There You'll Find Me

by Thomas Nelson

  Nice to know the Lord spoke to one of us. “You know, I read my brother’s journal and I wish I had his absolute faith, his view of the world. He thought everything was beautiful.”

  “Isn’t it?” Beckett stepped back. “Look around.”

  “But then people go away.” I drew back my hand and hugged my arms against the dipping temperature. “Brothers die. Children disappear. War rages. It’s hard to watch the news and not question life . . . God . . . the point of it all.” I cleared my throat against a lump. “I watched the video footage of the explosion that killed my brother. The whole world did. How do you explain what I saw?”

  “You doubt there’s a God?”

  “No.” Thoughts tumbled in my head, and none of them seemed to make enough sense to even speak aloud. “But I don’t see him like I did as a little kid. He’s no longer the God of happy stories that came with stale Oreos and watered-down punch. I guess . . . I don’t know who he is.”

  “Umm . . . His law is love, and his gospel is peace?”

  I blinked my watery eyes. “Did you seriously just quote a Christmas carol?”

  “I’m kind of new to this.” Beckett laughed, then scuffed the ground with the toe of his shoe. “So last year we did this movie in Italy.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and studied a weed at his feet. “I was sightseeing on my own and walked into this beautiful old building. It was a church. I’ve never told a soul this, but . . . something seemed to just reach out to me there. I came back the next day. And the next after that. I borrowed one of the camera guy’s Bibles and started reading it. I still don’t have a lot of it figured out, but somehow I know it’s real. And I’m not through searching. I don’t have the answers to your questions. I just know God said to trust, and that’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “That’s not good enough for me anymore.” I couldn’t believe I was debating faith. With a Hollywood prince. “I want answers. I want to understand this world again.”

  Beckett walked to me and reached his hand over my head. He plucked a wildflower growing on a vine in the cracks, a violet bloom that hadn’t received the message that summer was gone. “Maybe you should stop going by what you feel.” He opened my hand and pressed the flower in my grip. “And start going by what you know is truth.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  From: Finley_Sinclair@SinclairEnterprises.com Subject: Bambino

  Alex, congrats on the baby news. Things are great here. No, I’m not getting Beckett Rush’s autograph. I spend so much time practicing, I barely know the boy exists.

  I heard the O’Callaghan family rustling around downstairs on Sunday afternoon, getting ready for lunch. My stomach reminded me I had skipped breakfast to practice, then spent thirty minutes reading Will’s journal after that.

  The sharp corners of the picture glued to the page lifted at the edges as if straining to break free. While the images were blurry, the colors were not. Above the ocean, rows of houses lined up together in sharp blues, greens, and yellows. They looked like confections, as if you could run your finger over them and draw back sugary icing. Beneath the photo Will had scrawled a verse, one I recognized from Psalms.

  Lord, You light my lamp; my God illuminates my darkness.

  As I read the rest of the words, I heard Will’s deep voice as if he were sitting next to me.

  Lahinch is only about ten miles from Abbeyglen. On the Liscannor Bay, it’s a popular spot for surfers and golfers or just a guy in search of some good pub food. Went into McDougal’s Pub where I was told I could find the finest cup of tea and the crispiest cod. While it rains a lot, nothing can dim the shades of this town. Color is all around. I want to keep my eyes on the good. And not the dark clouds.

  Words from an eighteen-year-old boy. Most guys his age were waxing poetic about girls and cars. But most guys didn’t grow up to be breakout reporters for CNN by the age of twenty-three.

  “Finley?” Erin called from the steps seconds before she appeared. “Beckett’s here for you.”

  “Why?” My host sister’s face was still drawn with gloom.

  “Said you guys were going to Lahinch.”

  Oh. I hadn’t really thought he’d been serious. Or that he’d even remember.

  “Any word from Samuel?” I asked.

  She nodded her red head. “He sent me a short text to say he couldn’t go to the dance with me.”

  “Did he give you a reason why?”

  “No.”

  “Ask another boy. Show Samuel he can’t get you down.”

  “I did. I e-mailed Patrick Sullivan just an hour ago. It’s the strangest thing.” Erin sat down on the edge of my bed, still in her skirt from church. “He said yes, and I got all excited. But then thirty minutes later he texted me back and said something had come up.” Erin looked at me, eyes wide. “What’s wrong with me?”

  The question of every girl.

  “Nothing.” The bed squeaked as I plopped down beside her. “Those boys should be paying you for the opportunity to be your date.”

  “At this rate, I’m the one who’s going to have to cough up the money. I just don’t understand what I’ve done to make them turn me down. Patrick and I have been friends since we were in nappies. Our mothers sing in the choir together. He’s never had a girlfriend in his life, so it’s not like going with me to the dance would be some big threat to his reputation.”

  “Erin, I don’t think this has anything to do with you. I think it all points to Beatrice.”

  “That girl is a . . . Bufo marinus.”

  “Did you just cuss in scientific terms?”

  “She’s a toad.”

  “Beatrice hates me, and she’s punishing you.” And I didn’t know what to do about it. “But we’ll fix it.”

  “I told her I was going to St. Flanagan’s with a boy.”

  “And you will.” I nudged a slouching Erin with my shoulder.

  “You’ll have a date.”

  “I guess I should pray about this. Then just let it go. Let God have it.”

  “Right.” Assuming God wasn’t on his extended lunch break with her like he was with me.

  “Girls!” Nora called from below.

  “Go to Lahinch with me and Beckett.”

  “No.” Erin stood and straightened her shoulders with resolve.

  “I think I’m going to console myself by praying for a date. Is that sacrilegious?”

  “God said love endures all things.”

  Erin found her smile again as we walked down the stairs.

  My eyes narrowed as I watched the boy in the living room talking to Sean and Nora. Dark hair straightened with a Chi. A flamboyant pink shirt and gray slacks. Shiny black shoes with a sweater tied over his back and a tilted fedora on his head.

  I hoisted my purse onto my shoulder. “Did your Vegas act get cancelled?”

  A dimple popped in his cheek. “The hair color washes out.”

  I surveyed the outfit he’d chosen for his disguise. “The color is the least of your worries. Tell me you’re not carrying a purse too.”

  He slapped his back pocket. “I had to draw a line somewhere.” Beckett held out my coat and helped me into it. “You look beautiful though.”

  My heart soared like a bird before crash landing as I realized these were just practiced words he’d probably told every female he’d ever encountered.

  With good-byes to the O’Callaghans, we walked outside to Beckett’s truck. He swung open the passenger-side door and took my hand. His fingers tightened on mine as his hard gaze swept over me and beyond my shoulder. Turning around, I saw the focus of his ire.

  A black stretch limo.

  “One of your girlfriends?” I asked as the vehicle pulled up beside the truck.

  “My manager.”

  As Montgomery Rush climbed out of the backseat, Beckett planted a hand on the truck, as if anchoring himself for whatever wind tried to blow him over.

  “Good morning. Hotel is booked tonight, so I’m staying here.” His father
peeled off his sunglasses. “Those Calhouns will get my bags, right?”

  “O’Callaghan,” Beckett said. “And no, they won’t. This isn’t the Four Seasons.”

  Montgomery Rush looked at the three-story house and grimaced. “Did you catch the tabs? Your Tuesday night brawl with some paparazzi made the headlines. It would’ve been the top story, but you can’t ever trump a celebrity divorce scandal.”

  Beckett didn’t move a muscle, but I could feel the tension bouncing off him like static.

  “The E! channel wants the exclusive interview. I told them you could call tonight or tomorrow, so check your schedule and let me know.”

  “I’m not doing that interview and you know it.”

  “Your publicist has already committed.”

  “Uncommit me.”

  The two stared one another down like gunslingers in a western. As the silence lingered, I expected a tumbleweed to come rolling by while a buzzard cawed overhead.

  Mr. Rush eyed his son’s disguise. “When you get back from wherever it is you’re going, boy, you and I are going to have a little talk. Right after you hand me those signed contracts.”

  “I didn’t sign them.”

  His father’s left eye twitched. “In this business, we’re not guaranteed the next deal. Today’s hot is tomorrow’s has-been. I don’t want you to lose out on these opportunities.”

  “What if I want to pursue a different opportunity?”

  “There’s time for that. Later. When the vampire market is dead. So, this afternoon. You and me.” He glanced toward me as if just now noticing he and Beckett were not alone. “Unless you want to deal with this now.”

  “Taking a drive,” Beckett said tonelessly.

  “You can’t put this off forever.”

  Beckett muttered something under his breath and walked around to his side of the truck. He pulled his long legs inside, then shut the door with a resounding slam.

  The engine revved to life, sounding louder than ever, and with jerky motions Beckett made quick work of getting us down the driveway.

  “So your dad—”

  “Not gonna talk about it.”

  “It’s only fair. I snot cried all over you last night.”

  “I don’t want to mess up my mascara.” He flipped on the radio and a man sang a song about a love gone wrong.

  I sneaked a glanced at Beckett. “If you just told me—”

  “Let it go, Florence.”

  “Fine. See if I ever tell you anything again. You are such a girl.”

  “And I’ve got the outfit to prove it.”

  The meandering, narrow drive played out before us like a symphony, and at one point I had to pull out my phone and hum a new piece of melody. Beckett didn’t even comment. He was used to it by now.

  I couldn’t help but be touched when he stopped at two cemeteries on the way, but we didn’t find my Celtic cross. Though at least ten of them were dead ringers.

  Thirty miles later we arrived in Lahinch, and I walked beside Beckett taking pictures of all I saw. With my brother’s photo in my mind’s eye, the quaint port-side village matched up exactly with what I had expected. Houses of rainbow colors. Gulls flying overhead. The smell of saltwater in the air. And ominous clouds above us that threatened to unleash watery torrents any moment.

  “Slow down,” I called as Beckett walked on ahead.

  “I don’t want to waste the day.”

  “Afraid your hair will turn blond at the stroke of noon?”

  He stopped, his posture rigid, his mouth a thin line. He was still upset over his fight with his dad. I knew what that was like. I’d argued with my parents every day the year Will died.

  We passed a group of teenage girls toting cameras. The tall leggy blonde looked at Beckett, then did a double take. I heard their whispers as we strolled by.

  “Is that—”

  “No.”

  “It looked like him.”

  “Go see.”

  I glanced back. “They’re coming our way.”

  Beckett wrapped his arm around me and drew me to his side.

  “Do something about it, and I’ll buy your lunch.”

  “I think it is him!” The girls giggled behind us.

  I leaned my head on Beckett’s shoulder and, with a burst of courage, threaded my fingers through his. “Johnny.” My Charleston accent was just as exaggerated as it was loud. “Don’t worry about that rash you have. Our love will see us through.”

  His arm squeezed a little tighter. “Frances, dearest,” he drawled, “when we get back home, I will give you that wedding ring you’ve begged me for. It’s only right after you gave me those triplets at the ripe age of sixteen.”

  “I’m an unwed mother?” I hissed.

  “I’m a diseased baby daddy.”

  This made me laugh. “I think you just got the title for your next movie.”

  The girls twittered with whispers behind us and slowed their pace.

  “You know I won’t marry you, Johnny.” My voice boomed enough for the whole town to hear. “Not until you come off the road, give up your all-boy flute band, and finally get that middle school diploma.”

  Beckett leaned his face near mine and shot me a quick glare before composing his features into the appearance of a love-struck guy. “I’ll come off the road, Frances. Just as soon as you give up your dreams of the rodeo. Every time you get gored by a bull, you rip me heart right out of me—” Beckett turned his head and exhaled. “Okay, they’re gone.”

  I dropped my hand from his and tried to step out of his hold, but his arm remained glued around my shoulder. “You can let go now.”

  His grin was as decadent as melted chocolate. “Danger’s lurking around every corner. I need you to protect me.” He angled his head down as a crowd walked past us and filed into a restaurant. “Ready for lunch?” Above us swung a sign for Mickey Burdick’s. “Best fish and chips in town—at least according to them.”

  “No. I’m really not hungry. I had a big breakfast.” Why had I said that? The lie had tripped so easily off my tongue.

  “You sure you don’t want to eat?” Beckett asked.

  I looked to the restaurant, inhaled the fried batter. “Yes.”

  I’d get a sandwich at the house. I’d grab some fruit. Some potatoes from last night.

  He led us on the paved road past a blue surf shop toward the water. We stopped at the rails that overlooked the sea where an incline of heavy gray rocks introduced the shoreline. The dark clouds dueled with the sliver of visible sun, but the light seemed too weak to hold off the gloomy sky. Two boys on skateboards zipped by us, while I just stared out at the water, still tucked into Beckett’s side.

  I should’ve moved.

  But I didn’t. I was just helping with his disguise.

  Wasn’t I?

  I closed my eyes and listened. Waited for the moment the sounds would become a song in my head—the crescendo of the birds, the tempo of the waves, the fermata—the pause—of the wind nipping at my face.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” His voice was reverent, as if he were watching God paint the scene himself.

  In the distance the lapping water met the green fields. Beyond the village shops, houses lined up. They were cozy places where people lived with their families, and I wondered if any of those people were aware of how quickly life could change. How their loved ones could be taken in an instant.

  Down below, a man in a wet suit paddled his white surfboard away from the shore.

  “It’s freezing,” I said. “People surf in this weather?”

  “All year long.” I caught the envious note in his voice.

  “Have you ever surfed here?”

  “Yeah.” The man paddled farther out, the waves coming to meet him. “It’s a feeling of freedom like no other. I don’t get to surf nearly as much as I’d like.”

  “Don’t you and your dad ever take vacations?”

  “You can’t make money if you’re not at work.”


  “Beckett, about your dad—”

  “Watch the surfer.”

  I followed Beckett’s pointing finger and saw the attempt try to get on his board, only to fall right back down. He tried five more times. “What’s the point?” I asked as the rain started to sprinkle on us. “It’s like winter out here today.”

  “The point is,” Beckett said, turning his eyes on me, “that guy doesn’t care about the rules. He doesn’t care about the temperature or all the other reasons why he shouldn’t surf. He just wants to be on the water and do what he loves. To be out there where no one can tell him what to do or what meeting he has next. Just the wind in his hair and the salt on his lips.” His voice was more passionate than in any line he’d ever delivered.

  “And that’s what you want?”

  He reached out, and my pulse doubled as his thumb slid across my bottom lip. “You know what I want, Finley?”

  I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t speak. I just shook my head.

  “This.” Beckett lowered his head and sealed his mouth to mine.

  The kiss dragged me under like the undertow of the Atlantic. I tasted sea, anger, rain, and something I couldn’t begin to define. His lips gently sought and soothed as his hands pried away my damp hair and framed my face like I was delicate enough to be swept away.

  And that’s exactly what I was.

  “Stop.” I pushed at his chest. Tried to gain some distance. “I can’t do this. You’re with Taylor.”

  “Finley—”

  “I’m not going to be another one of your easy conquests. I don’t take this stuff lightly.”

  “And I do?” He balled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his temple. “Don’t answer that.” He turned to the railing and stared at the surfer, now standing on top of his board and riding the waves. “If you still think that about me, then you don’t know me at all.”

  “Then tell me, Beckett. Give me one reason not to believe all the hype about you.”

  “I think we’re done here.” The surfer fell into the water and Beckett walked away. “I have a meeting with me father.”

  Bitterness coiled in my stomach as another thread of control unraveled.