The Blueberry Festival Planning Committee encourages residents to decorate their houses with blue or purple outdoor Christmas lights. The field behind the St. Felix’s Lions Club acquires a stage and makeshift dance floor. By day, it’s a garden party for kids; by night, local bands play. “Three times a night is too many times to hear Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” Rita says.
“Three times is too many times to ever hear Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” Imogene says.
She and Rita sell raffle tickets and work the bake-sale table (Blueberry pie! Blueberry muffins! Blueberry jam!). The festival receives four spectacular days of warm weather. Rita sprays Touch of Sun in her hair and it transforms into radiant, brassy waves. People say she and Imogene look like sisters. Rita doesn’t complain.
On the last night of the festival, Imogene and Rita finish early and are determined to obtain and cash in as many drink tickets as possible. Rita’s brother Steve buys the tickets for them with no complaints and the bartenders accept them bemusedly. They get cans of Black Horse and Molson Canadian and stroll through the Lions Club parking lot. Clusters of people drink beers from coolers smuggled in their hatchbacks and pickups. Rita laughs and tosses her new auburn hair, Imogene smokes and sips beer, smiling as much as possible. Again, she appreciates how smoking gives her other hand something to do while she drinks.
Nick Cleary has set up his folks’ camper close to the parking area. There is a Coleman stove, two coolers, and lots of foldout chairs. He’s organized. He offers them both beers and tells Rita her hair looks like a new penny. She punches him in the shoulder, “Shaddup.”
The screen door of the camper squeaks open and Liam Lundrigan exits. He saunters over and pulls his plastic cigarette case from his jean jacket. He asks Imogene for a light. Rita raises her eyebrows behind him.
Imogene plans on passing him her lighter, but instead she lights it. He cups her fingers and leans in. His hair falls forward slightly, shanks of golden silk frame his face like a heart. His eyes glance up, startlingly blue in his tan face.
“Didn’t get a farmer tan after?” Imogene says.
“No. I’m like this all over.” He grins. Rita’s eyes bulge at her, inflated with questions.
They end up on the foldout chairs. People come and go all night. Guitars appear, songs are sung, a discreet fire is lit. Faces glow around the flames and Imogene is struck by how the light enhances everyone’s good features. What a photogenic bunch, as Jamie from Mount Pearl would say. The beer can is cold in her hand and Rita and Nick make jokes and flirt. Liam sits across the fire. At one point, they catch each other’s eyes. He better not say any of that Tender Nipples stuff. But he says nothing and a half smile curls his mouth. She has to admit he looks good. For an idiot. Later, he approaches and squats next to her.
“Can I have another light?”
It seems a little silly with the fire in front of them, but she lights his cigarette for him.
“Those two,” he says, tilting his head towards Rita and Nick, “they should get on with it already.” He hoists himself up. “Be careful with the fire, b’ys, if the festival crowd see it, they’ll throw you out.”
And then he leaves, like he suddenly remembered somewhere else he has to be. Imogene watches him walk away, his back muscles obvious in his thin T-shirt, a little bounce in his step.