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

I rubbed my eyes. “So you’re still waiting to hear?”

He nodded.

We sat in bleak silence while dust motes danced between us in the light from the window. At lunchtime twenty students had shown up for French club, including a few first-timers. Behind Patrick on the bulletin board was a draft poster for the garden party. I hadn’t yet gotten the students to agree to play, but felt I was wearing them down. I’d played with them again at the pub in Mardy a few weeks back. And what about Calvin? How would he get on at the trades college in September? Would Cynthia bounce back? All these people I hadn’t known a year ago now mattered desperately to me. My thoughts had just turned to Doug when the bell rang so loud in Patrick’s office that I jumped.

“Patrick,” I said. “I know I screwed up, but I would really like to stay on next year.”

He looked bleak. “It’s out of my hands, Rachel,” he said.

I nodded and said goodbye.

That evening Patrick called me at home. “Father Frank doesn’t want you back next year,” he said. “I can’t find a way to go against him. You’ll finish out the year. It’ll be non-renewal of contract, rather than termination. I managed to get that much out of him.”

“Thank you,” I said, then added, “Are they really giving Brigid the job over me?”

“That has yet to be determined. I’d ask you to say nothing about any of this, please.”

I hung up the phone and flung myself on the loveseat, wondering how running off with a priest compared with my supposed sins.

36

At school the next morning, Judy greeted me with a friendly smile. It was the first sign of a thaw since the debacle with Cynthia.

“You’ve an appointment in the library,” she said. “Yes, I’m covering your first lesson, again.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But why does Patrick want to see me there?”

“It’s not Patrick,” she said. “It’s Father Frank.”

Walking slowly down the corridor towards the library, I understood how a condemned prisoner might feel. I stood outside, hand on the doorknob, and tried to regulate my heart rate. Then I took a deep breath and went in.

Father Frank was sitting at one of the study tables. His folded hands rested on a manila envelope.

“Good morning, Father,” I said.

He didn’t reply, merely indicated that I should sit down opposite him.

“Miss O’Brine,” he said, “I do not like to have my instructions ignored.”

I folded my hands together and waited for the lecture.

“The first time we met, I underlined the important role you would play in the lives of our young people and the moral code of conduct you were expected to display.”

I bowed my head. It killed me to admit it, even to myself, but he was right. However much I might not agree with some of the teachings of the Church, the contract I’d willingly signed required me to uphold them.

“If it were up to me,” he continued, “you would be leaving St. Jude’s today. However, there are some complications now associated with this situation.”

I waited for him to raise the subject of Brigid.

“I’ve had written confirmation that the archbishop will finally be visiting our parish this summer.”

I looked up.

“A great deal of work needs to be done before then,” he added.

“I see, Father,” I lied.

He tugged at his collar, revealing a nick from his razor. “I don’t appreciate being blackmailed,” he said, sharply.

“I’m sorry, Father, I don’t understand.”

He tapped the envelope in front of him. “Two of the Holy Dusters paid me a visit last night,” he said. “Lucille Hanrahan and Biddy Cormack. For some unfathomable reason, they are very fond of you. They made quite the impassioned case for you to remain in our parish.”

“But how did . . .” His frown silenced me.

“My dear,” he said, in a tone that made clear this was not a term of endearment. “One thing you must be aware of by now is that Lucille Hanrahan knows every blessed thing that goes on in this parish.”

He put on a pair of reading glasses and removed a sheet of paper from the envelope. “This is a list of the ‘miracles’”—he looked up at me over the glasses—“not a word I would choose, but the miracles you are alleged to have performed.” He read:

Rescued a drowning dog.

Helped a young man find a vocation.

Ended a feud, returning a woman to her community.

Reminded the community about hope.

He put down the note and took off his reading glasses. “Now I must say, I was unaware that this community needed reminding about hope. And I would add that you are encroaching on my territory with that last one.”

He replaced the note in the envelope. “According to Lucille, the Holy Dusters have downed their mops. She says they won’t do a tap of work unless I agree you can stay.”

A grin threatened to bloom on my face, but I managed to suppress it.

“So, can I, Father?” I asked. “Stay?”

He nodded.

“Thank you, Father.”

“One more thing, now, before you go. I’ve told Lucille and Biddy that if anyone ever gets wind of this blackmail, the deal is off. Not a word is to be spoken, do you hear me? Not even between you and Lucille.”

“Yes, Father.” Then I remembered Cynthia.

“Father, what if Cynthia—”

“She told me you said ‘get rid of it.’ Is that correct?” His face was puce.

I nodded.

“I’ve told Cynthia you must have meant adoption. If anyone ever suggests otherwise, you are to deny it.”

“Yes, Father.” I would have to let the hypocrisy slide.

“Now, I’m going down to see Mr. Donovan in his office. You are to give me ten minutes and then you go see him. Good day to you, Miss O’Brine.”

He shut the library door, quite firmly, I thought. It was almost a slam.

I waited until I was sure he was a long way down the hall. Then I stood up, raised my hands