Page 82 of Geordie

“I felt like the main clown dancing in a circus, but I did my part; everyone appeared to be impressed.”

“How was Geordie?”

“He and the winemaker should go on the comedy circuit. They had the crowd in stitches or had them suitably awed by their Celtic toasts.”

I slice a portion of a leg of lamb off and place it on the plate. It's whisked away for the sides to be added, then loaded on a tray. Did he even notice I disappeared? I thought he would at least find out where I'd gone.

“We're done with the main course,” someone shouts. We all take a collective breath, but we're not done.

A few servers straggle in, asking for a rarer cut of beef and a few other requests from the diners, but nothing like the pace at the beginning.

Harv turns away to plate haggis for a brave soul as I pull out the beef to carve a rarer cut. The jet lag is hitting me hard now that I've relaxed a little. I'm yawning, and not a cute yawn; it's an involuntary wide yawn that racks my body until it subsides. Each time my mouth gapes open, annoying tears fill my eyes. I wait for the last one to stop before lifting the roast out of the pan. My movements are jerky, and I’m splashing juices on the cutting board, a little landing on my shoe and the floor. Ugh, my sneakers are canvas, and greasy warmth seeps into my toes. I look down to see a large brown patch on my white shoes.

I steady myself, placing the blade to slice off a quarter-inch section, wanting to do this before I yawn again. The knife moves through the roast as I push down. I’m almost to the end, needing a little more force to complete the action. I adjust my hand for a better grip, when my shoe slips on grease and the blade jerks, making contact with my hand. “Shit,” I say, stepping away, watching red blossom on a deep gash in my hand. Harv spins around, pulling me away from my station, shouting at Tony for a towel. In seconds, a white cloth wraps tightly around my hand, my head light.

“Tony, disinfect the station and throw the meat away. Find me a blanket or something to keep her warm,” Harv says, his strong arm around my shoulders. “You need air. Let's get you outside so I can look at the cut.” He guides me to a small porch. A heat lamp blazes in a corner, bathing the space with warmth and light. Holding my hand and watching blood stain the towel, I fall into a rickety faded red chair at a table.

Harv pulls up a chair to face me. “I need to look at the wound,” he says, extending his hand. “I need to see how bad it is.” I place the towel-wrapped hand in his. The damn thing throbs like hell. “You’d better look away; you know how you are.”

I have no problem looking at other people's wounds, but with my own, I can't do it.

“The good news is that you didn't slice anything off, but the gash is deep; you'll need stitches.” He gently rewraps my hand. “How do you feel?”

“I'm good,” I lie.

Harv's mouth turns down. “Don't pretend with me. We've both seen bigger and burlier chefs do a face-plant over a cut finger that's nowhere as deep as this. There's no shame in admitting you're a little wobbly.”

“Come on, Harv, you know I have nerves of steel,” I say, trying to rally my strength so he won't worry. “I'm telling you I'm good.”

He searches my face for a moment longer. “Okay then, I'll get someone to take you to the hospital; keep pressure on it.” Tony appears with a gray, puffy jacket, the kind you wear in the snow. He gently drapes it over me, then leaves.

My body wants to turn off to deal with my injury and my tiredness. I fight to stay awake or, worse, not to faint. The patch of red hasn't gotten bigger, so I wait. In the semi-darkness, I can see the grassy glen, and large trees overhang the service road that cuts through the greenery into the darkness. There are no stars in the sky tonight. I succumb to everything and close my eyes.

“Why did you not tell me you'd rather be in the kitchen?”

My eyes open slowly to see a man standing over me in full Highland dress, his face difficult to see in the dim. I sit up, keeping the jacket around my shoulders, my hand hidden.

“When did you notice I was gone?”

“During my introduction of Connell. I guessed you weren't visiting the bog. Why are you here?”

“Two of our crew had to leave. Harv asked me to fill in. Why did you wait until now to find me?”

“Connell needed more hand holding than I expected. I couldn't leave until he introduced the dessert wine.”

Somehow it doesn't sit well. He could have sent someone to find me. I might have been dead in a ditch for all he knew or ravaged by wild animals in the woods around here. “I'm not interested in coming back to the dinner,” I say, trying to be as convincing as possible with my hand throbbing. My fingers curl over the arm of the chair as a wave of queasiness rises. I swallow hard to steady my stomach.

“You're rejecting me again to stay here after you accepted my invitation?”

I look up. He's not getting the hint that I want to be left alone. “I didn't invent this crisis. Dalliance and the winery's reputation were on the line.” I grit my teeth, the words coming out slowly. “I did what anyone would do. We're not done. I need to stay and see it through.”

He looks around, spreading out his arms as if appealing to a crowd. “The crisis is no more. Everything is right in the kingdom. It's time to slip back into that stunner of a dress and dance the night away with me.”

“Get someone else to be your ornament. I'm not in the mood.” His face goes dark and I ready myself for the retort. A wave a tiredness hits me, and I lurch over the arm of the chair as I release a stream of vomit at his feet. He jumps back, but he's not quick enough.

“Fuck, lass, you just ruined my best pair of dancing brogues.”

My head thumps on the table, the jacket falls away.

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