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

I put my hand over mine to stop him refilling it. “Dad and Lucille’s husband drowned on the same day. They were out fishing together and a bad storm came up. They didn’t have a chance.”

I thought of the gravestones in the cemetery out back, documenting all the lives lost at sea.

“Mudder got it into her head that John, Lucille’s husband, had convinced Dad to go out even though a storm was brewing. That Dad didn’t want to go and felt forced into it. It wasn’t true. If Dad didn’t want to go fishing, he wouldn’t have gone. He was his own master.”

“But why did they go out if a storm was coming?”

Doug drained his glass. “That was all part of Mudder’s revisionism. That storm was not predicted: it came from nowhere. Seven men drowned up and down the coast that day and tons of boats were wrecked. They held a joint funeral for Dad and John. At the wake afterwards, Mudder caused a right old scene, said John had killed Dad and Lucille had blood on her hands, too. She said she’d never speak to Lucille again.”

“And when did . . .” I tried to think how best to phrase it. “When did she have her accident?”

“She disappeared from the wake and threw herself off the rocks up above. Lucky not to be killed. She claimed she slipped, but I don’t think anyone believes that. When she got out of hospital, she became a recluse. My aunt comes every day to help out. That party at Lucille’s after you rescued Ruthie, I think that’s the first time she’s left the house in five years, apart from hospital appointments and such.”

When the pizza was gone and the wine bottle was empty, Doug slid another bottle from my wine rack. “Grab your glass,” he said. “Let’s go sit somewhere more comfortable.”

I turned over the cassette, then joined Doug on the loveseat, where we sat and talked for a while. Then “Sweet Forget Me Not” began to play on the boombox and he pulled me to my feet and took me in his arms. We danced slowly around the room, Doug bending low and singing softly. When the song came to an end, we kept dancing. Doug tilted my chin up, looked in my eyes and smiled. Then he pulled me gently back over to the loveseat.

“Rachel,” he said, his voice soft. He put a hand either side of my head and stared at me for what felt like a long time. Then he leaned over and I closed my eyes, waiting for what I knew would be a kiss this time.

Then the phone rang.

“Don’t answer it,” he whispered. I waited for the answering machine to kick in.

“Rachel,” my mom’s voice was weepy and small. I pushed Doug away and rushed to pick up the phone.

“Mom, what’s happened, are you okay?”

I mouthed “sorry” to Doug. He poured himself another glass of wine and picked up a newspaper from the coffee table.

Mom was talking but I couldn’t understand what she was saying through the sobs. And then I heard her say “one year,” and I felt a lump blocking my throat.

“It’s one year. He died one year ago today,” she whispered.

“No, Mom,” I said. “It’s tomorrow.” Like that would be any comfort to her.

“It is tomorrow in Australia.” Her sobs came in huge waves. I sat down on the floor and murmured, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” when clearly it wasn’t.

“I needed to talk to someone who knew him, someone who”—she choked, but carried on—“who loved him as much as me.”

I wanted to reach through the phone line and grab her and never let go. Even though Mom and I had never been close, even though Dad had been the glue between us, I understood her grief.

“Tell me a Dad story, Rachel,” she said, cutting into my thoughts. “Please.”

It was as though by asking, she had pushed all my memories away. I couldn’t think of a single one. But then my gaze fell on a framed photo on the mantelpiece—the three of us at the cottage, Dad wearing binoculars around his neck.

And I remembered. Mom was lying on the dock, sunning. I was sitting in the shade reading. Dad was watching birds, then he came nearer to Mom, closer and closer, raising his binoculars to his eyes. Dad was a keen birder, and his favourite joke was to pretend that Mom was a rare bird. This time, he’d outdone himself, talking in a stagey, heightened whisper, like some nature show host.

“I’m very close now,” he’d said softly. “We have to be quiet; we don’t want to startle her.”

By this point, the binoculars were practically touching Mom’s nose. “Yes, folks, it’s the lesser spotted cuckoo bird.” And Mom looked up, shading her eyes and laughing, saying how old his joke was, almost as old as him. And Dad leaned over to kiss her.

“Remember the lesser spotted cuckoo bird?” I said.

Mom half laughed, half cried down the line. “Yes!” And as I sat there, back to the wall, hugging my knees, she told me the story that had just played out in my brain, much better than I ever would have. Gradually, warmth crept into her voice, and by the end, she even gave a little laugh.

“That’s exactly what I needed, Rachel. That’s a perfect Dad story. I went for a long run today and I listened to Vivaldi. That’s how I marked the day.”

“That’s good, Mom,” I said. “Can we talk again tomorrow?”

“Of course. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“And Rachel,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

I hung up the phone. “Sorry, Doug,” I said. “That was my mom and—”

But he was passed out, glass of red wine still in his hand, tilting dangerously towards the floor. I gently removed it and tried to wake him, but he was out cold. Even when I clattered dishes in the kitchen, he didn’t stir. Eventually, I went upstairs to bed.

The next morning, when I went downstairs, Doug was where I’d left him. He was