There You'll Find Me (17 page)

“I hate when that happens.”

I stifled a smile. “I had a music lesson at lunch. Hung out with Sister Maria.”

“Is she hot?”

“For seventy, yes, I do believe she is.”

He removed his hand from mine and leaned back in his chair. The harsh lines left his face and that L.A. smile returned. “What’s your least favorite subject?”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because I want to know.”

“History. I get confused on all the dates and wars and names of men I’ll never really need to know.”

“I love history,” he said. “The victories, the defeats, the stories of the underdog.”

I reached for my Diet Coke and ran my finger around the rim. “Do you regret not going to school? Not having a normal childhood?”

He looked out a window framed by beige linen curtains with the blinds pulled up to let in the sun. “I’ve had an amazing life. Anyone would’ve traded places with me.”

It was my turn to lean in. “That’s not what I asked.”

His chest rose as he took a deep breath “I can’t complain about what I’ve had. I could quit work today and still be set for life. I have a garage full of cars in all five of my houses. Friends all over the world. A first-class seat on any plane going anywhere I want.”

His face would rival an angel’s. “But . . .” I tried to refocus. “Do you ever just want to be a regular guy?”

He shook his head. “I can’t want that. It’s not an option.”

“But it could be if—”

“Now,” he said, cutting me off. “Tell me about Mrs. Sweeney.”

I studied his pensive face. “How come I’m always the one doing all the talking?”

“Because that’s what I’m paying you for.”

I let that go and filled him in on my adopted grandmother. “So I just need to get my hours in so I can be done with the woman.”

Before she got really bad. And died. “But Sister Maria thinks I need to help her.”

“And what do you think?”

“I guess I could find this Fiona Doyle. Maybe it’s an easy fix.

Like maybe it’s nothing more than Mrs. Sweeney owes her some money and has been trying to get it to her for years. Or she borrowed her favorite jeans a long time ago and wants to give them back.”

His full lips quirked. “You know it’s more than that.”

“You’re right. But I don’t have time to figure it out because I have to find a pub in Galway.”

“Any pub will do?”

“McPherson’s, I think. One with music that will alter my life forever, give me eternal happiness, and make me see God. You know. One like that.”

“So you need the magical sound of Ireland
and
some information about an Abbeyglen native. Francine”—Beckett’s eyes danced in the streaming sunlight—“I’m about to solve your every problem.” Beckett stood up and gave my hair a light tug. “Prepare to worship and adore me.”

His smile was a strange poison, and I was drinking it in. “And when do we commence with this worshipping and adoration?”

“Saturday night.” He walked to the trailer door and flung it open. “And Finley?” His eyes lingered on my school uniform, then back to my face.

“Yes?”

“Wear something pretty.”

Chapter Fourteen

Galway is so different from Abbeyglen. Louder, busier, bigger. The Irish love their weekends, so everyone comes out on Friday and Saturday nights. The air crackles with excitement. Anything is possible . . .

—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland

O
n Saturday evening, I looked in the bathroom mirror and took the straightener to the same piece of hair for the tenth time. Steam wafted from the flatiron, and I knew if I kept at it, I’d have a bald spot instead of an errant lock of hair.

After a quick blast of hair spray, I slid the shell pink gloss over my lips and surveyed my work. Smoky shadow highlighted my eyes with dramatic eyeliner and heavy lashes. My hair cascaded across my shoulders like I was a starlet in a black-and-white movie. I wore a sequined gray tank covered by a black fitted cardigan, a filmy charcoal skirt, and shimmery flats. The reflection in the mirror was one of a girl totally chic, totally put together.

And through my nerves, all I could see tonight was the extra flab hanging over the waist of my skirt.

My days of eating at the craft services table were over.

I jerked at the knock on the door and quit my inspection. I sucked in my stomach and opened the door.

“Beckett’s downstairs,” Erin said. “He looks . . . divine.”

“That good, huh?” I spritzed some perfume on my neck and wrists.

“I can’t believe you have a date with the hottest guy in the world.”

I checked my teeth. “It’s not a date.”

“Whatever you call it, it’s still totally cool.”

“Do you want to come with us?”

She shook her red head and already I could see her morphing into awkward mode. “No. No, I can’t. I couldn’t. I’m going to Orla’s tonight. We’re going to do facials, then have a decent munch on as much pizza and fairy cakes as we can stand. At least with Orla I can make complete sentences. And after last night at dinner when I dropped the potatoes . . .”

“I don’t think Beckett even noticed.”

“They fell in his lap, Finley.”

Beckett had stopped by at dinnertime again. Even though Erin got a little clumsy with the vegetables, he just laughed it off and spoke to her as if she were an old friend. And not someone who had just tried to scorch his crotch.

It was strange. It was almost as if he liked hanging out with the O’Callaghan family. Surely he had somewhere more thrilling to be on a Friday night. Yet there he’d been, sitting at the dinner table with us, eating roast and potatoes and laughing at all of Liam’s jokes.

I walked down the stairs and into the living room where Beckett sat on the couch across from Nora.

“And then I started coughing and my fang shot out my mouth and . . .” Beckett lifted his head and turned those warm gray eyes on me. A slow smile spread across his face. “Hello, Flossie Sinclair.”

My stomach did a quivery flip. “Hello, Beckett Rush.”

“Here’s your coat.” Nora handed my jacket to Beckett. “Don’t forget curfew.”

“I won’t, ma’am,” he said, never taking his gaze off me. “I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

Nora giggled. “I don’t doubt that a minute.” The phone rang from the kitchen. “I better get that. You two have fun.” She scurried out of the room, leaving the two of us. Alone.

Beckett walked to me, and I smelled the hint of his cologne. “You look beautiful.”

My skin heated at the intensity in his voice. “You do too. Not nearly as . . . pale.” He looked positively heartbreaking in dark jeans, a button-down shirt, and a tweedy blazer that was mismatched so artfully, it could’ve been picked out by one of his stylists.

“I decided I’d leave all the makeup to you tonight.” He held out my coat, and I turned around, pushing my arms through the sleeves. His fingers brushed across my neck as he lifted my hair out from the collar. “I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

“I just brushed it.” I shrugged one shoulder. “No effort at all.”

An hour and a half later I strolled the streets of Galway with the boy most girls would’ve died a thousand deaths to be near. He wore a fedora slanted over one eye and a pair of glasses, giving him a studious, preppy look. It might not have made someone notice Beckett at first glance. But they would’ve by the second.

“How many more pictures can you take?” He stood across the street in front of a restaurant with lime-green shutters and a door as red as a valentine. In Ireland, I’d seen color combinations that I’d never dreamed would work. And yet, somehow they did. So much more welcoming than the black iron gate that stood in front of my own house back home.

I looked in the shop window and saw hats like those worn to the Kentucky Derby or what royalty donned for fancy events. Magical pieces constructed of ribbon and plumes, lace and sparkle.

I continued my slow perusal, and the next building, painted turquoise and accented with flowers sprouting from every window and pot, stopped me. Peeking in, I found my own slice of heaven when I realized I was looking at a music store, filled with instruments that gleamed and shined, making me want to press my nose against the glass and tell Beckett to come back for me in an hour.

“We’re going to miss it,” Beckett called.

“Wait just a—” I was jerked into motion as he grabbed my hand and speed-walked down the cobblestone road.

He continued at this pace until we reached McPherson’s Pub.

Music surrounded us like air as we stepped inside and squeezed our way to a small table. It was another world.

Beckett pulled out my chair and gestured to the front where five men played. “Guy on the fiddle is Donal Murphy. A fine man. If there’s information to be had about anyone in Abbeyglen, he’s your man. He knew my grandfather. Rumor has it he’s been alive since the beginning of time.”

And he looked it. Wrinkles that stretched and pillowed across his weathered face. Hands made of more bone than skin. Pants that hung from his frame as if there was nothing to cling to. But it was his eyes that caught my attention next. They could belong to a twenty-year-old. So alive. Bright. Almost as if backlit by fire.

“This is his brother’s pub.” Beckett opened a menu. “Donal moved here when his wife died last year. But he still keeps up with what’s what.”

“He’s playing without any music.” Sister Maria would be proud.

Donal Murphy finished his song, held up his fiddle, and bowed to the crowd. They clapped madly, calling out his name, holding up their drinks. Old as dirt, and the man had groupies.

Beckett stood up and waved Mr. Murphy to our table.

“Beckett Rush. Is that you under that hat?” Mr. Murphy slapped him on the back. “Oh, but it’s a fine evening now. What are you doing all the way out here?”

Beckett looked at me. “Research.”

“And who is this lovely lady?”

“Meet Finley Sinclair from America. She needs some information.”

“Bah. I’m an old man who knows nothing and needs to wet his whistle, so.”

“Let me rephrase that. She needs some gossip.”

Mr. Murphy plopped himself into the third chair. “Now that I might possess.” His eyes glimmered with mischief as he planted his bony elbows on the table. “What do you want to know, Finley from America?”

“Sir, do you know Cathleen Sweeney?”

His face pinched in a wince. “Brooding woman. Did the books for a few stores in town. Quiet, sullen thing and always seemed to have a thorn in her saddle.”

“She’s dying,” I said.

Mr. Murphy nodded. “I’d heard as much.” He shook his wispy, white head. “Folks said it’s the cancer, but I know it’s her heart. The woman is eaten up with guilt. She’s carried it around with her for more years than I can count. And it’s finally rottin’ that cantankerous heart.”

I couldn’t help but feel a little defensive of the woman. “She’s not
that
bad.”

Mr. Murphy hooted with laughter. “She’d scare the bark off a tree, that one. She’s terrible. Everyone knows that. She left Mr. Sweeney only a few years into their marriage. Rumor has it he drank himself to death in his loneliness. You don’t just go leaving your husband.”

“But there had to be a reason,” I said. “Mrs. Sweeney seems to have no family or friends, but she sends letters to someone named Fiona Doyle. There’re years’ worth of them—all returned to sender.”

“Well o’course they’d be sent back unopened. Why would her sister want to talk to one such as Cathleen Sweeney?”

“Her sister? So something happened between them?” I asked.

“Oh, sure it did.” He stood up, done with the conversation.

“Now, I must go. Me fiddle calls.”

“Wait!” I called. “Mr. Murphy!”

He stopped mid-stride and turned back.