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

read, “There is a part of France that will always be English.” It took me a minute to decipher it until I remembered that Newfoundland had not joined Canada until 1949. Then, it hit me; people like Lucille and Phonse had basically lived through their own Confederation.

Later, I had a long bath, not even bothering to straighten my hair afterwards, moving instead directly to pyjama time. I lay in the dark, sipping red wine and watching It’s a Wonderful Life. I drifted off, dreaming that Calvin was Clarence the angel, desperate to get his wings.

A BELL WOKE ME, and I half shouted, “He got his wings!” Then I realized it was the doorbell. The house was freezing and my neck ached from having fallen asleep awkwardly on the sofa.

“Go away,” I groused, wrapping the quilt tighter around me.

But whoever was at the door kept on banging, and I remembered Sheila’s advice to be home on Boxing Day. Still wrapped in the quilt, I dragged myself to the door and saw the familiar face that I loved so well. I burst into tears and threw my arms around Sheila.

“Never mind that for now,” she said, pushing past me and dropping her suitcase on the floor. “I’m freezing!” She stamped her feet to shake the snow off her boots. “Now we can hug,” she said. And we did.

“How did you? When did you?” I kept changing the question, finally settling on, “How was the trip down?”

“Godawful. Crying baby all the way from Halifax, spent the night in a questionable B&B in St. John’s, mad taxi driver on the three-hour drive out here . . . but it was worth the nightmare to see that look on your face when you opened the door.”

“How did you get a flight?”

Sheila was actively snooping now, poking in the kitchen cupboards. “Mike pulled a few strings.”

Sheila’s brother was a big shot at MusiCan, the national video channel, and knew all the right people. “I fly back on New Year’s Day,” she added, heading for the stairs.

I followed her into the bedroom and she opened the curtains.

“Is that what I think it is?” She pointed down to the cemetery, where my tracks around the gravestones from yesterday were still visible in the snow.

“Uh-huh.”

“And to think I flew all this way to cheer you up because I thought you didn’t know a soul down here,” said Sheila.

Six days of bad jokes. Bliss.

21

Extra-large, double cheese, double pepperoni,” Sheila said to the shy waiter at Tony’s. “And two more beers, please.” She flashed her megawatt smile and he stumbled into a chair as he left.

“How’s the job?” I asked. Sheila was a sales representative for a pharmaceutical company. Her stock answer if anyone asked what she did for a living was “drug pusher.” She was made for sales; Dad used to say she could convince anyone to do anything if she tried hard enough.

“There’s talk of another promotion,” she said tucking her blonde hair behind her ears.

“How’s Peter?”

“Do keep up, Rachel. I dropped him a month ago.”

Sheila had a rule of three when it came to men: one on the way in, one on the way out, and one on the side. I operated a similar system, but mine was for books.

When the pizza arrived, we went quiet until a good dent had been made.

“Almost as good as Luigi’s,” Sheila said, patting her mouth with a napkin.

“I miss Luigi’s,” I wailed.

“Luigi misses you too,” said Sheila. “That’s our first stop when I break you out of this joint. Now, listen, how is everything down here, really?”

I told Sheila how pleased Phonse was with my progress on the fiddle. I complained about the impossible challenge Judy had set me, to convince the students to play traditional music at the garden party.

“Like that tape you were playing earlier?” she asked. “I loved it. I might see if I can buy some music like that for Mike.”

Then I launched into a long anecdote about how I’d cracked the discipline problem with worksheets. At first Sheila listened patiently. But after a minute, she held up her hand.

“Whoa, whoa. This is all deeply fascinating, but I want to hear about Doug.”

“What about him?”

“Rachel.” Sheila’s tone brooked no dissent.

So I told her about the moment in the car before Patrick’s party—the star comment, the maybe-almost kiss, the snowball that had ended whatever might have been before it started. I left out the part about how my lips had tingled.

“I think he might . . . sort of . . . kind of . . . like me. A bit,” I summed up.

Sheila reached out and patted my hand. “There you go with that huge overconfidence thing again, sweetie.” We dissolved into giggles. When Sheila had regained control, she said, “Do you think you might . . . sort of . . . kind of . . . like him? A bit?”

I shrugged. “He has a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, yeah, he has a girlfriend. But I thought you said there was a weird vibe.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Geri seems great, but they don’t seem to have much in common. And they spend virtually no time together. She lives in St. John’s and hardly ever comes out this way.”

I paused and lined up my cutlery. “But, you know, when Jake cheated on me, it tore me apart. I could never do that to someone else.”

“You wouldn’t be the one cheating.”

“Semantics.”

Sheila opened her mouth to argue the point, but a cry of “Rachel!” stopped her. Judy and Bill had arrived at the restaurant, and Judy was waving as they made their way across the room to our table.

“You’re back from Toronto already?” Judy asked. I ignored Sheila’s side-eye and introduced her to Judy and Bill, managing to duck the question in the process.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” Judy said. “You could come mummering with us.”

“Mumbling?” I said.

Judy laughed. “Mummering. It’s a Christmas tradition. You puts on an elaborate disguise, goes door to door, and does a little skit. And then, with any luck at all, they offers you a drink.”

“Halloween and Christmas all wrapped up in one magical night,” Sheila