When Dylan and I get home, the phone rings. I run to pick up the receiver.
“Hello?”
Silence echoes on the other end.
“Hello?” I repeat myself.
Again, silence.
I press the end button and place the phone in its port. “Probably one of those telemarketers,” I mumble.
Dylan’s poking his head in the fridge, looking for a snack. “Hey, who ate all the Rice Krispy squares?”
“I don’t know,” I say offhandedly.
The phone rings again. I pick it up. “Hello?”
Quiet again.
Holding the phone away, I check the call display. It’s empty.
“Strange.”
The front door bursts open.
“Hi, kids,” Uncle Jack calls. “I’ve come to cook you supper.” He walks in and heads for the cupboard, digging around for a non-stick frying pan.
“Oh, good.” I smile. “What are we having?”
“Your favourite – tacos.”
“Yes!” I say, throwing a fist into the air.
“And you can thank me for it,” Dylan jumps in. “I told him we were tired of Mom’s cooking yesterday. You know, meat, rice, and either broccoli or carrots. I’m soooo sick of that.”
“Me too.” I nod. “Are you hanging out tonight, Uncle Jack?” I really need a good dose of his humour after Travis, and if there’s anyone who’ll understand, it’s him. Besides, I haven’t seen Uncle Jack for a few days.
“Can’t.” Uncle Jack shakes his head. “Gotta play.” He takes a large cleaver from the knife block and begins chopping an onion.
“But you play every night. Can’t you cancel out just this once?”
“No go. The last few nights have been jam-packed in the pub.”
“With that new fiddler?” I ask.
“Yeah. She’s really something else.” Uncle Jack empties the onions into the pan.
I scowl. “Who is she, anyway?” I walk to the cupboard and take out plates. “I saw a poster last week at school advertising lessons.
Uncle Jack grins, showing his dimples. “Kate’s from Cape Breton,” he says, his eyes shining.
A twinge of jealousy touches me as I wander over to the table and lay the plates down on the place mats. “So how old is she?”
“I’m not too sure. Old enough … and young enough.” The smile on his face is so wide, all his teeth show.
“So can’t you get someone else to play?” I set four glasses on the table.
“'Fraid not.”
“Why not?”
“Because she plays Celtic music, and no one else knows how. She’s been teaching some of the guys in my band, but to ask someone to sub? It’d never work.” He throws the ground beef in with the onions and breaks it up with a wooden spoon. The aroma fills the room, making my stomach growl.
The front door creaks and Mom comes in, her arms loaded with groceries.
“I’m home.” She walks into the kitchen and lays the bags down on the counter.
I turn to Mom, desperate. She’ll surely be on my side. “Mom, Uncle Jack says he can’t stay tonight because of the new fiddler.” Then I add, “And can you believe Charlotte’s taking fiddling lessons from her?”
“Oh, good for her. I was thinking of signing up Dylan and me,” she says, smiling as she digs down into the bag. “And you too if you want.”
“Are you serious?” I scrunch my eyebrows, feeling betrayed that Mom would actually side with this woman.
“No, I’m not kidding. It’s a wonderful opportunity. I mean, what are the chances of someone like that moving to Hope? Besides, Dylan will love it.” Then she throws me the punch. “I hope you don’t mind me using your violin.”
I glance over at the block of wood disguised as a musical instrument, remembering the masterpiece that still stands in Kristoff’s shop and the broken promise.
“I don’t care.” My voice drips with sarcasm.
Mom frowns at me like I’m about to get in serious trouble. I prepare for the lecture when Uncle Jack, a dishcloth draped over his arm like a butler, saves the day, announcing, “Dinner is served at the exquisite Tacos del Jacko’s.
Mom’s still giving me the eye, but I ignore her, grab my plate and load it up. Dylan devours four in all, a lot for a scrawny little kid like that. I have three. They’re delicious, but I’m still stewing inside as the conversation continues.
“So tell me more about this fiddler?” Mom asks. “Is she single?”
Uncle Jack grins. “So far as I know.”
My stomach churns. It’s obvious he’s interested, and it’s only a matter of time before we lose him to Kate McDonough. Stupid fiddler. Why does she have to come along and interfere with my life?
Fuming, I swallow down the last bite of my taco, and then grab my plate, shove it into the dishwasher, and shut the door. I don’t want to hear about Kate McDonough anymore! Who cares about fiddling anyway? Snatching my backpack, I leap up the stairs to my bedroom to do my homework, as far away from the conversation as possible.
I set up my textbooks and go to work. Then, at nine o’clock sharp, the notes of Uncle Jack’s guitar dancing beside the vibrant trills of Kate McDonough’s fiddle begin creeping through the crack of my slightly opened window. They whirl about and swing together, the rhythm pounding like the drum of an ancient Celtic bodhran. I let out a huff, then get up and slide the window shut. After all, just because the others dance to her music, doesn’t mean I have to.