscuit, defeated, not knowing when her next meal would be.
Hamish smiled. “Why don’t I put some in a baggie for you, too.”
June nodded and swallowed; too quickly, she noticed a long-forgotten taste in her mouth. She placed the biscuit back on the plate and grabbed her backpack.
“Everything OK?” Hamish asked.
June scoured her bag as if her EpiPen would miraculously appear inside, knowing full well it was sitting on her dresser back at home. She had packed thongs and not her EpiPen. She had bought a ticket to Scotland without considering there might be work restrictions. June was more messed up than she thought.
She coughed, moving her jaw and swallowing, as if that might clear the problem slowly presenting itself.
At that, Hamish understood the severity of what was occurring right before his eyes. “Bloody hell. You’re allergic to peanuts, aren’t you?”