There You'll Find Me (27 page)

A black stretch limo.

“One of your girlfriends?” I asked as the vehicle pulled up beside the truck.

“My manager.”

As Montgomery Rush climbed out of the backseat, Beckett planted a hand on the truck, as if anchoring himself for whatever wind tried to blow him over.

“Good morning. Hotel is booked tonight, so I’m staying here.” His father peeled off his sunglasses. “Those Calhouns will get my bags, right?”

“O’Callaghan,” Beckett said. “And no, they won’t. This isn’t the Four Seasons.”

Montgomery Rush looked at the three-story house and grimaced. “Did you catch the tabs? Your Tuesday night brawl with some paparazzi made the headlines. It would’ve been the top story, but you can’t ever trump a celebrity divorce scandal.”

Beckett didn’t move a muscle, but I could feel the tension bouncing off him like static.

“The E! channel wants the exclusive interview. I told them you could call tonight or tomorrow, so check your schedule and let me know.”

“I’m not doing that interview and you know it.”

“Your publicist has already committed.”

“Uncommit me.”

The two stared one another down like gunslingers in a western. As the silence lingered, I expected a tumbleweed to come rolling by while a buzzard cawed overhead.

Mr. Rush eyed his son’s disguise. “When you get back from wherever it is you’re going, boy, you and I are going to have a little talk. Right after you hand me those signed contracts.”

“I didn’t sign them.”

His father’s left eye twitched. “In this business, we’re not guaranteed the next deal. Today’s hot is tomorrow’s has-been. I don’t want you to lose out on these opportunities.”

“What if I want to pursue a different opportunity?”

“There’s time for that. Later. When the vampire market is dead. So, this afternoon. You and me.” He glanced toward me as if just now noticing he and Beckett were not alone. “Unless you want to deal with this now.”

“Taking a drive,” Beckett said tonelessly.

“You can’t put this off forever.”

Beckett muttered something under his breath and walked around to his side of the truck. He pulled his long legs inside, then shut the door with a resounding slam.

The engine revved to life, sounding louder than ever, and with jerky motions Beckett made quick work of getting us down the driveway.

“So your dad—”

“Not gonna talk about it.”

“It’s only fair. I snot cried all over you last night.”

“I don’t want to mess up my mascara.” He flipped on the radio and a man sang a song about a love gone wrong.

I sneaked a glanced at Beckett. “If you just told me—”

“Let it go, Florence.”

“Fine. See if I ever tell you anything again. You are such a girl.”

“And I’ve got the outfit to prove it.”

The meandering, narrow drive played out before us like a symphony, and at one point I had to pull out my phone and hum a new piece of melody. Beckett didn’t even comment. He was used to it by now.

I couldn’t help but be touched when he stopped at two cemeteries on the way, but we didn’t find my Celtic cross. Though at least ten of them were dead ringers.

Thirty miles later we arrived in Lahinch, and I walked beside Beckett taking pictures of all I saw. With my brother’s photo in my mind’s eye, the quaint port-side village matched up exactly with what I had expected. Houses of rainbow colors. Gulls flying overhead. The smell of saltwater in the air. And ominous clouds above us that threatened to unleash watery torrents any moment.

“Slow down,” I called as Beckett walked on ahead.

“I don’t want to waste the day.”

“Afraid your hair will turn blond at the stroke of noon?”

He stopped, his posture rigid, his mouth a thin line. He was still upset over his fight with his dad. I knew what that was like. I’d argued with my parents every day the year Will died.

We passed a group of teenage girls toting cameras. The tall leggy blonde looked at Beckett, then did a double take. I heard their whispers as we strolled by.

“Is that—”

“No.”

“It looked like him.”

“Go see.”

I glanced back. “They’re coming our way.”

Beckett wrapped his arm around me and drew me to his side.

“Do something about it, and I’ll buy your lunch.”

“I think it
is
him!” The girls giggled behind us.

I leaned my head on Beckett’s shoulder and, with a burst of courage, threaded my fingers through his. “Johnny.” My Charleston accent was just as exaggerated as it was loud. “Don’t worry about that rash you have. Our love will see us through.”

His arm squeezed a little tighter. “Frances, dearest,” he drawled, “when we get back home, I will give you that wedding ring you’ve begged me for. It’s only right after you gave me those triplets at the ripe age of sixteen.”

“I’m an unwed mother?” I hissed.

“I’m a diseased baby daddy.”

This made me laugh. “I think you just got the title for your next movie.”

The girls twittered with whispers behind us and slowed their pace.

“You know I won’t marry you, Johnny.” My voice boomed enough for the whole town to hear. “Not until you come off the road, give up your all-boy flute band, and finally get that middle school diploma.”

Beckett leaned his face near mine and shot me a quick glare before composing his features into the appearance of a love-struck guy. “I’ll come off the road, Frances. Just as soon as you give up your dreams of the rodeo. Every time you get gored by a bull, you rip me heart right out of me—” Beckett turned his head and exhaled. “Okay, they’re gone.”

I dropped my hand from his and tried to step out of his hold, but his arm remained glued around my shoulder. “You can let go now.”

His grin was as decadent as melted chocolate. “Danger’s lurking around every corner. I need you to protect me.” He angled his head down as a crowd walked past us and filed into a restaurant. “Ready for lunch?” Above us swung a sign for Mickey Burdick’s. “Best fish and chips in town—at least according to them.”

“No. I’m really not hungry. I had a big breakfast.” Why had I said that? The lie had tripped so easily off my tongue.

“You sure you don’t want to eat?” Beckett asked.

I looked to the restaurant, inhaled the fried batter. “Yes.”

I’d get a sandwich at the house. I’d grab some fruit. Some potatoes from last night.

He led us on the paved road past a blue surf shop toward the water. We stopped at the rails that overlooked the sea where an incline of heavy gray rocks introduced the shoreline. The dark clouds dueled with the sliver of visible sun, but the light seemed too weak to hold off the gloomy sky. Two boys on skateboards zipped by us, while I just stared out at the water, still tucked into Beckett’s side.

I should’ve moved.

But I didn’t. I was just helping with his disguise.

Wasn’t I?

I closed my eyes and listened. Waited for the moment the sounds would become a song in my head—the crescendo of the birds, the tempo of the waves, the
fermata
—the pause—of the wind nipping at my face.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” His voice was reverent, as if he were watching God paint the scene himself.

In the distance the lapping water met the green fields. Beyond the village shops, houses lined up. They were cozy places where people lived with their families, and I wondered if any of those people were aware of how quickly life could change. How their loved ones could be taken in an instant.

Down below, a man in a wet suit paddled his white surfboard away from the shore.

“It’s freezing,” I said. “People surf in this weather?”

“All year long.” I caught the envious note in his voice.

“Have you ever surfed here?”

“Yeah.” The man paddled farther out, the waves coming to meet him. “It’s a feeling of freedom like no other. I don’t get to surf nearly as much as I’d like.”

“Don’t you and your dad ever take vacations?”

“You can’t make money if you’re not at work.”

“Beckett, about your dad—”

“Watch the surfer.”

I followed Beckett’s pointing finger and saw the attempt try to get on his board, only to fall right back down. He tried five more times. “What’s the point?” I asked as the rain started to sprinkle on us. “It’s like winter out here today.”

“The point is,” Beckett said, turning his eyes on me, “that guy doesn’t care about the rules. He doesn’t care about the temperature or all the other reasons why he shouldn’t surf. He just wants to be on the water and do what he loves. To be out there where no one can tell him what to do or what meeting he has next. Just the wind in his hair and the salt on his lips.” His voice was more passionate than in any line he’d ever delivered.

“And that’s what you want?”

He reached out, and my pulse doubled as his thumb slid across my bottom lip. “You know what I want, Finley?”

I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t speak. I just shook my head.

“This.” Beckett lowered his head and sealed his mouth to mine.

The kiss dragged me under like the undertow of the Atlantic. I tasted sea, anger, rain, and something I couldn’t begin to define. His lips gently sought and soothed as his hands pried away my damp hair and framed my face like I was delicate enough to be swept away.

And that’s exactly what I was.

“Stop.” I pushed at his chest. Tried to gain some distance. “I can’t do this. You’re with Taylor.”

“Finley—”

“I’m not going to be another one of your easy conquests. I don’t take this stuff lightly.”

“And I do?” He balled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his temple. “Don’t answer that.” He turned to the railing and stared at the surfer, now standing on top of his board and riding the waves. “If you still think that about me, then you don’t know me at all.”

“Then tell me, Beckett. Give me one reason not to believe all the hype about you.”

“I think we’re done here.” The surfer fell into the water and Beckett walked away. “I have a meeting with me father.”

Bitterness coiled in my stomach as another thread of control unraveled.

I took one last look at Lahinch.

And wondered about the light my brother couldn’t forget.

And the one I struggled to find.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Watching the town get ready for the St. Flanagan’s
Day Festival was almost as much fun as the
actual event. The girls get totally stressed
about it. I have no idea why.

—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland

Y
ou’re deliberately sabotaging any chance Erin has of getting a date for St. Flanagan’s Day.”

Wars had been started with the kind of hatred Bea directed at me Monday after school as I stood toe to toe in her space.