There You'll Find Me

by Thomas Nelson

  “I missed you too. I’ve been running our fight over in my head. Everything I said was wrong.”

  “No, you weren’t. I realized you said some things that were true as well. I talked to me da’ a few days ago.” He paused to let a couple walk around us. “I told him I wasn’t going to do anymore movies for a while, and I needed a break. Some time to get my head together, figure out what I want to do. And some space to be a normal guy. I want to take Bob fishing. Go to the beach. Maybe train for a triathalon.”

  “That last part really isn’t normal.”

  “I want to check out some colleges and see if maybe I want to go to school full-time on this hiatus.”

  “What did your dad say?”

  “Too much.” Beckett watched some tourists two rows over.

  “We had a big fight, then he left. I haven’t talked to him since.”

  “I know that’s killing you.”

  “We have to refigure our roles, you know? I need a father right now. Not a manager.”

  “So no more vampires?”

  “Filming wraps up next week, then I’m officially retiring my fangs.”

  “Girls’ hearts will be shattered.”

  He tipped up my chin, and his steady gaze locked on mine.

  “I’m only worried about one girl’s heart.”

  Oh. My.

  “I’m messed up,” I said. “I mean I’m completely jacked up. You get that, right? As in petrified, have no idea what’s going to become of me, jacked up. My mind is not in a good place, my sense of reality— apparently it’s kinda skewed.”

  Beckett pulled me to him and wrapped me in his arms. “I’ve dealt with Hollywood actors for years. I think I might be some good support, so I do.”

  “I’m one big panic attack waiting to happen,” I said against his chest. “Do you really want to be around to see that?”

  “Yes. I do.” He kissed the top of my head. “You can do this, Finley. I know you can heal.”

  “Wait . . .” I put my ear to the wind and listened to the sounds around me.

  The melody entered my heart, and I saw the notes fall into place in the last few bars of Will’s song.

  I had to hum it, seal it in my spirit.

  Beckett smiled. “You getting something there?”

  “Yeah.” I laughed, really laughed. “I think I finally have it.”

  “And what is it?”

  “Hope,” I said. “I’m humming Mrs. Sweeney’s hope.”

  Beckett held my hand in his. “And your own?”

  “Maybe.” I nodded. “Just maybe.”

  God, I don’t know what lies ahead or what will happen next. But you’re going to be there, aren’t you? Even when the world tricks me into thinking you’re not. Things are going to be different. I’m going to be different. And I’m going to get it right this time.

  “So why do you believe your brother put the photo on a blank page?” Beckett asked as we both looked up at Will’s cross.

  I thought of the picture glued into that final spot in his journal.

  “Because it was my story to finish all along.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  • Days ’til audition: 2

  Are you sure you want to do this?” Beckett threw my carryon in the back of his truck beside Bob, who waved at me with his cheery tail.

  “I have to. I’ve waited an eternity for this.”

  He opened my passenger door as the morning mist covered us both. “You could stay here, and I could show you some sexy vampire tricks.”

  I leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his lightly stubbled cheek. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”

  “Finley, your brother—”

  “I know.” I slid into the seat and buckled in. “But I’m going to play for him.” I had added the last few measures. It was finally perfect.

  “And you’ll let it go.”

  Beckett raised a brow at my pause.

  “Yes, then I’m sure I’ll let it go.”

  He drove me to the Shannon airport, where he reluctantly let me off at the curb. “I could go with you.”

  “You could. And that’s really sweet of you. But I need to talk to my parents. Alone.”

  “Promise you’ll be back?”

  “One way or another.” Even if it was just to get my stuff and say my good-byes. My parents were serious about my health. There was a really good chance I wouldn’t be finishing this year in the program.

  Beckett helped me with my bag, then pulled me in for a kiss. I relaxed into his arms, loving the feel of his strong chest and the security of his embrace.

  “Be careful,” he said. “Call me if you need me. Night or day.” He gave Bob a pat on the head, then walked around to his driver’s side. “And, Finley?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re gonna rock this thing.”

  I nodded and pulled my jacket tighter around me. “I think I will,” I said. “It’s right this time.”

  For the next hour and a half, I waited for my plane in a crowd of screaming babies, a woman yelling into her phone, a man three times the size of me, plus two nuns who looked ninety if they were a day.

  In all these things, I am more than victorious . . .

  “Flight 1028 to New York now boarding groups two and three.”

  With nerves jittery from caffeine and adrenaline, I handed the woman my ticket and walked onto the plane. I was really doing this.

  Crawling at a snail’s pace, I followed the line as we made our way to our seats, stopping to let passengers fill overhead bins and make the transition into their seats.

  I finally sat down in 12C, smiling at the woman knitting on my right who occupied the window seat. I pulled out my iPod, wanting to catch a quick listen of Will’s song before takeoff. I was just putting in my earbuds when my phone rang.

  “Forgot to turn that off.” I scrambled into my bag and dug out my phone. “Hello?”

  “Finley, it’s Belinda. From Rosemore. I wanted to let you know Cathleen took a turn for the worse last night. She’s not expected to make it through the day.”

  My bubble of happiness shattered. “I’m on my way to my audition.”

  “Honey, I just wanted you to know. If you were here, she wouldn’t even know you were in the room.”

  “Did her sister ever show up?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Sweeney’s all alone?”

  “We’re here.”

  But it wasn’t the same. She didn’t have someone to brush her hair. Or hold her hand. Or read her Stephen King.

  Or play the violin.

  “I’ll see you when you get back,” Belinda said. “No worries. She knew you cared about her, she did. And that’s what’s important.”

  And the line went dead.

  Mrs. Sweeney was alone. Just like she’d been her entire life, with no one to care about her—except the staff.

  But I had to get to New York. My entire future depended on this. This was me reclaiming part of my life. Sharing my tribute to Will. I could feel good about the fact that I had put in my time with Mrs. Sweeney. Been one of her only friends.

  I held my phone and absently touched the screen as my mind spun.

  Before I knew it, I’d pulled up my pictures and my fingers automatically went to a familiar set.

  And then I was looking at my brother’s face. The last photo he’d sent me, just two days before the explosion. Will stood in the middle of a dusty, barren plot of land surrounded by smiling children holding books. His kids. His school.

  It was a picture of life. Of joy.

  Of love.

  “Excuse me.” I gathered my bag, then reached overhead and extracted my carry-on. “Excuse me.” Waddling through the aisle, I found the first flight attendant.

  “Is there a problem?” the petite blonde asked.

  I wanted to do what would honor Will the most, not chase another patch for this heart.

  “Miss, is there something wrong?”

  “Yes.” But
I was about to make it right. “I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”

  When the taxi dropped me off at the nursing home, I bypassed the nurses’ desk and went straight to Mrs. Sweeney’s room.

  Please let it not be too late, God.

  Pushing open the door, I took a breath as I found Mrs. Sweeney right where I left her last, lying in her bed. But this was not the Mrs. Sweeney I knew. She was still as the room, her face pinched in discomfort. Her skin looked pale against the sun that had managed to trickle in through the crack of her curtain.

  I sat in my usual chair and picked up her hand. The tears that had become my constant companion of late fell hot and quick. “Mrs. Sweeney,” I whispered. “I . . . I have so much to tell you. I didn’t go to New York. I wanted to be here, with you. Because my brother’s gone. And nothing I do is going to get him back or make up for what happened. But you taught me that—that I need to live for the people who are here and let go of the bitterness and anger. It sucks away your life, and I’m tired of living like that. But being here with you? He would’ve loved that. He would’ve loved to have met you.” My voice thickened. “I wanted to tell you that even though neither of us wanted to hang out with each other in the beginning, I grew to love it. Our talks, even though I was the one doing most of the talking. Reading your scary books. Just seeing your face. You’ve changed me.” Her hand was cold in mine, and I could feel her every bone. “And I think you’re brave. For what you did for your sister. I want to be brave like that. So . . . I’m going home. Back to America.” The words came out fractured and hitched as the decision hit my lips in the same instant it settled in my mind. “I need to get my head straight about some things, and I’m going back. I know I can’t stay here. But I’m not leaving you. I’m going to be right here the whole time.” The whole time it takes for you to die. To leave this world and leave me.

  But this time, I wasn’t going to be angry. And I wasn’t going to blame anyone. Because it had been a gift.

  “Mrs. Sweeney, where you’re going there isn’t going to be any more pain or hurt. You are going to be loved and adored and happy. I can see you dancing in heaven now with your son. Smiling, laughing.” I took a moment and rested my head on my arm, quietly crying as life slipped away. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you for being my friend. And for all you taught me. For all you trusted me with. I will never forget you. Never.” I pulled out my phone and pressed buttons until the song played. “I redid this ending. For us.” I smiled, thinking how proud Sister Maria would be.

  A knock sounded behind me, and turning, I saw a familiar face standing in the door.

  “Hello,” I said. “Come in.”

  Fiona Doyle took one look at her sister and began to sob. “I wanted to talk to her. To tell her I was sorry. To thank her . . . and I’ve lost my chance.” Mrs. Doyle held on to the rails of Mrs. Sweeney’s bed, her shoulders shaking. “It’s too late.”

  Standing, I took Mrs. Doyle’s trembling hand and joined it with Mrs. Sweeney’s. “It’s never too late.”

  Three hours later, in the dark of the room, surrounded by Nurse Belinda, Fiona Doyle, and me, Cathleen Sweeney took her last labored breath. And stepped into the arms of Jesus.

  Because I believed she was in heaven.

  Finally living her life.

  When I left the nursing home, I placed one more important call.

  “Mom?” The green of Abbeyglen splayed all around me as I stood outside and breathed it in, capturing its beauty with my heart and mind, and making a silent promise that one day I would return.

  When I’d completely healed.

  When I was whole.

  “I didn’t get on the plane. No, I’m fine. I mean . . . no, I’m not okay. Mom, I need to come home.”

  In all these things, I am more than victorious through Him who loves me.

  “I’m ready to come home.”

  Epilogue

  Two years later

  The fall wind makes a grab for my hair as I run across the campus of the New York Conservatory. My shoes swoosh across the cut grass as the sun warms my face. I hold the string tighter in my hand and stop and watch overhead.

  Where my white kite dances and soars above.

  “I thought we were studying for midterms.”

  I turn and find Beckett Rush standing behind me, a backpack slung over one shoulder and laughing eyes trained right on me.

  “It’s too nice a day. We need a break.”

  “You sound more like a senior than a freshman.” He walks to me, wraps his arms around my waist, and kisses my warm cheek. He gestures to the kite. “Did you learn this in your support group?”

  The one I go to once a week. The one I’ll be leading beginning next month. “Nope. Did you make a decision about that script?”

  “Da’ and I are still discussing it.”

  Since Beckett’s only doing one movie a year now in between his studies at NYU, he has to make it count. And so far he has. Last year he got a Golden Globe Award for his portrayal of a young Charles Dickens in a small indie film. Good roles are starting to come his way.

  And so far, no biting required.

  “Bring it back in a bit,” Beckett says. “Your kite’s getting too far out.”

  But I don’t.

  Instead I think of it touching heaven, sending a hello to my brother Will. To Mrs. Sweeney.

  This Christmas Beckett and I will return to Ireland, to visit some of his mother’s relatives and to put flowers on Mrs. Sweeney’s grave. Which is right by her son’s.

  The woman who taught me to let go. Let God in. And mend.

  To let love fly like a kite in the clouds, untethered by darkness and hurt.

  Four years ago my brother Will died, and my world crumbled into a million tiny fragments.

  Two years ago I went to Ireland.

  I met an arrogant vampire, an angry old woman, and a mischievous nun.

  And I met God.

  Who slowly, painfully, divinely pieced me back together.

  A huge gale blows across the commons. “Hold on to it, Finley.”

  Beckett reaches for my string.

  But it’s too late.

  I let it go.

  Acknowledgments

  This book kicked my tail, so my tail and I would like to thank:

  Everyone at Thomas Nelson Fiction for all you do for my books and for me.

  Editor Natalie Hanemann for making this book better and giving me the time to start over. A few times.

  Editor Becky Monds for your encouragement. You have a very kind way of saying “This stinks.” I appreciate your valuable input on the book. Though you are seriously misguided in your WWE loyalties.

  Editor Jamie Chavez for . . . oh, where to start? I know this book cost you a lot in time, effort, and sleep, and I am forever grateful. Thank you for sticking with me and for all I’ve learned through our eight books. I also appreciate all your fab Irish connections and for talking me into going myself. (And yes, I’m so challenged I require three editors.)

  Ashley Schneider because you funny, girl. You funny.

  Kristen Vasgaard for creating one awesome cover. I adore it.

  Straight-up legit Irishman Gerry Hampson for your input and critical eye.

  Orla Hampson for patiently answering my many e-mails about your Irish life. If you ever have any questions about Arkansas, let me know. The answer will probably be Razorbacks and pork rinds, but one never knows . . .

  Andrea Ramsey for your wonderful advice on music and composition. You are one of the most talented people God has created, and I’m so honored to know you.

  Erin McFarland, a gifted photographer and blog friend, for your kind words and for being part of the blog family.

  Christa Allan for your snark, listening ear, and for being my conference BFF. From one short, lippy teacher to another, I am very grateful for your friendship and laughs.

  Natalie Lloyd, brilliant author and sassy friend, for making me laugh and for the God-inspired encourage
ment. I am so blessed to know you and call you friend.

  Cara Putman, Kim Cash Tate, Nicole O’Dell, and Cindy Thomson for the many prayers you’ve sent up on my behalf. I appreciate you wearing out God’s ear for me.

  The Southern Belle View gang, consisting of Rachel Hauck, Lisa Wingate, Marybeth Whalen, and Beth Webb Hart, for the prayers (apparently I recruited everyone in the human race to pray for me during the creation of this book) and for all the sweet tea and porch time we share at www.southernbelleview.com. Though I have to come clean—I don’t like sugar in my tea. I’m sweet enough already. (Okay, no, I’m not, but that stuff is just nasty.)

  Kristin Billerbeck for showing us all humor and Christian fiction could coexist and for opening the door that led to my career. I will name my next cat after you. My current one is a barfer, and you’re more worthy than that.

  Lizann Tollett for the encouragement and silent messages (I’m not saying prayer again) to the Lord Jesus you sent up for me and this novel.

  My family for leaving food on my doorstep during deadline crunch time when you knew my condition inside the house was akin to rabies.

  Erin Valentine, for being my friend and my unpaid editor. Thank you for reading all 500 versions of this book.

  Carol Roberts for your bravery, courage, and warrior-mom heart. You totally blessed me with your story and time.

  Father, Son, and Holy Ghost for my career, another finished book without doing anyone bodily harm, and the ministry of fiction. You deliver me. Daily.

  I had a lot of help from certified real Irish men and women. Any inconsistencies are my own fault in the name of fiction and sleep deprivation.

  Reading Group Guide

  1. Finley has endured a lot and didn’t feel like God was in it with her. Have you ever felt distanced or abandoned from God? How do you explain this? What did Finley attribute it to?

  2. Beckett is an example of how things aren’t often what they seem. Describe a time either you made an incorrect assumption about someone or you were assumed to be something/ someone you’re not.

  3. Describe Beckett’s relationship with his father. What advice would you give Mr. Rush in being a more effective father?