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

A woman in the back row turned around and shushed Doug. After she’d turned back around, he made a face at her, and then I made one at him. Then the curtains reopened and we turned our attention to the stage.

The grade nines were dressed in red and green, girls on the right, boys on the left. Divide and conquer? A few of the girls had tinsel draped around their necks and wrists, and Calvin was wearing a Santa Claus hat. Surely it was not possible for that disparate and discouraging group to perform a cohesive piece of entertainment.

Judy crouched down on the floor in front of the stage and held up her right hand, with three fingers raised, then two, then one.

“Knock knock,” said the girls, in perfect unison.

“Who’s there?” asked the boys.

“Wenceslas,” came the reply.

“Wenceslas who?”

“Wenceslas bus to St. John’s?”

There was scattered laughter and a few groans from the audience.

Then the boys shouted, “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Wayne,” said the boys, and the audience chuckled when every boy pointed dramatically at Wayne Molloy in the front row.

“Wayne who?”

“Wayne in a manger.”

At that point, Wayne ran over to the nativity scene, lay down on the ground and began to suck his thumb. The laughter was longer and louder. The grade nines, Calvin and Trudy included, were enjoying themselves. I glanced over at Sister Mary Catherine, who did not seem to be amused by Wayne’s antics.

“Knock knock,” cried the girls again.

“Who’s there?”

“Mary.”

Sister stood up, fists clenched.

“Mary who?”

“Mary Christmas!” they all shouted, throwing red and green streamers out into the audience.

Sister sat back down, smoothing her habit. The grade nine class had been onstage for less than five minutes, but their performance had been enthusiastic and well received. It was a triumph for Judy.

At the end of the concert, Patrick headed to the stage to thank the performers and the audience. Then, with Sister playing along, everyone—pupils, parents and teachers—stood and sang the “Ode to Newfoundland.” Doug closed his eyes and put his hand on his heart.

When sun rays crown thy pine-clad hills,

And Summer spreads her hand,

When silvern voices tune thy rills,

We love thee, smiling land.

We love thee, we love thee

We love thee, smiling land.

When spreads thy cloak of shimmering white,

At Winter’s stern command,

Through shortened day and starlit night,

We love thee, frozen land.

We love thee, we love thee,

We love thee, frozen land.

I didn’t know the lyrics, but the heartfelt rendition had me blinking hard. When it was over, people clapped and cheered. “That was beautiful,” I whispered to Doug, my voice catching. “Like a prayer.”

“Newfoundlanders are a cult, sure.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. I jerked away when I saw Sister Mary Catherine frowning at us. As soon as the audience began to disperse, she left the stage, headed in our direction.

“I’m out of here,” I said to Doug. “It’s too warm. I’ll see you at the party.” I retrieved my coat and purse from the staff room, loitering there for a while in the hopes of avoiding Sister. Then I headed to the front entrance. It had snowed lightly during the concert and everything was covered in a “cloak of shimmering white.” I watched the last stragglers walk up the road, then Doug came hustling out, rubbing his fingers together in the cold.

“I left my car at Patrick’s when I dropped off the booze,” he said. “I’m low on gas. Can I snag a lift, maid?”

I exhaled loudly. “I hate when people call me that. It reminds me of an old maid.”

“Well, you’ll prob’ly end up one if you stays so sensitive,” he groused. “Jaysus God tonight, woman. It’s just an expression.”

When we got to my car, a note, wet with snow, was tucked under the wipers. Doug snatched it up. “Ohhh, what’s this? Someone’s got a secret admirer.”

“Give it to me, Doug,” I said, my voice sharp.

He held it high above his head, teasing me. I jumped to grab it, but I couldn’t reach. “Give it.”

He angled it towards the streetlight, saying, “I’ll just take a peek first.”

“No!”

He grinned and opened the note. I found myself wondering what his reaction would be. Would he be upset on my behalf?

“Nope,” he said. “Can’t make anything out. I think it’s in French.”

“It is?” I plucked it from his hand and read: “Tu es beau.”

It was flattering, if grammatically incorrect. My shoulders relaxed. Maybe I did have a secret admirer. The writing was different, more childish looking. I was pretty sure this was nothing more than a teacher’s crush, but I would compare it with the others when I got home. I shoved the note in my pocket.

“So, what’s it say?” asked Doug as we got in my car.

“Just that someone thinks I’m pretty. Well, handsome, if we’re doing an exact translation.”

“Seems like a good omen,” said Doug. “You might not end up an old maid, after all.”

I whacked him. “And you might not end up bruised. But I doubt it.”

Patrick’s house was right down by the sea. We could hear the music before we reached the bend in the road. “It’s gonna be a time,” said Doug. I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine.

“When’s your flight?” Doug asked.

“What fli—” Then I remembered that I was supposedly off home to Toronto soon.

“Oh, um, in a couple of days. What are you doing for Christmas?”

“I’ll be around. Mudder needs me, though she denies it.”

The car windows had fogged up as we sat there, and Doug drew a little Christmas tree in the middle of the front windscreen with his index finger.

“You forgot the star,” I said, leaning over to add one.

“That’s you,” he said, his voice husky.

“Doug.”

“Shhh,” he said, putting a finger to my lips, the faint pressure making them tingle. He traced their outline lightly, then moved his hand to brush my hair out of my face.

Our eyes were locked on each other,