“So you and Taylor aren’t a couple?”
He opened his mouth. Then shut it.
“What a good boyfriend you are.” I forced my voice to be flat and even. “I’m positively eaten up with jealousy over what Taylor’s got. I mean, what a moral, trustworthy guy. She’s so lucky.”
“I can’t explain everything, but—”
“Because there is no explaining it.” I stuck my earbuds back in, cranked up the volume, and ran back in the direction of the house.
Leaving Beckett Rush far behind me.
I visited with Erin and the girls outside at lunch for a few minutes before throwing my apple core in the trash and hopping on my bicycle to see Mrs. Sweeney. Between her snoring through my reading selections, yelling for the police, and threatening to lob her pudding cup my way, it was an hour in which I was going to do nothing but store up some treasure in heaven. God owed me for this one. Meanwhile, Erin was matched up with some old lady who’d already knit her a hat and matching scarf.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sweeney.” I knocked twice, then walked on inside. “How are you feeling today?”
A lonely tray sat on the cart next to Mrs. Sweeney’s bed. “Go away.”
“It’s good to see you too.” I pointed toward the covered plate on her tray. “What’s this?”
“Bangers and mash.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sausage. Mashed potatoes. What are they feeding you that you haven’t heard of that?”
“Well, if it’s so good, why aren’t you eating it?”
“Because I don’t want to.” Mrs. Sweeney lay against her pillows, her wrinkles more pronounced in a room lit only by her reading light.
“Want me to cut it for you?”
“Am I a child that I can’t cut me own meat?” We both knew she hadn’t cut her own food in weeks. Lately I’d seen a nurse’s aid helping feed her. “I’m just not hungry. And shut that lid.” She turned her head, paling. “I can’t stomach the smell.”
“Do you feel sick?”
“Of course I do. I have cancer.”
I covered the food and pushed the cart away. “You have to eat though.”
She grumbled and rolled her eyes. “If they’re not bringing me something greasy, it’s brothy like I’m a wee baby.”
I dug through my bag and pulled out some crackers from yesterday’s lunch. “I have just the thing.” I opened the packet and handed them to her. “Now eat.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re bossy?”
“Anyone ever tell you your hair needs brushing?” I walked to her bedside and fluffed her pillows. Then grabbing her brush, which she’d begun to keep on her table, I gently smoothed out the day’s snarls. “I see you had a shower today. Your hair smells nice and clean.”
“Hmph.”
God, help me get through to this woman. And help her use sentences that consist of real words. Ones that contain vowels and everything.
“I know you’re dying for an update on my life. I can see it in your seething eyes, so I won’t keep you in suspense any longer.” Mrs. Sweeney’s lids closed as if she were sleeping, and I took that as an invitation. “I’ve been practicing night and day on my audition song. Nobody can identify the cross in my brother’s journal, which means I still don’t have an ending for it. It’s not like I can just put any old notes in there. We still don’t have a date for Erin. She’s a basket case. And apparently when she gets stressed, she reads medical journals online. Beatrice is still harassing her. And she’s not exactly nice to me either.” I didn’t even wait for Mrs. Sweeney to comment. Because I knew she wouldn’t. “I guess every town has to have a bad seed.” Lumberjack snores slipped from Mrs. Sweeney’s cracked lips. I continued my easy strokes with the brush and kept talking.
“So I went to Galway with Beckett Rush Saturday night. You know, the actor you were drooling over at our little picnic. We ran into someone you might know.” I teased the top portion of her hair to give it some lift. “Donal Murphy.”
Mrs. Sweeney’s closed eyes flinched.
“Said he’s known you a long time. The man sure is full of information.”
“A bloomin’ busybody is what he is.” Mrs. Sweeney’s voice popped like a firecracker. “Can’t believe a word he says.”
I settled myself into the chair beside the bed. “I know about your sister.”
“You had no right to go nosing around! You didn’t just run into that man, did you?” Her hair flopped as she pulled herself up in the bed. “You’re to stay out of my business!”
“How long has it been since you talked to her?”
“Just leave!” She flipped to her side and yanked the covers to her chin.
Fine. If I had to have this conversation with her back to me, I would. “I know you care about your sister.” Silence. “Mr. Murphy said you, um, stole her fiancé. And while I’ve never done that, I have done some pretty terrible things. I’ve hurt people. Made my family cry. Lost some friends. I know what it’s like to make bad choices—ones that seem right at the time. And I know what it’s like to pay the consequences. And, Mrs. Sweeney, I don’t know what you believe, but I think if you asked God to wipe your slate clean, he would. It’s that easy. And that’s something I can’t do for you.” Her breathing was slow and steady. I knew I’d probably worn her out until she truly did fall asleep. “But I think you want your sister’s forgiveness too. And . . .” I hoped I didn’t regret this. “I can help.”
The clock on the wall ticked. The lamp bulb hummed.
But I got no response from Mrs. Sweeney.
“Okay. Here’s the deal,” I whispered. “Maybe you shouldn’t trust me with this. Because God and I . . . we’re not cool. And he’s kind of mad at me right now. Or maybe he had to run interference for me so much last year, he’s taking a Finley break. But I’m still going to pray about this. For you. Because”—I sniffed against unexpected tears—“it bothers me that you won’t have closure. And believe me, you need it. We all do. You are the grumpiest woman I know . . . but it seems I care about you.”
Oh, what was the point?
Walking around the bed, I crept to the door and pulled it open.
“Finley?”
At that hoarse voice, I stilled.
“Yes, ma’am?” My eyes teared up again and I pressed my lips to hold back a smile.
“Bring your fiddle next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And Finley?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t take any guff from that Beatrice.”
“I won’t, Mrs. Sweeney.”
Behind me the lamp shut off.
And the room went dark.
Chapter Seventeen
STEELE MARKOV
No, I have no reflection in the mirror. I have no reason to look upon it. I see who I am reflected in your eyes. I know what you think about me. But what if I told you, you were wrong?
Fangs in the Night, scene 8, page 48 Fierce Brothers Studios
That’s quite a book you’re reading.”
Beckett looked up from his biography on George Washington and stared at me as I stood in the doorway of his trailer, blocking the Wednesday afternoon sun. “It does have lots of big words in it.” He quirked a brow. “Maybe you could help me.”
“Just sound them out.” I shut the door behind me and stepped inside. “I’m here to tell you I quit.”
Beckett scratched his shoulder and yawned, an indulged prince in his castle.
“I said I quit.”
He went back to his book. “I heard you.”
“Okay then.” I stood there like a fool, counting the ways I’d love to tell him off. “I just wanted to say good-bye.”
“Resignation not accepted.” His long finger slowly turned a page.
My face flushed with angry heat. “Don’t pretend like this bothers you—”
The sentence died as Beckett slammed his book on the table and pushed to his feet. He closed the gap between us in three steps and towered
over me. “You want to think I’m a party guy, fine. You want to think I chase anything in tight jeans, I’ll take that too. But at least I’ve been faithful to our agreement.”
“And to Taylor? Have you been faithful to her?”
“You said you’d help me until the movie was done. That was our agreement, in case you need a reminder.”
“But—”
“Haven’t I driven you to wherever you asked?”
“Yes.”
“Have I treated you badly on this set?”
I shook my head. “No, but—”
“Is this what you do? Just shut down when things get tough?
Run away when it doesn’t go your way?”
I flinched at his words. “You are such a jerk.”
“Maybe so.” His jaw tightened. “But not about our bargain. Looks to me like you’re the one flaking out. I thought you were better than that.”
Yeah, well, I wasn’t. “Why can’t you just let me go?”
His gaze slowly dipped to my lips, then slid back to my eyes.
“Maybe I don’t want to.” He massaged the back of his neck. “I thought we were friends.” Something swam in those eyes. Something searching, almost plaintive. “Finley, I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry. But my life isn’t my own. There are things about this business you don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think.” Like the fact that Beckett was a master manipulator and a total player.
“No,” he said. “You don’t. Besides, how are you going to get to all those destinations you have mapped out? Are you going to give up on that too?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Or you let me take you. Like we originally discussed.”
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want you here.”
His forceful words hung between us, balancing between his interpretation and mine. “What does that even mean?” That he liked me? That he wanted to spend time with me?
When he looked at me, the rogue was all gone. Instead I saw a guy who was tired, who was in high demand from everyone who knew him. “The director was threatening to replace me on the movie just a month ago.” He spoke softly, as if his words might leak through the walls of the trailer. “Then you came along and helped me with my lines, and I had him shoving contracts in my face for the next deal.”
“So I’m a good-luck charm?” Bitterness pierced my ego like a pin. Why did I even care?
Beckett reached out with both hands and slowly lifted my stocking cap off my head. He ran a hand over my hair and smiled. “Static.”
I grabbed my hat from his grip. “Your improved acting skills have nothing to do with me.”
He planted his hand over the space above my head again and sighed. “I can’t explain it.”
“Try.”
“You’re real, Finley.”
You’re flawed. You’re not perfect like every other girl I see.
So what if I was real? I didn’t live in Hollywood.
“I’m just . . . comfortable around you. Everyone else is so fake, so eager to kiss my butt, to tell me yes when the answer is no. That’s not what I want. Nobody else but the director has the guts to tell me when I deliver a bad line or mess up a scene. But you. I need honest feedback right now.”
“Ask your dad.”
Beckett’s eyebrows slammed together. “He’d yell anyone to the ground who suggested I wasn’t delivering an Oscar performance with every word.”
“Sounds very encouraging to me—”
“No.” His jaw tensed. “I want someone who’ll just be truthful. Do you have any idea how little honesty I see? I can’t trust anyone. But you barely tolerate me.” His lips quirked. “It’s perfect.”
“Sorry. Not interested. Our agreement was that I help out as your assistant. I owe you nothing more.”
“Do you want to find that gravestone in your brother’s pictures?”
“Of course I do. But I also distinctly remember you said it was impossible.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
“You said yourself there were thousands—”
“Trust me.”
My laugh was low and cynical. “I might not be at the top of my class, but I’m not a total idiot.”
“I’m asking you to do this one thing for me.” His voice was so sincere, but he was an actor. “Do this as my friend, and I’ll find the site of the photo.”
“Beckett?” I crooked my finger and he leaned close until my lips were near his ear.
“Yes?”
“Find yourself another friend.”
Chapter Eighteen
In the Bible you said your constant love and truth will always guard me. I can’t believe parts of the Dun Aengus fortress still stand. It made me think how as crazy as it is, even though this has been on Inishmore Island over thousands of years, you’re always with me. You stay the same. Nothing wears you down.
—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland
He kissed you?”
Erin stopped in her tracks right in front of the entrance to school, as if the shock had paralyzed her legs.
“I can’t believe you kept this from me. Finley, that’s awesome.”
“No, it’s not. It’s awful.”
“I’d take that kind of awful any day,” she said. “But be honest. Didn’t any part of you just . . . hope?”
“It’s not that I thought he liked me. I know that kiss was simply a diversion.” Just something Beckett did on a regular basis with any chick with lips. “But still. There might’ve been the tiniest sliver of my heart in that. Some part of me who wanted Beckett to say, ‘I’ve never felt anything like I did when I kissed you.’”
“It’s like Shakespeare.”
Then the fantasy continued with a few declarations of adoration, some proclamations of my intoxicating beauty. “Well, it’s not going to happen. So pretend like you know nothing about a kiss.”
Erin sighed. “Sadly, I don’t.”
I stepped through the doors of Sacred Heart and reality smacked me back to earth with the smell of disinfectant mixed with the perfume of a few hundred girls. My pulse scurried as I realized I’d forgotten two notebooks and a work sheet at home.
God, help me.
Erin and I walked into English class, and the temperature dropped a good thirty degrees.
I found the source of the cold as I took my seat in front of Beatrice.
My smile was friendly, as if I hadn’t a care in the world. “Good morning.”
“Is it?” She studied her notes for our quiz on Macbeth, not even bothering to look at me. “Taylor said you weren’t too happy about her and Beckett in the tabloids.”
“I really don’t care. Beckett and I are friends. That’s all.” And no longer that.
She turned a page of notes. “You throw yourself at him at every opportunity. It’s embarrassing really.”
I threw myself at him? Me? “That’s an . . . interesting perspective. But I think we both know it’s not true.”
“I know what I’ve seen.” Her lip curled into a snarl. “You know it’s best for both of their careers if they’re a couple—as long as they’re doing these movies.”
“And Taylor’s success means more roles for you?” Because this was more than Beatrice being protective of her cousin’s “boyfriend.” This was strictly about Beatrice.
“It’s public knowledge he’s with Taylor.”
Was he? I just didn’t know anymore. Nor did I understand why he wouldn’t come right out and tell me. “I’m his assistant. That’s it.” Or I was his assistant.
“And wasn’t that clever of you to get that job?” Bea sat back in her chair, her spine as straight as the wall behind her. “Watch yourself, Finley.” She snapped her binder shut. “I’d hate for you to do something you’d regret.”
“All right, class. Clear your desks.” Mrs. Campbell passed out the quiz, and I turned back to the front.
I was reading qu
estion number six when I felt the first poke.
I glanced behind me, but Beatrice was writing furiously on her paper.
When I got to question number ten, she jabbed me again.
“What?” I hissed.
I was going to rip that pencil out of her little manicured hand.
“Finley Sinclair,” Mrs. Campbell said, her accent as sharp as the gaze over her bifocals. “Is there a problem?”
I darted a look at Beatrice, then shook my head. “No, ma’am.”
After the quiz, Mrs. Campbell put us into groups to read the next act of Macbeth. Just as I was giving my best performance ever of Lady Macbeth, I saw Beatrice walk with Mrs. Campbell into the hall. I continued reading, though it was hard to totally throw myself into character when the role of my husband was played by a chick named Teresa Muldoon.
Mrs. Campbell stuck her head back into the room. “Finley, may I see you, please?”
Beatrice stepped back inside, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
“Yes?” I said as I joined the teacher outside.
She held up my quiz. Then Beatrice’s. “Would you like to explain this?”
I squinted to see the red grade. “We both need to study better?”
“Miss Sinclair, twice I caught you turning around looking at Beatrice’s paper.”
“I wasn’t looking at her paper. She—”
“And then I see you two made the same exact grade. And not only that, but missed the same questions.”
“But she was—”
“And both put some of the same ridiculous guesses. Now what do you say?”
I took another glance at the quizzes. “My guesses were completely original. And it ticks me off that she obviously copied them.”
“Yes, your answer to the question of what makes Duncan a good king?” She read from my test. “He has a really cool crown.”
Her tone was dry as the pork chops Nora served for dinner last night. “Very impressive. You could’ve at least studied enough to know when you were copying a completely ridiculous answer.”
“But I didn’t copy. I came up with that ridiculous answer all by myself. Beatrice copied!” In all these things, I am more than victorious through Him who loves me . . .
There You'll Find Me Page 13