New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan (book club suggestions TXT) 📗

“Rachel, that was something,” she said. “I had no idea you were so musical. I was minded to put you in charge of the yearbook after Christmas, but now I’ve got a better idea. I wants you to organize a group of students to play at the garden party in June.”

“Um,” I said. “I’m not sure, I . . .”

“You knows she’ll do it, sure,” said Lucille. And the matter seemed to be settled.

Then Lucille began discussing the upcoming funeral of someone I didn’t know with Judy and Bill.

The band started up again with a jaunty reel and people headed for the dance floor. There was a tap on my arm and a swarthy young man I didn’t recognize waggled a beer bottle at me and said, “Fancy a scuff?”

I was getting good at Newfinese but this was a new one. Still, if a scoff was a big feast, then a scuff was probably a drink.

I waggled my bottle back at him. “Thanks, but I’ve got one and I’m driving.”

He wandered off shaking his head, as Judy and Lucille burst into laughter.

“A scuff is a dance, you ninny,” said Lucille. “That’s what buddy was after.”

“Oh.” I was glad of the dark to hide my red cheeks. “Maybe I can dance with him later.”

Judy said, “If you dances with him, you’ll have them all lined up for a go.”

“I wouldn’t know how to dance to this music anyway,” I said as a couple whirled past, inches from our table.

“Ah sure, it’s easy enough,” said Lucille. “You catches the beat, and off you goes.”

I wasn’t convinced.

As soon the music stopped, the trio of students from the band came to our table.

“Miss,” said Roseanne, “you were some good.”

“Never mind me, you guys were fabulous. If you bring your instruments to school, we could play together.”

Jerome looked down at his feet. “Nah, sure we only plays here ’cause we’re made to.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad owns the pub,” said Beverley. “He’s their uncle.” She jerked her thumb at the others.

“We’d rather play rock music, not this stuff,” said Beverley, casting such a disdainful look at Roseanne’s fiddle that I wanted to cradle it. “But Dad says we has to play sometimes, so . . .” She turned her palms up. “We does.”

Roseanne said, “Anyway, we’re done now, sure. Let’s get a drink.”

After they’d gone, I said to Judy, “So much for your idea.”

“Uh-uh,” she said. “You can’t give up so soon. I’m counting on you to deliver.”

Bill arrived at the table with a round of drinks and he, Judy and Lucille returned to their earlier discussion about the funeral. I picked at the label of my beer bottle. I had enjoyed being up on stage. Maybe I could get those students to play at the garden party. I just needed to figure out how.

14

The frequency of my visits to Clayville had increased over the autumn. I was often there both days of the weekend, visiting the library and the coffee shop.

“Good morning, Wilf,” I said as I entered his establishment on a bitterly cold November morning. I inhaled the smell of baking and my shoulders relaxed.

“You mean great morning,” Wilf said. “Better than great. Excellent morning!”

“Why?”

“Beer strike’s over. I’m closing up early today to go buy some.”

“You can buy beer in Clayville?”

He nodded. “Beer, wine, liquor. There’s a liquor outlet attached to the gas station. In the back of the store.”

What other delights were yet to be discovered in Clayville? I wondered. I waited at the counter while Wilf poured my coffee and put a date square on a plate. Then, as usual, he added a butter tart when he thought I wasn’t looking. In retaliation, I stuffed a dollar into the tip jar when his back was turned.

As I settled in for the morning, I allowed myself to fantasize that Wilf would open a branch in Little Cove so I could get up in the morning and walk over for a cup of coffee excellence. When I shared with him my idea for his world domination, he said he was happy with the one coffee shop.

“You could move to Clayville, right?”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “I spend enough time here.”

Then it dawned on me. Maybe I could move to Clayville.

“Wilf, any apartments for rent around here?”

“You could check the board.” He pointed to a notice board on the wall near the bathroom. I took my mug of coffee over and scanned the notices while Wilf served another customer. There was a scrap of paper with “Free Kittens” written in swirly purple writing, a business card for “Bud’s Taxi” and a recruitment poster for the RCMP, “bilingualism an asset.” Damn straight. Guaranteed job security for French teachers.

Then I saw it, tucked in the bottom corner: an ad for a one-bedroom house to rent. I ripped the card off the board and kept reading. “Would suit couple or single professional.”

“Wilf,” I said. “Can I use your phone?”

The realtor, a woman named Ellen, agreed to meet me at the property. I jotted down the address and showed it to Wilf. He said it was a five-minute walk and drew me a crude map on the back of the card.

As soon as I turned off the main street, I was in a residential area. The houses were bigger than those in Little Cove and the roads were studded with streetlights. A few of the houses had the same bright paint colours as in Little Cove, but many were plain white or beige and seemed a bit dull in comparison.

Mill Street was a quiet cul-de-sac with few houses. I spotted the “for rent” sign hanging outside a tiny sunshine-yellow house at the end of the road. A large bay window faced the street.

Ellen was parked out front, engine running. She turned off the car and got out.

“Mind the ice,” she said, leading me up the driveway.

The front door opened into a narrow hall, which led to a combined living, dining and kitchen area.

“This was three pokey rooms,” Ellen