New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan (fun books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

accent the summer I worked in a bar in Quebec City. “Ça vient du nez,” a Parisian man had said, dismissively. “It comes from the nose.”

At the time, I had no riposte. But I did now. And it applied equally to the accent and vocabulary of Newfoundland. “Non. Ça vient du coeur. It comes from the heart.”

9

Over the weekend I tried to find the right words to apologize to Doug, but when I saw him pull into the parking lot ahead of me on Monday morning, I still wasn’t sure. I decided I would have to wing it. But by the time I got out of my car, he was already at the school door.

“Morning, Doug,” I called, racing over and grabbing his arm. “Listen, I read Patrick’s paper and—”

He brushed my hand off his sleeve. “I’m late for a meeting with Patrick, actually.”

He walked down the hall, then turned the corner heading in the opposite direction to Patrick’s office. Obviously, he was still mad at me. I would have to figure out a way to fix things.

For a school as small as St. Jude’s, there were plenty of places to hide. And Doug sure knew all of them. I barely saw him all week, and when I did, he always seemed to be either deep in conversation with someone or rushing off somewhere. He left the school for lunch every day too. Then on Friday, Patrick called a brief staff meeting over lunch. I put my purse on the seat next to mine to save it for Doug, but he didn’t sit, just lounged against the wall eating a sandwich.

That afternoon, after the final bell had rung, I headed to Doug’s classroom as soon as I could, but it was already deserted. There wasn’t much on display apart from a poster of the human anatomy on the bulletin board near his desk. A biology assignment was written on the blackboard in big, bold strokes.

I looked up and down the hall and saw no one, so I went over to Doug’s desk. It was exceptionally tidy, the planner already turned to Monday’s date with brief lesson plans neatly jotted down for each period. Doug would have the weekend off, while I would still be planning my lessons.

In my car, heading back to Lucille’s, I fiddled with the radio trying to get some kind of reception. Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” crackled in briefly, and I turned it off so roughly the knob came off in my hand. The hell with Doug. Had he never made a mistake? Judge not lest ye be judged. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. I might not be big on religion, but I could quote chapter and verse with the best of them.

I flung open the door at Lucille’s and stomped in, almost knocking her over.

“My God, girl,” she said. “You looks some crooked. What’s after happening?”

Crooked? I looked at myself in the hall mirror, rebalancing my shoulders.

“Bad day?” she asked.

I grunted something, then sulked past her up to my room, flopping onto the bed. After a few minutes I heard Lucille in the living room, talking on the phone, no doubt alerting the local authorities to my mood.

Much later, when the room had grown dark, there was a soft knock at the door and Lucille stuck her head in to tell me she was going out.

I wasn’t sure I could face another Friday evening on my own. I sat up abruptly, causing the bed to bounce and shake.

“Where do you go on Friday evenings, Lucille?”

“Hooking,” she said.

She’s a hooker? No. I tried to figure out what she could possibly mean.

“Want to come?” she asked. “Might do you good to get out.”

“Lucille, when you say hooking . . .”

“Rugs,” she said. “We hooks rugs. What did you think?”

I thought it best not to answer. “Like this one?” I tapped a foot on the cozy rug beside the bed.

“Yis. And we makes quilts like the one you’re sitting on.”

“Who’s we?” I asked.

“The Holy Dusters.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

Lucille laughed. “We cleans the church together,” she said. “I don’t know where the name came from, but I’ve been a Holy Duster these twenty years.”

“They don’t have staff to do that?”

“The Church provides for us. It’s only right we does our bit for her.”

I agreed to come along and we set off into the dark evening. Lucille steamed ahead while I dawdled, admiring the abundant stars, shining like sequins on a black velvet cape.

Finally, Lucille shouted back up the road at me. “Come on, if you’re coming.”

I walked quickly to catch up. “Sorry,” I said, whispering for some reason. “We don’t have stars like that in Toronto.”

“Stars is stars, sure,” she said.

But as I crept along, head back and eyes skyward, I couldn’t agree with Lucille. These stars were like the ones at our summer cottage. These stars were magical.

We stopped outside a small orange house surrounded by a white picket fence.

“No sulking in here, now,” Lucille said. “These women are my dearest friends, more like sisters, they are.”

I stiffened at her words. Lucille was telling me off. But I had to admit, I kind of deserved it.

When we reached the side door, Lucille didn’t knock but went straight in, after giving the door a hard shove. I followed her into the kitchen, where three women were surrounded by strips of colourful wool and fabric. Each of them held a wooden frame on her lap.

“Now me duckies,” said Lucille. “I hope ye all brought your patience because I brought Rachel.”

“We’re some glad you did,” said the woman nearest the door. She had a large purple birthmark, like Gorbachev’s, covering one side of her face, but what stood out for me was her welcoming smile. “Hello, Rachel,” she said. “I’m Biddy Cormack and this is my house. Lucille and I went to school together. Don’t pay her no mind.”

Lucille took off her coat and hung it on a hook. I followed suit. Biddy