There You'll Find Me (22 page)

I thought about my brother’s journal and the next spot on the agenda. Who needed Beckett and his truck? And his laughing eyes. Or his chiseled form, voice of honey, and a face that proclaimed him as God’s favored child.

Not me.

I pulled my hat farther down on my head as I stood at the railing between Nora and Erin. The wind on the water kicked up, as if it were mad that we were disturbing the ocean by traveling across. I knew exactly how it felt. I was ticked too. And if Beatrice had been on that boat, I’d have thrown her overboard.

God, help me to see what Will did. He had such unbelievable faith. Was he never shaken? Even in his last moments, did he not doubt, not wonder where you were?

Two hours later I stepped off the ferry onto the dock on rubbery legs, after being tossed about on the choppy Atlantic.

Nora rented us each a bicycle on the crowded quay at Inishmore, one of the three Aran Islands.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Erin asked as she pedaled beside me, her red hair whipping behind her as wild as the land around us.

The island was small but busy, a mix of bare nature and booming modern commerce. Shops and pubs beckoned us to come in and sit all day, but it was the stone and grass beneath the sunny sky that sang to me.

“I think this day calls for ice cream,” Nora said.

“For lunch?” I asked.

“Sometimes a girl just needs to indulge.” Nora steered us toward Joe Fitzpatrick’s Cafe, where Celtic music blasted from the speakers overhead. Erin consumed a double scoop, filling us in on all the merits of calcium in dairy and antioxidants in chocolate. All I knew was the forty-five degree temperatures and the water-fed breezes made it much too cold to eat rocky road or vanilla bean. I took a few bites, then watched as it melted in the cup before I threw it away.

“On to Dun Aengus,” Nora said.

My legs tired as we pedaled toward the visitor center, where we left our bikes and I bought another ticket. From here we walked for twenty minutes uphill, and I pulled out the gloves I’d taken to carrying in my jacket.

“Look at that,” Erin said as we rounded the top.

My brother’s fortress stood in its stark beauty against the edge of the water. People sat on rocks on the ground around it, taking pictures and letting children play. Nora walked off to snap some photos herself.

“Come on.” Erin led as the two of us climbed on the ruins, the three remaining rings of stone slab walls.

Navigating loose rocks, she took me to the very edge where the land dropped off completely. “Another form of protection?” I asked.

“Hundreds of feet down.” She pointed to some large pieces of overhanging slate. “Best view there is.”

“We sit on it?” So close to the drop-off?

“No.” She laughed, and her voice carried in the wind. “We lie on it. You won’t fall.” I watched as she walked to the slate and lay on her stomach. “Come see the ocean.”

With gingered steps, I joined her. Though I was on solid ground and in no danger of falling, it was still a long way down. The ocean waves slammed into the rocks. “This island reminded my brother of God, his protection.”

“And what does it make
you
think of, then?”

“Mrs. Sweeney,” I said without thinking. “I get the feeling all she’s known are hard times. I believe every time she got back on her feet, another wave knocked her back until it just wore her down.” Kind of like me. But my audition was going to change everything. It had to. “Erin, do you know what happened to her husband?” It was past time to do some research.

“No. Have you asked Mrs. Sweeney?”

“She won’t talk about her past.”

Erin gave a small giggle. “I know just the ladies to ask. The MacNamara sisters. If there’s something to be known, they’ll have your information.”

“Would they talk to me?”

“They’d talk to a tree stump. If you can stand their plastic-covered couches and fifteen cats, it would be worth the visit, sure it would.”

“It’s really none of my business, I suppose.”

“Mrs. Sweeney is now your business, Finley. Don’t doubt that.”

We fell into a comfortable silence as we both watched the scene around us, painted by the strokes of God’s majestic brush.

Minutes passed before the cold of the wind and the damp in the air finally got to me. “You know, we’re surrounded by people, but it just feels so . . . lonely here.”

Erin lifted her head, giving me a faint, thoughtful smile. “Only if you let it.”

Chapter Nineteen

• Breakfast: one bite fish, 3 calories

• 2 Diet Cokes to chase down fish, 0 calories

• Exercise: running, 3 trips to bathroom to pee

T
he planet would have to explode for this day to get any worse. Mrs. O’Callaghan fixed us fish for breakfast, my socks were two different shades of blue, and I accidentally walked in on Liam in the shower, seeing enough to scar me for the rest of the year. I just wanted to get through this Friday and get to the weekend.

When we finally arrived at school, Erin stopped at her locker, but I continued walking down the hall until I got to number 328. The one that belonged to Beatrice.

I didn’t even bother with a hello as she twisted her combination. “You totally framed me for cheating.”

She took her time looking up, her bored expression only adding kindling to the fire of my temper. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously?” I laughed. “Could you be any more immature? I mean, sticking your pencil in my back so I’d turn around? And then copying my paper? Could you truly not do any better than that?”

Her eyes widened in feigned shock. “I’m hurt, Finley. That you would accuse me of such a thing. Maybe you can go cry on Beckett’s shoulder. You know, the one that belongs to Taylor.”

I stared her down. I’d been the cheerleading cocaptain, so I could do intimidation
and
a perfect back handspring. “I want you to back off Erin. Bullying is so out of style.”

“Who are you to come in here to
my
school and tell me what to do? You walk onto this campus like you rule the place. The little heiress crooked her finger and chased after Beckett Rush until he started paying her some attention.” Her singsong voice pressed on my temples. “And that wasn’t good enough. Then you got jealous.”

“I want you to tell Mrs. Campbell the truth.”

“Truth is so subjective. I know my truth. You know yours.

Who’s to say who’s right? Oh, I know. My father. The principal.”

“What do you gain from this? Does it make you feel better about yourself?”

“Yes, actually. It does. Have a nice day now.” She hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. “And don’t get in any more trouble. I’d hate for you to get sent home.” She walked away, leaving me in the dust of her snark and venom.

With ten minutes left until the first bell, I headed in the direction of the library, my face aflame from the confrontation. After giving a quiet hello to the librarian, I slipped past the row of fiction and sat down at one of the computers.

First I e-mailed my mom and dad and told them how wonderful everything was going and how nice the people of Ireland truly were. Apparently Beatrice Plummer was their national letdown.

Not wanting to go back into that hallway and stalling for time, I did a quick search under Cathleen Sweeney’s name.

I scanned through an entire page of useless results. But it was page two that had my full attention.

Abbeyglen Public Library archives.

Sitting up straighter, I clicked on the link, and it took me to an index of the library, a collection of scanned copies of the Abbeyglen newspaper.

What did we have here?

Typing in a few more keywords, I waited for the database to do its search. Two minutes later I found Mrs. Sweeney’s marriage announcement.

I scribbled down the date on my notebook, then continued my perusal.

Scrolling through the listing, I stopped at another mention of her last name.

An obituary. Three years later.

For Charles Sweeney. The man Mr. Murphy had said died of loneliness when his wife left him.

I leaned up closer to the monitor and reread the next find, three months after Mr. Sweeney’s death.

Another obituary.

John David Sweeney, son of Charles and Cathleen Sweeney, died April 23. He’d only been two.

My gosh. The loss. No wonder Mrs. Sweeney was so cranky.

“Reading anything good?”

I snapped my head toward the familiar voice and clicked on a different page. “Hi, Sister Maria.”

She logged onto a computer beside me and smiled. “Doing some homework?”

“Something like that.” I glanced at her computer and saw a familiar screen. “What about you?”

She wiggled her mouse. “Changing my Facebook status.”

I squinted to get a better look. “From married to it’s complicated?”

“Just waiting to see how long it takes Father Tom to notice.”

“But you’re married to God.”

“And that’s not complicated?” She laughed, then noticed the rushed scribblings on my paper. “Research?”

I hesitated to tell her. But one look from the woman and it was like downing a bottle of truth serum. “I was investigating Cathleen Sweeney. She’s had a really rough life, I think.”

“What did you find?” Sister Maria sat back in her chair and gave me her full attention.

I quickly caught her up. “Time’s running out. Mrs. Sweeney’s going downhill fast. It’s like she’s willing it to happen.”

“And this is your problem now?”

“I have to help her. She can’t die without her sister’s forgiveness.” I told her about the letters in the drawer. “I haven’t read them, but I know they’re probably pleas to Fiona Doyle.”

Sister Maria considered this. “Perhaps.”

“Did you know Charles Sweeney?”

“Knew of him, yes.”

“How did he die?”

“Ask his widow.”

“She won’t talk about him.”

“I don’t recall what happened. You should talk to the MacNamara sisters.”

“They come highly recommended.” I smiled. “Erin says they’re the town gossips.”

“I prefer town historians,” the nun said. “Past McGann’s pub, over the bridge, second house on the left. They’ve been there for eighty-five years.” She typed something on her computer. “So tell me, Finley. Why do you care?”

“Because . . .” I wasn’t even sure I could explain it. “I don’t want her to die without having her say. Judging from all the letters, it looks like Mrs. Sweeney has spent years reaching out to her sister. And to die without being heard? Without forgiveness or peace?” I pointed to the notes. “I think she’s lived most of her life tormented. Took her sister’s fiancé. Shunned by the town. And then lost a child.” I knew a little bit about that type of loss, having watched my own mother grieve.

“I’m pretty sure no one asked her to steal her sister’s intended.”

“Mistakes happen. We all get in situations where we do things we regret. But she’s more than those mistakes.” My voice elevated in the small lab. “Mrs. Sweeney wants to be remembered for something besides the wrong she did and the people she hurt.”

Sister Maria’s smile was slow as it tugged up her cheeks. She reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “God would want her to know she isn’t defined by her mistakes.” Her cornflower-blue eyes bored into mine. “He would want her to know he loves her and forgives her. And she doesn’t have to be who she once was. She just needs to reach out to him.”

“Maybe she wants to,” I whispered. “Maybe she has.”

The nun nodded. “Then she needs to believe he heard her and is on the job. And listen with her heart.” Sister Maria shut down her Facebook page and logged off. “Instead of her head.”

“I was referring to Cathleen Sweeney,” I said as she walked away.