Calmer Girls

by Jennifer Kelland Perry

  CALMER GIRLS

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Kelland Perry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  SECOND EDITION

  September 2016

  Take The Plunge Publishing

  Published in Print and Digital formats in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Calmer Girls

  Jennifer Kelland Perry

  For my husband Paul, who shows me every day that dreams can come true.

  Calmer Girls

  Chapter One

  “I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free.”

  - Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

  July 1993

  Not every girl has to be pegged as peculiar by schoolmates to become the target of a bully. Some lucky girls, Samantha knew, got their daily dose of tyranny in the sanctuary of their own homes. Summer vacation didn’t even offer a reprieve. She had an insanely beautiful and beastly sister to thank for that honour. As for neglecting to hide her new secret from Veronica’s prying eyes? Well, Samantha had no one but herself to blame for that.

  Clad in bikini underwear and still damp from her morning shower, her blonde assailant breezed into her room, immediately spying what had been spread out on the comforter seconds earlier.

  Samantha leaped in front of her to block her view. “Do you mind?”

  With a sly grin, Veronica advanced. “Not in the least.” She feinted to the right, then to the left, elbowing past her younger sister. She had an easy twenty pounds on her and a long record of winning these childish clashes. She lunged toward the bed, giggling.

  But Samantha had more at stake this time. Probably more than she ever had. And despite her modest frame, she’d finally matured into a worthy rival. Grasping her sister by the wrists, she twisted the soft flesh and pushed her toward the door with an animal strength that surprised them both.

  Veronica stumbled backward, regained her balance, and pounced again. “Jeez, what friggin’ odds if I see ’em?” she said, inches from Samantha’s face. “What are they, X-rated?” Stretching high on her tiptoes, she peered past her sister’s shoulder, stealing another glimpse of the glossy photographs. “Haven’t been taking naked pictures of yourself, have you?” Scornful laughter sprung from her lips. “Ewww…kill me now.”

  “Not your bedroom, not your business.” Samantha gave her a firm shove toward the bedroom door. The thick, cloying odour of her sister’s cologne assaulted her nostrils, making her gag. “Get out!”

  “Over a few crummy pictures? What the devil is wrong with you?” Veronica’s smile vanished, her eyes glittering like chips of blue glacier ice. “Know what? One day you’re gonna drive every last soul away from ya.” She dropped her fists to her sides and turned her back to Samantha in retreat. “Don’t come crying to me then, you frigger.” Ponytail swinging, she pushed past their mother, Darlene, in the narrow upstairs hallway.

  “You know how she is, Ronnie,” Darlene said, her hair all mops and brooms this early in the morning, voice hoarse from inadequate sleep. “What good does it do to get vexed with her?” Wrapped in a faded pink bathrobe—that to Samantha, looked an awful lot like one Nana used to wear—she gripped her coffee mug as if it were a lifeline, failing to conceal the tremor in her hands.

  Veronica gave an exaggerated shrug before withdrawing to her own room. Darlene turned back to her younger daughter with a sigh. “Will I ever live to see the day the two of you get along? What’s the big deal about letting her see your photos?”

  Samantha glared at her. “You can leave now, Momma. Don’t concern yourself.” She winced at her mother’s dowdy appearance. “Go pour yourself another coffee. You look like shit.”

  Darlene’s face closed in, but not before Samantha saw the hurt there. Sighing, her mother backed away and disappeared downstairs without another word.

  Putting on her glasses and locking her door, she frowned. A keen stab of remorse pricked at her conscience. She tried to push down the black mood welling up inside her, but the dual edge of her insult thrust back at her. Oh, how she wished she could press rewind on her stinging words sometimes. She hated when Ronnie riled her into lashing out like that. And why did she take it out on Momma? With the recent upheaval of their entire world, didn’t she have enough to worry about?

  You know how she is, Ronnie. Taking deep breaths to calm herself, she pulled off her nightshirt and got dressed. As far back as her memory granted, Samantha Cross had suffered the notion that most girls didn’t live in the world the way she did. She didn’t need any reminders. She once read somewhere that insecure people wear masks, to impress, to fit in, to hide, and to protect sensitive emotions. She could relate, often cocooning herself in an aura of indifference and detachment she only pretended to feel. Regrettably, it was a facade Veronica usually knew how to penetrate.

  Returning to the bed where the file folder lay, her frown dissolved and her spirits lifted. She had won this round. Most of the photos were in full view, beckoning to her, begging for another perusal. Others peeked out of the developer’s envelope onto the yellow daisy-print comforter. But as enticing as her new diversion was, she gathered them together into their folder in haste and back to their hiding place under the mattress. She pulled the comforter up over her pillow, straightening it in a haphazard fashion.

  Samantha didn’t want her sister to see what, or more precisely, who her latest photography subject had been. Experience had taught her she had darn good cause. The Veronica she knew and loathed would crush her and step over her still-warm body to meet a guy like that. The only hope she had was to keep his file classified as long as she could.

  She turned her attention to the three pen and ink portraits waiting patiently for her to hang, leaning side by side against the bedroom wall. Not bad in this light, she consoled herself, noticing how the eyes in her artwork followed her around the room. One was of Leah, her best friend she had sketched back in the Cove last year. Samantha’s mother and Leah herself could hardly believe how faithfully Samantha had reproduced her long pin-straight bangs, the dusting of freckles, and the disarming grin that wreathed her face.

  The second sketch was her daddy’s favourite, a close-up rendering of Bruce Springsteen crooning into a microphone, eyes nearly closed, sweat beaded on his forehead. Samantha had drawn it for her fathe
r, a loyal Springsteen fan.

  So what was it doing on her wall? Why hadn’t he taken it with him to Alberta?

  Her reluctant gaze slid to the third drawing. Nana Rose gazed back at her from the likeness Samantha had drawn years ago. Of course, that was before the changes started and everything got so screwed up.

  The portrait made her think of simpler times. Their grandmother had lived with her family in those days, minding her and Ronnie when Darlene worked her shifts at the plant, or when their parents went out to party on weekends. Closing her eyes, she imagined Nana’s rocking chair, her warm lap, the long-ago folk songs she would sing while she brushed her granddaughter’s hair and put it up in plaits or pigtails. She could almost hear the lilt of Nana’s voice.

  For the wind was on her quarter and the engine’s working free

  There’s not another whaler that sails the Arctic Sea

  Can beat the old Polina, you need not try, my sons

  For we challenged all both great and small from Dundee to St. John’s.

  The scent of talcum powder. Her velvet-soft, wrinkled skin. Flashing green eyes Samantha had inherited. Her cheek pressed to Nana’s immense bosom when a bad dream or the mournful howl of a northeast wind had kept her from falling back to sleep. Nana had always answered her cries.

  Veronica’s words floated back to her from yesterday, when she’d unpacked the sketched portraits. “I’m getting a morbid vibe from your art, sis. You do realize they all speak of loss, right?” she’d asked, hands on hips. “You gotta suck it up, Sam. Time to quit living in the past.” She changed her mind, tucking Nana’s portrait back on her closet shelf between a couple of unpacked boxes. She did this not to give her sister any gratification. Some wounds were still too fresh.

  When the three of them had moved to St. John’s at June’s end, their first impression of the house on Military Road had been something of a shock. Having rented the property, sight unseen, prior to their arrival, Darlene unlocked the door of the attached two-storey and they ventured in. Samantha grew more and more disheartened with every step of their inventory. The layers of grime on the windowsills and the bathroom porcelain, mixed with the stale odour of cigarette smoke left behind by the former tenants, had nearly taken her breath away.

  Even the tiny square of back yard was an eyesore, with its patches of yellow grass and overgrown weeds. A tattered remnant of a Sobeys bag fluttered from the picket fence that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years, and looked set to collapse in the next brisk wind. Or a good fart, Samantha thought.

  “At least there’s a barbecue,” she noted. “Think it works?”

  “I was told it did,” her mother muttered. “And the veranda looks half-decent.” She went back inside to make sure the phone was in service.

  Darlene had called the landlady at once about the state the house was left in, but she’d offered no help, claiming lack of time and resources, adding there were others only too eager to rent it instead. Take it as is or give her back the keys, she’d growled. After pressing her about the excellent tenants she would be passing up, Darlene shamed her into reducing the damage deposit by half if they cleaned it themselves. A small victory.

  Unfortunately for Samantha, their mother needed to report for her new job right away and Veronica was out hunting for one, so the bulk of the cleaning fell to her, just as it usually had back in the Cove after Nana got sick. Every day for the entire week, she’d scrubbed and scoured the house from top to bottom, cleaning every window, every floor, and every shelf until her arms and back ached. She couldn’t wear latex rubber gloves; they gave her a terrible rash. Each night she fell into bed, exhausted from the gruelling work, her hands red and raw from erasing the dirt with different cleansers and wringing up cloths from pail after pail of hot, sudsy water.

  When she’d surveyed the fruits of her labour yesterday, she swelled with satisfaction. In spite of the worn, dated furniture that came with the place, at least now it more closely resembled a home. As for the back yard, well, she wasn’t superwoman. Darlene rewarded her with a few extra dollars, thanking her for her usual thoroughness.

  Typically, Ronnie hardly seemed to notice. Except for that remark yesterday. Coming home from her job search, she’d stepped around Samantha who knelt on the floor, her head inside the catastrophe of the green range oven. A full can of oven cleaner emptied and she was still scraping at some stubborn black splotches.

  “Having fun yet, Cinderella?” Veronica asked with a smirk.

  “You know what that makes you, doesn’t it?” Samantha hurled back over her shoulder.

  She still had major doubts on this impetuous move to the city. St. John’s was a jarring change from the idyllic environment she’d grown up in, with its traffic noise and potholed streets, the noxious smell of diesel fumes from the Metrobuses, and its many strangers that rushed past you without so much as a nod or a smile, like you weren’t worth the bother.

  There was one bright spot. Though it had only been a week, demure little Samantha had somehow, miraculously, already made one friend. And of the male persuasion, no less. She suppressed a shiver, a tiny smile playing around her lips.

  On impulse, she reached again under the mattress for the folder and pulled out one of the photos. When she’d picked them up from the developers last night, she’d been enchanted with how well they turned out. She studied the arresting brown eyes looking back at her, pushing her glasses back in place before they slid down her nose. Yes, Veronica would be very interested in seeing these. How long could she delay what was probably unavoidable?

  She knew if her sister wanted Brown Eyes for herself, nothing would stop her from effortlessly stealing him away. That was what Veronica Cross did—whatever the heck she wanted and leave the worry to everyone else. She and Ronnie couldn’t be more different if they had been born at opposite reaches of the universe.

  Absorbed in the photo, Samantha thought of their first meeting last week. She’d discovered a charming used bookstore down on Duckworth Street one afternoon when she took a break from housecleaning. Roaming the narrow aisles and through the crowded shelves of literary finds, her heart shimmied with a joy unmatched by any Christmas, as if she had unwrapped a hoard of priceless gifts, all with her name on them. Never had she seen so many great and affordable books all in one place. She pictured herself haunting these aisles as often as her reading speed and her meagre funds allowed.

  After a blissful hour, Samantha realized she’d selected too many and reduced her choices to three. Digging in her wallet, she returned to the front of the store. The tall male clerk behind the counter had his back to her while he finished a phone call.

  When he hung up the receiver and turned to her, the depth of his brown eyes drew her in at once. Smooth, dark hair, parted to the side, fell just past the collar of his plaid shirt. A small, deep scar curved by the right corner of his mouth, the only thing marring his face. Samantha thought it added a touch of vulnerability to his aspect. She didn’t think he looked much older than herself. When she ventured a grin, he smiled back easily.

  “Find what you were looking for?” he asked, ringing in her purchases.

  “Yes, and then some.” She handed him her money. Somewhat tongue-tied, she barely noticed when an older man came out of a room at the rear of the store, nodding in their direction.

  “A fan of the Brontë sisters, I see,” Brown Eyes said, slipping her books into a plastic bag. “Cool stash of classics here, isn’t it? And your timing is perfect; we’re just closing up.”

  Thanking him, Samantha stole a peek behind her as she went back outside. The older man began emptying the contents of the cash register into a zippered satchel while the clerk flipped over the sign in the window to Sorry, we’re Closed.

  She hadn’t gotten more than a few yards when Brown Eyes startled her, striding up beside her on the sidewalk. He smiled, introduced himself, and struck up a conversation.

  Ben Swift was eighteen, he told her. Yes, he had graduated from high school, but
was taking a year off before he decided what to do next. Work at this part-time bookstore gig for a while and explore his options. He was thinking of university, but hadn’t made his mind up yet.

  “The old man agrees, it might be a good idea to take some time to decide…”

  “Why?” she asked. “Need a break from studying?”

  “Not exactly. Just weighing my options. I…I need to be sure I want to go that route, before forking over all the tuition and stuff.” He grinned down at her. “You moved here recently? From around the bay, I’m guessing. That funny accent is a dead giveaway.”

  Samantha blushed and nodded, her gaze lowering. Something else that set her apart from these townies.

  “Yeah, Calmer Cove on the west coast. We call it Calmer for short. My mother got a job at a new call center,” she said, “and my sister and I have to go to school here in September.” She tried not to let her anxiety show, as if talking to this strange, hot guy wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for her. “And hopefully, on to Memorial University or the trades college here when we graduate.”

  “And your dad?”

  “They’re separated. He’s working in Alberta now.” Samantha looked up to catch his reaction, but his expression was neutral. “How about you? Does your father work in the city?”

  Ben nodded, raking his hair back from his forehead. “He designs and drafts plans for an architectural firm here. Business is practically dead, though, he says, with the downturn in the economy and all. Some of the newer hires got pink slips last week. I’m guessing your old man was a casualty of the moratorium?”

  “You got that right. Lost just about everything.” Her cheeks stained pink again. “He and my momma took the fightin’ up a notch then.” Aghast, Samantha wondered why she was telling him this. What a puncheon of fun this one is, he’s probably thinking. But it gave her a good feeling to confide in someone nice like Ben. And though they had just met, she sensed in him a certain empathy. Yes, she admitted, the northern cod fishery, her father’s lifeblood, had collapsed last year. And on its heels, her parents’ marriage. Samantha felt her entire universe collapse right along with it.