There You'll Find Me (15 page)

I pushed the wheelchair down the sidewalk. “You just let me know if you want me to pop any wheelies. We could totally catch air on this thing.”

Mrs. Sweeney ignored me as she sat with her arms crossed over her chest, her hands tucked inside her coat sleeves. But when we passed by the bakery, her eyes fluttered closed and she inhaled the yeasty aroma.

“When’s the last time you were outside?” We walked in front of a gift shop, and a woman waved from the window where she stacked St. Flanagan figurines.

“Awhile,” Mrs. Sweeney finally said.

“Like last month?”

“No.”

“Last year?”

She shook her head as she took in all of downtown, watching it as if it were a Spielberg film.

“When?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was as soft as a thornbush. “Five years or so.”

“You haven’t been outside your nursing home room?” No wonder she was so miserable. “Why?”

“None of your business.” She lifted a hand in greeting to a woman pushing a baby stroller.

“Mrs. Sweeney . . .” I followed the sidewalk to the left and took us to the small park. “Who is Fiona Doyle?”

Mrs. Sweeney coughed into her fist and shook her fuzzy head. “She’s nobody.”

I steered the wheelchair onto the grass, putting my weight into it to make the chair move. “How’s this spot?” Taking off my jacket, I laid it on the ground, then went about setting up our lunch. “Nora packed this for us. Here’s some chicken. Some sort of salad.” I lifted out the final container. “And if we’re good girls, she packed a few of Sean’s chocolate chip scones. He’s just perfected them.” I fixed Mrs. Sweeney’s plate, cutting up her meat in small pieces, then handed it to her. “So you were telling me about the letters. That’s a lot of letters you’ve written to nobody.”

“If I must be out here, let me eat in peace.”

“I just thought perhaps I could find the right address for you.”

Mrs. Sweeney glared as I helped her with her fork. “I have the right address. I’m not addled.”

“Then why—”

“I will not discuss this.” With a sigh she chewed her chicken, a signal the conversation was over.

Keeping one eye on our beautiful surroundings and one on my elderly charge, I noticed she ate like a bird. A very slow, tired bird, and it was hard to watch. As I continued to help her with her lunch, I kept up my one-sided conversation and was halfway through another Beatrice story when a man walked our way. He wore baggy pants, an old T-shirt, and his long, dark dreadlocks hung down like snaky ropes.

It was Beckett’s worst disguise yet.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

I pulled out another piece of chicken for our guest. “Hi.”

“Beautiful day out,” he said in a Jamaican accent. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

“Yeah. It’s nice,” I said. “Interesting Irish-Caribbean brogue you’ve got there.”

Mrs. Sweeney eyed him with blatant suspicion. “I’m ready to go back anytime.”

“Surely you don’t want to leave yet.” He smiled at me, revealing even, white teeth. “I hear there are actors in town. You might miss one.”

I picked at my salad. “They’re nothing special.”

“I hear one in particular is good-lookin’. That Rush mon.”

“I’ve seen better.”

His grin deepened. “Have you now?”

“Besides Beckett Rush is kind of . . .”

“Charming and manly?”

“I was going to say feminine. And pasty.”

He laughed and took the uneaten chicken leg from my hand and brought it to his lips. “Since you insist on ripping my heart out, the least you can do is feed me.”

“Who is this man?” Mrs. Sweeney asked. “What’s going on here?”

“This,” I said, “is Beckett Rush. He’s an actor.” Mrs. Sweeney’s unimpressed stare made me laugh. “He stars in vampire movies.”

Her eyes widened with interest now. “Is this true?”

“It is, ma’am.” He took one of her veiny hands in his and gave it a small squeeze. “Just one of my little disguises so I can go about without notice. We’re making a movie a few blocks away. Finley’s been kind enough to help me with my lines.”

“Oh, she’s real helpful,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Finley, get the boy a plate.”

“He’s too busy to eat with us. An important actor like Beckett probably has to eat with the cast or go to some meeting or sign autographs for screaming girls.”

“I told you I would sign your shirtless Beckett Rush poster.” He took a seat on the grass beside me, his knee brushing against my leg. “Now, Mrs. Sweeney, I would hate to impose on your tea party, but that chicken smells quite good. I bet you used to be a fierce cook, am I right?”

I blinked twice. Surely my eyes failed me. What was that on Mrs. Sweeney’s face? Was it . . . a smile?

She flopped her hand and gave a small chuckle. “Sure, I cooked. But baking was my specialty.”

“Ah.” Beckett reached over me and grabbed another piece of chicken. His arm brushed against my shoulder, and I forced myself not to draw back. “So you were all about the sugar and spice.” He shook his greasy finger at Mrs. Sweeney. “You’re my kind of woman.”

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

T
he 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.”