There You'll Find Me (11 page)

Sitting in the music room Monday before school, I pulled the journal out and let my eyes memorize every detail of the picture on the eighth page. The photo was kind of blurry, but he’d captured a town. Houses painted in Crayola colors and drenched in early morning sunshine, surrounded by more of that grass that was so green, fairies must’ve repainted it every night when the people slept. Beneath the photo, Will’s boyish cursive proclaimed a verse from Psalms.

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

I knew dark. Dark was the dreary sky outside the windows of this room. It was the shade of the cloud that followed me every minute of the day. It was that voice that whispered I was never going to get this song right. Never going to close up the canyon in my soul where a brother used to be.

I rested the book in my lap and looked around. Since I had the place to myself, I let my ears open to the sound of the space. The hum of the lights above. The muffler of the car outside. The bird chirping in the drizzly distance.

God, where are you?

No answer.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried harder.

Helllew, God
.

It’s me
.

What did it take to get some attention here?

I have things to tell you, but I don’t think there’s any point. It’s like you took a can opener and peeled the lid off my heart and leaped out the day Will died. Why are you so silent? Of all times to leave me alone
.

“Sleeping or praying?”

I turned my head and found Sister Maria walking toward me. Her lined face had a rosy glow that, on any other woman, could only come from a Sephora counter. But I couldn’t say I’d ever seen a sister buying up the MAC. Her khaki pants were perfectly ironed and her Sacred Heart polo tucked neatly inside her stretchy waistband. As she slid into a chair beside me, I caught that same twinkle in her eyes, as if she were only seconds away from delivering a clever punch line.

“I, um, I thought I’d have a little time with God before we started.” That made me sound so mature. So holy. Never mind that only one of us had showed up to the divine meeting.

Sister Maria looked straight ahead, a smile pressing into her round cheeks. “It’s a good place to sit and think. I come here quite a bit myself. And it has great acoustics. I’ve found it’s the best place to practice my Beatles tunes. I sing the part of Paul, of course. My pitch is just about perfect on ‘Let It Be.’ The trick is to stay away from dairy. Clogs the throat.” She directed her focus on me. “Now, we were talking about you.”

“We were?”

“I believe I gave you some homework. How did it go?”

“My keyboard was delivered yesterday. I practiced for three hours last night.”

“Not that homework.”

“Oh.” I hugged my backpack to me, resting my chin on top. “I went to the Cliffs of Moher.”

“Good girl. And?”

“And that’s it.”

“What did you see?”

“The cliffs.” My mind took me back, and I could almost feel the nip of the air on my face. “The birds. The ocean below us.”

“Those are the basics. What did you
really
see?” Sister Maria waited for me to continue, with a look on her face that made me want to get the answer right.

“I guess . . .” That deep stuff—it was like wading through pudding. “I saw what my brother did when he was here a long time ago. I could’ve stood in the very same spot. I watched the same waves and climbed on the same rocks. My brother said it reminded him of the verse about God’s faithfulness reaching to the skies, like the view.”

“Hmm.” Her lips pursed as she considered this. “And did
you
sense God there? Did you hear him then?”

I gave a faint laugh. “God isn’t exactly hanging out with me these days.”

“Nunsense.” She snorted and elbowed me again. “That was a joke. It gets Sister Mary Theresa every time. Of course she’s also touched in the head, not that you heard that from me.” Her face straightened into a mask of seriousness. “Finley, you simply must keep praying.”

Like I hadn’t been? Well, sorta. “But he’s not listening.”

“Oh, he’s listening all right.”

“No. Trust me.” I jerked my chin upward, where a ceiling hung overhead, blocking me from the sky. Me from God. “Haven’t heard a peep from him in over a year.”

“So the line’s clogged up. Sometimes when we get bad mobile reception, we don’t know if it’s our line or the other person’s.” She set some scales on the stand. “Hard to tell. So much interference with the signal these days.” She set some scales on the stand. “I believe God spoke to you at the cliffs.” Her hand came to rest on the top of my head. “But perhaps you weren’t truly listening.”

From my place below the set, I watched Beckett stand in a tree, thirty feet above us, attached to a series of cables. Taylor Risdale, wearing a cranberry silk dress with a waist I couldn’t fit one leg into, fluttered her Chinese fan.

The director grabbed his megaphone. “And . . . action!”

Beckett flew through the air, his hair blowing in the breeze, and his white shirt, unbuttoned to midchest, undulating as he swished through the forest like a noble prince. With really sharp teeth.

“They’ll use CGI to make those cables disappear.” Mr. Rush stood beside me, one eye on his son, one on his BlackBerry.

“Looks scary,” I said.

“They’re very careful. Effects have come a long way since my day.”

“I guess lots of things have changed since then.”

“Some. It’s still a game of survival.” He lowered his phone. “I hope you don’t get any ideas about me son. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Why did everyone say that to me? Did I look desperate? “I’m just here to help.”

“You seem like a nice girl, and I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I see it all the time. Girls throwing themselves at him.” He laughed. “I remember those days meself.”

“So you manage his career and his love life?” Had I really just said that?

“Make no mistake.” He gave me his full attention. “His love life
is
his career.”

Ten minutes later Beckett joined us, wiping sweat off his temple even though it was only sixty degrees.

“Da’.” Beckett nodded his head at his father, then bestowed a smile on me. “Hello, Frances.”

Cheeky boy. “Here’s your water.” Our fingers touched as I handed him the bottle, and electricity shot up my arm.
No. This can’t be happening. I am not attracted to him. Gotta think of something to distract myself from his blazing hot looks. That shirt. Please. Might’ve been stylish in the 1800s, but now the only men who wear flouncy shirts also have a collection of heels and handbags to match. And his hair. He totally needs a haircut. And the pants?

Oh. Who was I kidding? Beckett was as masculine as pickup trucks and Stetsons.

“This coffee is cold.” Mr. Rush stopped an assistant walking by. “I would be forever in your debt if you’d get me another one, please. One cream, two sugars.” He gave her a grin, and I saw Beckett’s charm was stamped right in his DNA. “Thanks, dear.”

“These people don’t work for you, Da’.” Beckett massaged the muscles in his neck.

“If they work for you, they work for me. Now, about that contract.”

“Later. Finley and I are going to rehearse.”

Mr. Rush studied me once again, and from the look on his face, I could tell I didn’t pass his test. “I’ll come along. I’d like to talk to you about—”

“I’m working.”

A familiar giggle had me groaning. “Dad? Did you say dad?” Beatrice shimmied our way, a predatory smile on her lips. “Are you the famous Mr. Rush?”

Montgomery Rush gave Beatrice his camera-ready smile. “Me son is the famous one.”

“As are you, sir.” Her voice became Marilyn Monroe light. “You’re renowned. How you’ve built Beckett’s career, supported him since he was just a little boy with a dream? Positively inspirational.”

“There was never any choice.” Mr. Rush regarded his son, his eyes assessing, as if weighing the loss and gain. “When me boy got the acting bug so young, I just had to move him to Los Angeles and nurture his dream.”

Beckett’s jaw tightened. “I don’t remember telling you I wanted to be an actor.”

“Of course you did. ‘Da’, I want to be in the movies.’ That’s exactly what you said.”

“I was six. I also wanted to be an astronaut and a Shetland pony.”

“My goodness, he was something at those auditions. Doing the name proud, he was.” Mr. Rush rested his hand on his son’s back. “Still is. And will for years to come.”

“You’re a wonderful father, Mr. Rush,” Beatrice cooed. “And your son has been so . . . helpful to me on the set.” Her viper eyes zeroed in on me. “He’s just gone above and beyond to . . . make me feel so at home.”

My temper simmered at a low boil, but it wasn’t out of jealousy.

It wasn’t. I simply wanted Beatrice out of my sight. Removed. Like to another planet.

“Beckett, let me know when you’re ready to run lines,” I said.

“I’m going to go grab something to eat from the craft services table.”

“I’ll join you.” His fingers circled my upper arm, and for a second, I got a flash image of Taylor’s winsome limb. Bony. Almost as slender as her wrist. What did he feel when he held mine? Was my arm fat? Flabby?

Suddenly a snack was no longer calling my name.

“I’m going to talk to your director,” Mr. Rush said. “Nice to meet you . . .”

“Beatrice.” She glared at me before putting her pretty face back on. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

I dislodged Beckett’s grip and walked to the area that housed the food. Two tables sat beneath a tent, covered in food easily eaten on the go. Sandwiches, fruit, chips, pastries, granola bars, candy. All for the taking.

I picked up a sugar cookie and watched the sprinkles leave a crystal trail. My teeth sank into that first bite, and my taste buds sang an aria.

“Lots of snacks to pick from,” I said as Beckett came in and picked up a protein bar.

“It’s a trap.” He tore into the wrapper. “It lures you in, then next thing you know, you can’t button your pants.”

I swallowed my bite of cookie. It made a slow crawl down my throat, and I wished I could bring it back up. Wished the fat wouldn’t multiply in my cells. Tossing the rest of the cookie, I reached for a Diet Coke instead.

Beckett grabbed another water from a cooler, then stood beside me, with only inches between us. “I’m not messing around with Beatrice.”

Placing the cookie in a napkin, I let it crumble in my grip. “I didn’t ask.”

“I know.” His sigh was weary. “I just . . . I don’t need those kind of rumors started—that I’m chasing girls from Sacred Heart.”

Like me.

“I’m here to be your assistant and get a ride around Ireland. That’s it. Besides”—I patted his white shirtsleeve—“we all know your reputation.”

“Finley, I—” He clamped his mouth shut.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.” He tore open his protein bar and threw the wrapper on the table. “Forget it.”

“Beckett.” Montgomery Rush held up his BlackBerry as he walked toward us. “Did you check out yesterday’s E! News main headline?”