We pull up at home just as Uncle Jack arrives and steps out of his red jeep holding two bottles of French wine. Dylan rushes forward and spills the news.
Uncle Jack listens, his brows drawn up at the corners, and then turns to Mom. “Maybe we should call the police.”
“Nah,” says Mom. “It’s Thanksgiving. Let’s just enjoy ourselves. If anything else happens, I’ll report it.”
“Okay, Pierrette. It’s your choice.”
Mom’s expression changes and she draws closer to Uncle Jack. “So, no date?” she asks, her voice low.
“She said she had other plans,” he says, fidgeting.
“Who? Kate McDonough?” I ask, my stomach tightening.
“That’s none of your business.” Uncle Jack gives me a sad smile and ruffles up my hair as though I’m a little girl. I pull away and comb through it with my fingers.
When we open the front door, the smell of turkey roasting in the oven makes my mouth water.
We set the table with our prettiest blue tablecloth and napkins, and our good silverware. Mom takes out the crystal glasses, and Uncle Jack carves the turkey while Sandra places some fancy red candles in the silver holders and lets Dylan light them.
Soon, we’re all seated, gobbling down the delicious meal and loading up our plates with seconds.
“So, are we going to play some music tonight?” Mr. Bachinsky looks straight at Uncle Jack.
“I don’t know. I’ve been pretty into this Celtic stuff,” says Uncle Jack.
“Then I guess you haven’t heard the news,” says Monica, a mysterious grin hovering on her lips.
“What?” nearly everyone asks at once.
“Oh, okay.” Mr. Bachinsky clears his throat and stands up like he’s about to make a very important announcement. “I’ve been learning to fiddle from Kate McDonough!”
Dead silence meets the news. It’s as though he just confessed to being the lead guitarist of some heavy metal band.
Uncle Jack lets out a chuckle. “No way!”
“It’s true,” says Monica. “And he’s doing really well. It sounds a little stiff, but he’s coming along nicely.”
Everyone laughs except me. I’m burning up inside. I can’t believe Mr. Bachinsky is actually studying fiddling! Like what’s going on here? Why does Kate McDonough have this effect on everyone?
After the pumpkin pie, we all usher into the living room where instruments are taken out for a jam session. Charlotte and Mr. Bachinsky play Pelican Reel with Monica on piano. It sounds kind of like they’re fiddling a Beethoven sonata, but it’s not bad. Even Dylan zings away with Uncle Jack, playing the Fairy Dance, and though I don’t want to admit it, my little brother’s starting to sound pretty darn good.
“So what about you, Kira?” asks Mr. Bachinsky looking straight at me. “Are you going to play?”
I shake my head. Seeing Dad’s grave vandalized has re-opened raw wounds. There’s no way I can play the violin, and especially since it’s the same instrument I used to play at Dad’s funeral. I might just start crying again. So instead, I sit and listen until the music dies down and our guests go home, thanking Mom for a lovely evening.
I’m tidying up the living room when I overhear a low conversation between Mom and Uncle Jack in the kitchen.
“Come on, Jack. You’re my brother-in-law, and I’ve never seen you so unhappy.”
Uncle Jack sighs. “I’m just tired. It takes a lot to run a pub.”
“Especially since Kate’s come to town?” I hear Mom open the cutlery drawer, the forks clinking as she sorts them.
My heart quickens, and I duck under the piano so I can spy on them.
Uncle Jack turns away.
“What’s up?” Mom asks. “You keep avoiding talking about her, and whenever we mention her, you turn red.” She stands there with her arms crossed the way she does when she’s confronting Dylan and me.
Uncle Jack picks up one of Dylan’s Dead-Eye darts on the counter and pretends to be interested in it. He sighs. “Well, you have to admit she’s a really good fiddler. And she’s so funny, and ...”
My heart falls.
“So ask her out again,” Mom insists. “It’s not like you’ve ever had trouble getting dates, Jack.”
Desperation claws at me. No, Mom. Don’t! We’ll lose him! He’ll always be with her and we’ll hardly ever see him.
“I don’t know,” Uncle Jack says, still fingering the dart.
“Is she seeing someone else?” Mom uncrosses her arms.
“I don’t think so. I never see her with anyone. She just comes and smiles and laughs. She’s a great entertainer, and she tells really old stories about what happened in the 1800s and what it was like back then. She knows a lot about history.”
My heart sinks deeper as I hear him go on about her. Stupid, red-headed uncle stealer!
“And everyone hangs on her every word. And then she plays something that’s related to her story.”
“So have you asked her out before tonight?” Mom inquires cautiously like she does when she snoops in my affairs.
I hold my breath.
“I asked her to meet for supper a few times, but she always has excuses,” he says, his head lowered. “And I asked her to go fishing with me once too.”
Fishing? What girl in her right mind would want to go fishing?
“What did she say?” Mom sounds concerned.
Uncle Jack sighs again. “She just laughed that loud, ringing laugh she has. And then she started to play I’s the B’y.”
I stifle a giggle. I’se the B’y is a tune from Newfoundland about fishing that we sang back in grade four.
“I even asked to walk her home late at night to protect her since there’s a prison camp over the mountains, and she always says she’ll be okay.”
Uncle Jack’s story pulls at my heartstrings even though I’m relieved she doesn’t seem interested, but I’m curious about this woman I saw skulking in the graveyard. Who is she and why is she here?
I climb the stairs and sit down at my computer. Clicking on the search engine, I type in her name.
The page instantly opens up. ‘Kate McDonough, solicitor and barrister.’ Shaking my head, I scan down to the next entry. ‘Kate McDonough, psychologist, Los Angeles.’ The next one says, ‘Kate McDonough – Facebook.’
“Aha!” I click on the name only to find a blond, middle-aged woman’s photo tucked in the corner.
Disappointed, I close it and scroll down the page to another heading. ‘Kate McDonough, 19th century fiddler.’ Curious, I open it up.
‘Kate McDonough was one of the finest fiddlers during the eighteen sixties. Born and raised in Cape Breton, she died in childbirth. Her fiddle, aptly named ‘The Golden Fiddle” was considered to be of the same calibre as a Stradivarius. After her death, it disappeared …’
I close the site. “Definitely not. She’s alive.”
On the third page, I find what I’m looking for.
‘Kate McDonough performs at Morris’ Pub, Val Marie, Saskatchewan.’ I open the entry. My red-headed enemy stares back at me.
“Gotcha,” I say and read the caption.
‘Kate McDonough, Cape Breton fiddler, performing nightly at Morris’ Pub, Val Marie. Bring your friends for an evening of fine fiddling and storytelling.’
Scrolling down further, I find ‘Kate McDonough performs at Martin’s, Vegreville, Alberta’, and then ‘Kate McDonough performs at Sam’s Tavern, Deer Lake, Newfoundland’. There are more. All of them are less than four-month gigs in small towns in out-of-the-way places.
Wonder why she only stays for a while? Is she running away from something?
I take out a piece of paper and jot down the dates of her gigs.
1997, 1998, 1999, 2001, 2004 … what does she do in between? How does she live?
A million questions run through my mind. I don’t have the answers, but I sure want to find out. There’s something not quite right about her – those eyes, the effect she has on everyone. I’ve got to know more.