“Here’s the plate for table six,” Sean said. “French toast, eggs, and fruit.”
“Young man.” Nora peeked beneath the table at her son’s feet.
“Where is your other sock?”
Liam shrugged. “I could only find one.”
“We have to leave in fifteen minutes. Go find it.”
“I looked.” Liam’s pubescent whine came out like the honk of a flat horn.
“Och, the first day of school always affects him like this.” Nora grabbed her son by the arm. “Let’s go. I have a feeling you didn’t look too hard.”
Sean nudged an egg in the skillet. “Can someone take this plate out?”
“I will,” Erin said.
“No!” Nora stopped, her foot poised on the first step. “Not after last time you won’t.” Her kind eyes turned to me. “Would you mind?” She jerked her highlighted pixie head toward Erin. “This one can’t be trusted. Last time she served a guest breakfast, we found her thirty minutes later, sitting at the table rattling on about her earthworm collection.”
Erin bit into a piece of sausage. “I like to share my passion for science.”
“Our guests do not want to hear about worm droppings at the breakfast table.” She gave Liam a small push. “Go on with you.”
“Table in the corner by the fireplace.” Sean handed the plate to me, then adjusted the strap of his ruffled apron. “Did I mention I used to ride in a tank for a living?”
Pushing the door open with my shoulder, I walked into the dining room where six tables draped in white cloths filled the space. At eight o’clock, only four of the guests dined, and their low chatter bounced off the hardwood floors.
The guest in the corner sat toward the fireplace with his back to me, a book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other.
“Here you go.” I placed the warm food on the table.
And got a look at his face.
“You.”
Beckett Rush lifted his head and smiled. “Good morning t’you, as well.” He put down his book and glanced at his plate. “You didn’t spit on me toast, did you now?”
“You’re staying here?”
“I am.”
“Here? At Birch Hill House? In one of these rooms? At this B and B?”
Beckett grinned at my babbling. “Don’t you go getting any ideas about stealing the spare key and sneaking into my room.” He covered his mouth in a whisper. “The innkeepers’ daughter already tried it.”
Of all the host families to stay with, I was residing with the one housing Beckett Rush. Unreal.
“Since I’m here for a while working on a movie, I guess we’ll be seeing each other around.” He picked up his syrup and poured a whorl of it over his plate. “Only in Ireland for a few days, and you’ve already found your pot of gold.”
This was the O’Callaghan’s customer. I couldn’t snark off to him. I couldn’t.
Oh, but I wanted to. What was it about this guy that had me itching to bare my claws?
I somehow managed to unclench my teeth. “Have a nice day.”
He pierced a bite with his fork. “Dream about me while you’re at school.”
“Would that be with or without your false teeth?”
He gave me a slow wink. “They’re fangs.”
“Kind of sad you have to use props to get the girls.”
“It’s absolutely tragic, isn’t it?” His smile reached his eyes. “Be sure to put me on your prayer list.”
My socks cut off my circulation, my uniform sweater itched, and my underwear seemed to be staging some sort of revolt to make me as uncomfortable as possible.
And these were the good points of the day.
I sat in fifth period and listened to the English teacher, Mrs. Campbell, give a preview of the year. No matter the country, it was the same spiel. If you didn’t do your homework, you were going to flunk. And if you flunked, you’d never get your dream job. And if you didn’t get your dream job, then you’d need to start practicing the phrase “Did you want biggie fries with that?”
As she lectured, I glanced down at my desk and realized that sometime during the hour, I’d rearranged my supplies. Three pens rested in a perfectly aligned group at a ninety-degree angle to my notebook, which rested in the exact center of the desk.
I did so like order. After Will died, when I wasn’t sneaking out of the house, I was organizing the family closets.
“Students, you are sixth years.” Mrs. Campbell paced the front of the classroom, her eagle eyes somehow falling on every one of us. We all looked like carbon copies in our dark shoes, plaid skirts, and navy cardigans. “After you sit your leaving cert this spring, you will be released into the real world. Do you know what you want to do? Where you’re going? Do you know who you want to be?”
My stomach tightened with her every question.
How was it I was eighteen? A senior? On this ledge of two lives, preparing to jump off and go to college and leave my childhood behind?
My brothers both shot from the birth canal with their destinies stamped to their butts like signatures on a Cabbage Patch Kid. Alex picked up his first football at two and never looked back, becoming one of the nation’s most beloved quarterbacks. And Will had gone on a mission trip in the eighth grade and forever championed for the plight of the less fortunate, whether through his work on CNN or his foundation to build schools in Afghanistan.
So far I was the family screwup.
But that was going to change.
“Every year we ask our sixth years to complete a final project.” Mrs. Campbell stopped near my desk, which was unfortunately at the front. “This year’s theme is serving,” she said. “We don’t want to just send out intelligent young women into the world, but kind, compassionate ones. Please take one of these sealed envelopes and pass it back.”
I picked an envelope from the top and handed the stack to the girl behind me and tried to smile.
“I’m Beatrice Plummer,” she whispered. “You may have heard of me.”
“I don’t think so.”
She ran a manicured nail under her envelope. “My dad is the principal. Mr. Plummer.”
“Must be hard to have your dad as principal.”
“Actually I find it quite useful. Do you know Taylor Risdale?”
“The actress?”
“My third cousin, she is.” Her braggish tone scrubbed over my nerves. “She’s filming a movie here.”
“I believe I did hear something about that.”
“I’m in it.” Her pleased grin let me know that it was an honor she was even talking to me. “So you’re the new girl. The American?”
I nodded.
“Would you like to sit with me and my friends for lunch?” It came out with enough confidence to be more of a statement than a question.
We girls can sometimes be like wild animals, able to sniff out the strongest among us. Within seconds, I took in the total picture of Beatrice—her black sequined headband, the way her dark hair fell with perfect symmetry over her shoulder, diamond studs twinkling in her ears. Even her regulation socks somehow looked cooler than the rest of ours.
I’d just met Sacred Heart’s queen bee.
“Thank you. But I’m eating with Erin.” I gestured to where my host sister sat on the opposite side of the room. “Want to join us?”
Beatrice’s glossy lips curved into a facsimile of a smile. “A word of advice?”
“Um, okay.”
“You could aim a little higher.” She delivered her sales pitch with all the finesse of a used car salesman. “With some guidance you could be one of the cool girls here, so.”
“Like you.”
She flipped her hair. “Of course.”
“Thanks for the offer. I’ll give it some thought.” I might’ve been born privileged, but my momma hadn’t raised no snob. Well, just when it came to egomaniacal actors.
I turned back around as Mrs. Campbell cleared her throat for attention.
“Students, pl
ease open your envelopes.”
I peeled open the flap and reached inside.
Cathleen Sweeney.
“On your paper is the identity of a person you will be spending a lot of time with.” Mrs. Campbell clasped her hands together, her eyes alight with excitement. “Each one of you will be adopting a grandparent from one of our nearby nursing homes.”
Okay, I could do this. A chance to cheer up an elderly person? How hard could that be?
“You will be expected to see your grandparent at least twenty hours by the term’s end. You will read to them, talk to them, get to know them, become a part of their lives. And before our Christmas holiday, you will turn in a portfolio to me.” Mrs. Campbell passed out a pack of papers, and the classroom filled with the sound of thirty girls flipping through the stapled pages.
Mrs. Campbell explained each assignment and how we’d be graded. “My plan is that this experience teaches you more than any textbook ever could.” She paused and her eyes panned the room. “My hope is that when you walk away from this . . . you are not the same.”
An assignment that could change my life?
Sign me up.
Chapter Four
The people here are so nice. They do hospitality better than any Southerner back home, and that’s saying something. Haven’t met an unkind soul yet.
—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland
No cafeteria.
What kind of school was Ireland running here?
Erin bit into her sandwich. “Why is that weird?” “You’re missing the joys of healthy cafeteria fare like fries, cold pizza, and mystery meat.” Not that I ate that trash. The last few months I had really cleaned up my diet, but school food was a teenage right of passage. Of course, so was driving, and they didn’t get that one either.
“We either bring our own lunch or go off school grounds,” Erin said.
Off-campus lunch. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
“Ugh, there goes Beatrice and the Poshes.” Erin’s friend Orla pointed to the group of girls crossing the street.
“Where are they going?”
Orla took out a compact and covered the shine on her forehead where her blond bangs swung. “That’s the boys’ school. St. Raphael’s.”
“What did you call them? The Poshes?” I ate my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, scraping off some of the strawberry jam, ripping away the crusts.
“Posh,” Orla said. “Like fancy. Think they’re better than the rest of us, sure they do.”
“We used to be friends,” Erin said. “That was before they got so uppity and . . . daring. We don’t mind a bit of fun, but we’re not party girls.”
“Yeah.” Orla opened her brown paper bag and peeked inside. “We know fun. Like two weekends ago we stayed up all night watching a documentary marathon on the brain.” She rolled her eyes toward Erin. “We’re positively wild.”
“You forgot to tell me Beckett Rush was staying at your house.” I was quite proud of how casual my voice sounded. As if it were every day I was sleeping under the same roof as a teenage phenomenon.
Erin craned her neck and looked all around before speaking in a hush. “Mam has made me promise not to so much as open my mouth one peep about him. Something about a contract she had to sign when he checked in. The whole town knows, but our family still can’t say a word. It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You can’t talk about him either. We don’t know who could be press in disguise. One word to them, and we lose the B and B, our possessions, and our life savings.”
“Wow.”
“I know. Isn’t it awesome?” Erin gave an airy sigh. “Beckett’s lovely, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” I took a drink of water. “If you’re into his type.”
She smiled. “The tall, blond, and ruggedly good-looking type?”
“I’d be careful with him, Erin.”
“Oh, I know. My mam’s already warned me. But he’s been at our house for three weeks and been nothing but a gentleman.
Hasn’t made one single overture toward me.” She sighed. “It’s been a total disappointment.”
“Bea’s one of the locals the Fangs in the Night crew hired, don’t you know,” Orla said.
Erin nodded. “She has a small speaking part.”
Orla took out a package of cookies. “But you’d think she was Scarlett Johansson.”
“It is something to be proud of,” Erin said.
Orla snorted. “And proud that one is. Her cousin got her the gig. Bea has all sorts of connections, and believe me, she uses them. She’ll run over anyone to get what she wants. Best keep your eye on her. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Finley. Like you’re new competition.”
I lined my bread crusts up neatly in a row on the table. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t want anything she has.”
Erin looked toward St. Raphael’s. “Just make sure you keep it that way.”
That night I woke up. Sweat glued my shirt to my skin, my heart pounded loud enough to wake the whole village, and tears coursed down my cheeks. Another dream where I saw Will. Yet I couldn’t get to him. And he couldn’t get to me.
One thirty a.m.
I rolled over and sighed, realizing that I was starving. Dinner had been some sausage concoction, and I couldn’t swallow more than a few bites. Sometimes meat just grossed me out. Maybe this was God telling me to be a vegetarian.
Deciding to take my mind off of my growling stomach, I flicked on the bedside lamp and opened my brother’s travel journal. I’d read this thing from cover to cover. Yet I still felt so drawn to it, as if it had something more it wanted to say.
I had to find a way to get out into the countryside and really see Ireland. The O’Callaghans were so busy, there was no telling when there would be a chance to get away. Patience had never been my strongest suit.
Or rolling my r’s.
God, I know we haven’t talked in a long time, and you seem to be playing the quiet game, but if you could open some doors for me to get a car. I want to see the land my brother fell in love with. Talk to the people he never forgot. View the world as he saw it. He believed this was the most beautiful place ever. And I could definitely stand some beauty.
My tummy rumbled again, and I knew I had to do something about it. Last year I would occasionally forget to eat. My counselor called me depressed.
I called me devastated.
I slipped on a sweatshirt to go with my Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms and fuzzy bunny slippers and made my way down the two flights of stairs, straight for the kitchen.
The room came to life as I flipped the switch and investigated the refrigerator.
I spied the milk and remembered the impressive cereal collection in the closet-sized pantry. Just as I reached in to grab the container, a low whine came from behind me.
I turned and listened.
Nothing.
Going back to the fridge, I pulled out the milk.
And heard the whine again. A pitiful sound, desperate and mournful, as if an animal writhed in pain just outside the back door.
I went to the door and my heart clenched at the lonesome wails. Turning the knob, I stepped outside and onto the back deck.
The kitchen light shone like a spotlight on the chocolate Lab I’d spotted on the front step the day I arrived.
“Hi, boy.” I moved slowly, just in case the thing was crying over a new rabies diagnosis. “What’s wrong, huh?”
The Lab remained at attention, but wagged its happy tail.
“Are you lonely? Do you need someone to talk to?” I reached out a tentative hand and scratched his head. “Because I totally relate.”
“Do you now?”
I jumped at the voice behind me.
There in the corner, holding a small book light and a script, sat Beckett Rush.
“You scared me.” My heart thumped wildly in my chest.
“I can see that.” He closed his script. “Were you going to brain me wi
th that?”
His gaze traveled over my head, and I realized I was holding the milk like a weapon. “I apologize for my catlike reflexes,” I said, lowering the jug. “Clearly you were milliseconds from devastating pain.”
He smiled. “Death by dairy products.”
“The dog was crying. I . . .” I was standing there in my pajamas.
In front of Beckett Rush. The Hollywood movie star. “I wanted to check it out. See if he was hurting.”
“The only thing Bob’s hurting for is food.” Beckett held up a plate. “I made myself a sandwich. Bob’s a big promoter of sharing.”
“He should’ve been around at dinnertime. I would’ve gladly shared.”
“That bad? I have half a sandwich here.”
I eyed him warily, as if the space between us were littered with land mines.
“I’m just going to throw it away.” Beckett tapped the seat beside him. “Sit. Eat. I promise you’re safe. I’m too tired to tick you off.”
“You say that like you do it on purpose.” With another scratch to Bob’s panting head, I slipped into the vacant seat.
“It passes the time.”
In the stingy light, I peeked beneath the bread and found ham, cheese, lettuce, and mayo. I scraped off the mayo, lost half the meat, and set aside one piece of bread.
“Picky eater.”
“I have discriminating taste.” I took a bite and smiled.
Bob gave another whine, then with a resigned sigh, dropped himself at Beckett’s feet.
“See?” He scratched the dog’s ear. “Some people like me.”
“He’s just lonely.”
Beckett’s eyes locked on mine. “I believe you said you were too.”
“That was a private conversation. Between me”—I swallowed my bite of sandwich—“and Bob.”
“So what are you really doing up?” His voice was sleepy deep.
“Just woke up. You?”
“Running lines.” He held up his script. “I’ve been inside all day and needed to get out. Get some air.” He ran his hand through blond hair that looked like it should’ve come with a surfboard and sunscreen. “Seems the scenes didn’t go so well today.” He took off his coat, stood up to his height that must’ve been at least six feet, and hovered over me. I held my breath as Beckett moved in close, and I smelled the detergent on his shirt as he settled the coat over my shoulders. “You look cold.”
There You'll Find Me Page 3