There You'll Find Me

by Thomas Nelson

  She laughed again, a rusty sound I barely recognized, as if her pipes hadn’t played that tune in years.

  I looked at Beckett and shook my head in shame. “You just can’t turn it off, can you?”

  He winked a gray eye. “Just part of me charm, Frannie.”

  “I can’t ever remember her name either.” Mrs. Sweeney’s lips quirked as she slanted me a look. “Tell me about this movie.”

  And so Beckett did. As if he had all the time in the world, he explained the entire plot and every character, bringing the saga to life, with the storytelling skills of a born Irishman. Mrs. Sweeney leaned forward in her chair, hanging on his every animated word.

  “Now that’s a tale.” She sat back when Beckett finished. “Not like that drivel she tried to read me.”

  “I said I was sorry. I won’t insult you with Jane Austen again. How was I to know you had a taste for blood?” I put the lid on my water and placed it back in the cooler. “Though now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense.”

  “Disrespectful child,” Mrs. Sweeney muttered.

  But there was some color on her cheeks, and her frown didn’t seem to be so severe. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was enjoying herself.

  An unexpected flutter of happiness shimmied through me. I’d just wanted a change of scenery and to get in some hours. But somehow . . . I thought I might’ve brightened Mrs. Sweeney’s day.

  With Beckett’s help.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the display.

  “Girlfriend number twelve missing you?” I asked, watching his forehead furrow.

  Distractedly, he fired off a quick text. “Something like that. I’ve got to get back.” His smile returned as he stood up, flipped his crazy dreads, and took Mrs. Sweeney’s hand again. “It was an honor to meet you. Please don’t let Finley here talk bad about me when I leave.”

  “I tune out every word she says anyway.”

  Beckett helped her with her sagging blanket, then leveled that deep gaze on me. “Thank you for lunch. That was . . . unexpectedly good.”

  I didn’t know whether he meant the food or the company. Either way, coming from his lips, the words sounded as decadent as chocolate cake. God, help me with my immunity force field with this boy. Falling for him would bring nothing but trouble. And I’ve had plenty already.

  “By the way, Bob said to tell you he’s ready for another adventure.”

  I brushed the grass off my uniform skirt. “I’d hate to upset a Labrador. What do you have going on this weekend?”

  “Filming. I’ve some downtime though.”

  “I’ll pick a place.”

  “See that you do.” And with another grin to Mrs. Sweeney, Beckett walked away.

  “’Tis a fine young gentleman there,” Mrs. Sweeney said.

  “Yeah.” I watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

  “He’s okay.”

  “Okay?” She flicked crumbs off her lap. “He’s first-rate.”

  I slipped my jacket back on, picked up the cooler, then reached for her wheelchair. “He’s also a total player and wild as the Irish wind.”

  “Psshh.” She grumbled as I pushed her back onto the sidewalk. “Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. I said he’s a good boy.” Resting her chin into her hands, she slumped in her chair as if the day had suddenly caught up with her. “I can spot a bad one a mile away. I know their kind too well.”

  “I’m a really good listener, if you’d like to expand on that.” I hummed a new scrap of melody that popped into my head. “Maybe tell me about those letters. Confession is good for the soul.”

  I expected her to tear into me yet again, but instead she stayed silent for several seconds, running her fingers over the trim of her blanket. “I do believe my soul is past the point of helping.”

  “That’s not true. It’s never too late.”

  She looked at the town as we walked by, her eyes heavy with fatigue. And an ache so deep, it didn’t have a name. I’d seen that look in my own mirror.

  “I gave up that right many years ago,” she said. “My fate is like those envelopes—sealed and tossed aside.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  • Hours of practice: 3

  • Hours of sleep: 4

  • Hours looking for cross: 2

  The piano bench groaned as I sat down in the music room Friday during lunch. I opened my brother’s journal to the page I’d read twice already that morning.

  Went to Galway tonight. People everywhere, enjoying life, smiling, and just slowing down to let the world take care of itself for a few hours.

  The feeling was contagious. Especially when I stepped into McPherson’s Pub to grab a bite of the special and listen to some traditional Irish music. The fiddle made me want to dance myself, and many did. The drum beat like my very own heart. And some little flute that looked no wider than a pencil reminded me of the Aran Islands floating not too far from Abbeyglen.

  God was here tonight. In the strings of the guitar and the call of the singer’s voice. I realize how often I overlook him back home.

  And I know I don’t want to do that anymore.

  The LORD will send His faithful love by day; His song will be with me in the night—a prayer to the God of my life.

  —Psalm 42:8

  “Happy Friday.” Sister Maria walked into the classroom, a gentle smile on her face. This was the woman who could help me with my audition, who could make sure there would be no doubt I was ready.

  “Hello.” Funny how when I was in this room, I breathed easier. When I saw her, the muscles in my shoulders loosened. I could just . . . be myself.

  I put up my journal and placed my fingers on the keys.

  “Starting with the piano today, are we? Why don’t you just warm up for me?”

  I played some scales, enjoying the freedom of the familiarity, the echo and reverb of the notes.

  “You play the piano by ear,” she said as I stopped.

  “I can read music.”

  “I know this as well.” She nodded to the piano. “Just play.”

  “What?”

  “Anything you like.”

  I thought about it a moment before launching into an old Black Eyed Peas song, jazz-style.

  “No.” She put her hands on mine. “You’ve something weighing on your mind. I want to hear that.”

  “How?”

  She smiled. “Try.”

  I sat there as the minutes scraped by.

  “Anytime.”

  This felt . . . wrong. It was invasive. It was too . . . personal. Like she was asking me to cut open my heart and let her see the ugly mess of it all.

  “I can’t.”

  “Finley,” Sister Maria said. “There’s no perfection here. Music is never perfect. It has flaws, it has character. It has to start rough. Especially when that’s what you feel.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now begin.”

  My fingers hovered over the worn, ivory keys. My breath came faster, as did the unexpected pressure of tears.

  “Close your eyes.”

  The woman was bossy.

  But I obeyed.

  Please, God.

  And then I played.

  From the pit of my soul, the place where the bleakness crouched low. Where the week’s anxieties gathered like the calories, the music began.

  Three minutes later my hands moved over the black, my fingertips pressed into the white, until it all made sense. My foot held the pedal as I heard the ending in my head seconds before my hands repeated.

  Tears dripped onto my chin, my hands, slapping me out of my trance.

  “I can’t do this.”

  I stopped.

  Sister Maria just looked at me, no expression on her face. No judgment. “Feel better?”

  “Not really.”

  She smiled and slowly nodded. “You’ve the gift, Finley Sinclair.

  Believe in it.”

  “I have to finish th
is audition piece.”

  “And you will. Don’t rush it.”

  “But I can’t get the ending until I—”

  “When you’re ready to hear the rest, you will. Just like today.” She stood to her feet and wiggled her fingers toward my violin case. “Now before I hear you play your song again, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

  I got up and unpacked my violin, running my hand over the maple scroll. “I can’t stop thinking about Cathleen Sweeney, the woman I visit as part of my English project.” And heaven knew I didn’t want to think about her.

  She nodded. “I’ve heard of her.”

  “Do you know anything about her?”

  “Just that she hasn’t any family. I hear she’s a little bit of a pistol.”

  “She’s lonely.” Had I just taken up for Mrs. Sweeney? “I mean, she’s sick and dying, and she thinks it’s too late to make amends with God.”

  “So maybe you’re the person to help her see the light.”

  “But God and I aren’t speaking, remember?”

  “Still?” Sister Maria looked to the ceiling and let out an exaggerated breath. “How long is this standoff going to last, then?”

  I shook my head. “I feel sorry for Mrs. Sweeney.”

  “Understandable,” she said. “But not entirely useful.”

  “What should I do?”

  Sister Maria held up her hands in a shrug. “Nothing?”

  “But . . .” Ideas spun and sputtered in my head. “I think I have to do something.”

  “Ask God.”

  I felt like we’d worn this topic out. “I told you we’re—”

  “Ask him anyway.” Sister Maria chuckled. “You’d be surprised what he might come up with—if you’re looking for it.”

  “Speaking in parables went out with the New Testament times.”

  “I’m trying to bring it back. That and the jitterbug.” She glanced at my backpack on the floor, where my journal stuck out. “What does today’s entry say?”

  “My brother talks about going to Galway.”

  “A beautiful place. Can be quite lively.”

  “He seemed enchanted with the music.”

  “Ah, yes. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “I’ve heard some Irish music. Will it be so different there?”

  “Depends. If there’s a difference, I’ve every confidence you’ll hear it.”

  I slid my bow against the strings two times, then let it fall. “Will heard God.” I gave a small laugh, but it was an empty sound. “He saw God wherever he went and heard him in a pub of all places.”

  “I’m sure the Lord likes a bit of fiddle and bodhran too.” She sat in an aluminum chair, lacing her wrinkled fingers in her lap. “So you said you’ve heard our music?”

  “I have.”

  “But have you listened?” Sister Maria tilted her head and pierced me with those searching eyes. “Really listened? Maybe you should go check it out yourself.”

  “Are they playing hymns or something?”

  She put some new sheet music in front of me. “Depends on who’s doing the listening.”

  “Hey, Finley.” Beckett’s makeup artist held up a wave as I walked onto the set. “Beckett’s in his trailer. Go on in.” Beatrice stood next to her and shot lethal darts in the form of an artful glare.

  “Thanks, Ciara.” I didn’t get five steps away before Beatrice dogged my side.

  “How much longer are you going to let this go on?” she asked.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Being Beckett’s personal assistant.” She had the nerve to do air quotes. “Are you seriously so desperate for his attention that you’ve signed on to be his dog walker and coffee fetcher then?”

  I wasn’t about to explain my arrangement with Beckett to her. “I don’t get his coffee.” I got him water. “And Bob and I are friends.” I waved at a passing camera guy. “I’m sorry if that’s hard for you to accept, but I can no longer deny my strong feelings for the drooling beast.”

  “You’re not Beckett’s type.”

  Didn’t I know it. “That’s why we get along so well.”

  “And don’t forget about Taylor. Do you think you’ve got something she doesn’t?”

  No. One look at Taylor, and I felt like I was fat, ugly, and clumsy all in one.

  I picked up my pace, and Beatrice wobbled in her heels to keep up. “You’re not what he wants.”

  “One of the many blessings I counted this morning.”

  “You think you’re so—”

  “Look.” I pivoted hard on my heel until we were face-to-face.

  “Just back off. I’m not moving in on your fan-girl crush.”

  “Beckett and I are friends and—”

  “I don’t care.” I blocked out the images in my mind. “What you two are is not my concern, and neither should I be any concern to you.”

  She lifted a perfectly waxed brow. “If you get between Beckett and Taylor, I promise it will mean trouble for you.”

  “Are they a couple?” I watched Beatrice closely. The only time I saw Beckett and Taylor together was in the tabloids. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not here looking for autographs or a date, so I guess I don’t have to worry.”

  She took a step closer, so close I could see the cracks in her lipstick. “I heard Mr. Rush warn Beckett against you with my own ears.”

  That shouldn’t have hurt. But it did.

  What had Beckett said to this?

  I sighed like I was the actress. “It must be exhausting to maintain this much drama all the time.” I glanced at my watch. “You heard Ciara. Beckett’s waiting for me.” And I walked away, with my hands clenched into fists and my cheeks burning on my face. The nerve of that girl. She totally needed a therapist. And I should know.

  I knocked once on Beckett’s door, then let myself in.

  “I said I would look at the scripts.”

  Beckett held up a hand in greeting as he sat in one of the plush chairs next to his father.

  “There’s no time for you to read the script,” Mr. Rush said.

  “Just sign the contracts. That will give you three movies for next year.”

  The tension in the room was thick as Mr. O’Callaghan’s chocolate pudding. I slid past the guys and went to the tiny kitchen area, took out a Diet Coke and let the cold liquid burn down my throat.

  “I want to read the material.”

  Feeling like an unwelcome guest, I reopened the fridge, hid behind the door, and began to arrange the contents by height.

  “I’m your manager. It’s my job to help you select the work. Would I lead you astray?”

  “No, but maybe it’s time to branch out.”

  “To what? We’re building an empire here.”

  “To something that doesn’t involve fangs and blood.”

  “That’s what your fans want to see.”

  Beckett shoved his fingers through his hair. “I can’t do this forever.”

  “Of course not. You only have a small window of time to play the teenage heartthrob, so take advantage of it before we move to the next stage in your career.” Mr. Rush set the contracts on the small table. “Have these signed by the time I get back next week.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “Los Angeles. I want to have a talk with a guy about more Beckett Rush merchandise.”

  “The posters and unauthorized biographies weren’t enough?”

  His father didn’t smile as he got to his feet. “You may not see it now, but one day you’ll thank me for this.” The door slammed behind him, leaving the trailer doused in awkward silence.

  “So . . .” I stepped away from the fridge and fingered the hoodie I wore over my uniform. “When can I get my Beckett bobblehead doll?”

  “Let’s just run the lines, okay?” His tone was as sharp as a pointed stake.

  “Fine.” I sat down my drink and picked up his script. “Where do you want to start?”

  �
�Page fifty-six.”

  “We’ve done that scene ten times.”

  “And it’s still not right.” He thrust the script at me. “I want it perfect.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as if warring with a headache. “Page fifty-six.”

  “Got it. Anytime you want to start.” Your royal crabbiness.

  Beckett sat there a moment longer, and just as I was getting ready to prompt him with a line, he looked up. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, that’s not your line.” I scanned the page. “You’re supposed to say—”

  He reached out, covered my hands on the script with his. “I’m sorry, Finley. I didn’t mean to take my bad mood out on you.”

  His skin was warm against mine. “It’s fine.”

  “Tell me about your day.”

  I blinked at the topic change. At the change in the boy. “Um . . . what?”

  “Your day. Tell me about school.”

  “Don’t you want to run lines?”

  “It can wait.”

  “Okay.” I licked my bare lips and regretted their lack of gloss. Taylor would never have naked lips. “I don’t really know anything exciting.”

  “I don’t want exciting.” He leaned forward, as if he were about to divulge international secrets. “I want normal.”

  “Well . . .” What I wouldn’t have given to pull just one sexy thing from my boring day. “We’re reading Macbeth in English, and I made an 85 on a quiz in math.” Was that seriously the best I could do? “I, um, failed to show my work and didn’t get credit for a few problems.”

  “I hate when that happens.”

  I stifled a smile. “I had a music lesson at lunch. Hung out with Sister Maria.”

  “Is she hot?”

  “For seventy, yes, I do believe she is.”

  He removed his hand from mine and leaned back in his chair. The harsh lines left his face and that L.A. smile returned. “What’s your least favorite subject?”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  “History. I get confused on all the dates and wars and names of men I’ll never really need to know.”

  “I love history,” he said. “The victories, the defeats, the stories of the underdog.”