There You'll Find Me (32 page)

“Oh,” I sighed. “My.”

Beckett gave a quiet laugh, his hand still tight on mine. “You probably had your heart set on Galway.”

“No.” I shook my head and blinked away the tears. “No, it’s perfect.” Then my arms went around him, holding him close. There were simply no words. “How did you do this?”

His breath tickled my ear as he laughed. “All the phone calls. I had a lot of help.”

I pulled away. “You did this—for me?”

“Not all the world is dark, Finley.” He pressed his lips to my forehead and gave me a half smile. “I know you must be starving. I’m pretty sure I heard your stomach rumble a time or two.” He led me to the table, then with a swooping bow, pulled out my seat. “Me lady.”

At this rate, I would never recover from his spell.

“We have a fine dinner tonight. I think it will meet with your approval.”

On the ivory-covered table sat six silver serving dishes, with a polish so shiny, I could see my own reflection. Beckett lifted the lid off of each one as he listed their contents. “Roast. Green beans in a butter sauce. Here we have some bread, courtesy of Mr. O’Callaghan. And a salad with slivered almonds and those little dried cranberry things.” Grinning over the last item, Beckett presented it for my inspection, but I didn’t have to look inside to know what I’d find. He had somehow discovered my favorite meal from back home. It was my comfort food, my mom’s favorite things to cook for me. A menu I’d dined on many times since my brother’s death.

“Is that strawberry pie?” I asked.

“’Tis.” Beckett swooped his finger through a curl of whipped cream. “You have no idea how hard it was to pull this one off. The Irish don’t adore a strawberry pie like you Americans. Took a small miracle.”

“I love it.” I wanted to laugh. Cry. A hundred emotions pounded in my mind. “How did you know?”

“I talked to Nora, who talked to—”

“My mom.”

“Yes. And, by the way, she says you haven’t called in a few days. But you can take care of that later, because right now, we eat.”

He handed me a china plate, white and rimmed in a thin band of gold. “Beckett, this is incredible. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Thank me by eating.” He served up two slices of roast on my plate, then scooped out the side items. “Don’t want anything to touch on your plate, right?”

I should’ve been enchanted, but I was too busy watching the sheer amount of food growing on my plate. “I can’t eat all this.”

“Eat what you want.” He dished out some salad for himself, his eyes watching me. “We’ll take the leftovers back for Bob. Then maybe he’ll forgive us for leaving him alone in the truck.” Beckett kept the conversation light, regaling me with animated stories of his first TV experiences before moving to L.A. With his lilt and laugh, I could’ve listened until the sun came up.

“Why are you frowning at your bread?” The light flickered across the contours of Beckett’s frowning face. “Is it not good?”

“It’s great.” I tore my roll in fourths, then set it aside to cut my roast into bites fit for a three-year-old. “I’m just worked up over Mrs. Doyle, I guess.” If I ate this meal, the emptiness in my stomach would go away.

And I was growing rather accustomed to empty.

“You’ve done all you can do.” Beckett slipped a bite of meat between his lips. “Now we just have to have faith that she’ll come to her senses.”

“But I’m running out of time.”

Beckett put down his fork, letting it clink onto his plate. “You’re not responsible for their mistakes.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He didn’t understand.

“You know what I like about you?” Beckett reached for my untouched plate and set it aside with his own.

“My good looks and brilliant mind?”

He leaned toward me and smiled. “Your heart.” Beckett’s mouth hovered near mine, making my pulse kick up in tempo. “I love your heart, Finley Sinclair. But you take on the weight of the world in that head of yours.” His fingers pushed back my hair and grazed the skin on my cheek. “And it’s time to let it go and focus on something good.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Boys were all merry, and the girls they were hearty And danced all around in couples and groups, ’Til an accident happened, young Terrence McCarthy Put his right leg through Miss Finnerty’s hoops.

—“Lanigan’s Ball,” Irish pub song

Y
ou look lovely, Finley.” Erin clipped a sequined rosette in my hair, and we both studied ourselves in her dresser mirror. There was something about an updo, a little extra eye shadow, and donning a dress that lifted the spirits and made me believe anything could happen on such a whimsical night.

“You look like a total princess,” I said, wishing for the millionth time that I had her impossible waist. And she got it so effortlessly. Didn’t have to watch what she ate, exercised twice a week, and consumed her dad’s French toast like I did my carrot sticks.

“I’m glad the dress shop was able to fix your dress on time. It fits you like a glove.”

Fanning myself against a nervous heat, I smiled at her in the mirror, careful not to get pale pink lipstick on my teeth. “A simple small nip and tuck.”

“Just think, you’ll see your parents in a little over a week. You’ll have such a grand time in New York.”

Last night I had another nightmare that I screwed up this audition. I still didn’t have an ending to the song, and the committee kicked me out. “I think I’ll go on down.” I picked up my clutch, my dress swishing around me as I walked. “You’re going to wow your date, Erin. I promise.”

The room suddenly warmed an extra ten degrees and spots floated across my line of vision. I reached out and steadied myself with the doorframe.

“Finley? Are you okay?”

Slowly I inhaled, praying against my clammy skin. “Yes. I’m fine. Just . . . had too much caffeine today, I guess.” And not enough to eat. There hadn’t been time.

Erin dusted her frown with powder. “I’m concerned about you. You’ve been . . . different.”

“Just stress—it’s getting so close to the audition. Still have lots to do. And I’m worried about Mrs. Sweeney.” She had spent most of the week sleeping round the clock. It was hard to witness her decline.

“I guess.” Erin hesitated, wringing her newly manicured hands. “But it seems that you’re kind of distant. And kind of . . . I don’t know, extra quiet. Especially at dinner. I’m worried about you is all. I’ve been reading lately, and . . . sometimes when you’ve suffered a trauma, you overcompensate in other areas to help you cope.”

“Translation, Dr. Erin?” My tone was light, yet Erin’s face was anything but.

“I just . . . wonder if you’ve noticed how little you eat. It’s getting worse. Could that be why you feel poorly tonight?”

“I’m fine. Maybe a little under the weather.”

“You can tell me anything, you know.”

“I don’t have a problem with eating. Is that what you mean?” I laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re under a lot of pressure. It would be understandable. The human brain—”

“Our dates are probably waiting. We can talk about this later.” Or never.

Fighting a headache, I walked down the stairs, one hand on the hem of my dress and one hand on the rail.

Nora stood at the bottom, snapping pictures with her camera. “Like a model, you are. Don’t you think, Beckett?”

Beckett Rush, star of film and fang, stood beside my host mother, his eyes shining on me like they did when he looked on the cliffs or the sea at Lahinch. “She’s amazing.” Taking my hand, he kissed the top of it like he was straight out of the 1800s. Clearly his movie was going to his head. “Beautiful inside and out,” Beckett said.

Nora took a few more pictures of us together, me in my dress and Beckett in his immaculately tailored suit the color of wheat. “I wish we could go,” Nora said. “But Liam’s come down with a nasty cold, so no fun for us.” Liam chose that moment to call from upstairs. “Better go see what my patient needs now.”

“I would tell you you look fetching,” I said to Beckett, watching Nora stomp up the steps. “But I guess tonight doesn’t compare to all the red carpet events you’ve seen.” All the glamorous girls on his arm.

“I’ve never been to a village dance. Or prom.” His smile did nothing to help my light-headedness. “This is a special night for me too. I get to be a regular guy.”

“Except you’re not. You’re Beckett Rush. You know there’s going to be a small mob. The media will have pictures posted by midnight.”

He warmed one of my hands in both of his. “I’m sure someone in my camp will spin it, so.”

“Like your dad.”

Beckett gave a dismissive shrug. “He doesn’t know what I’m doing tonight.”

The doorbell rang, and I heard Sean make his way from the kitchen to answer it.

“I think my date is here,” I said.

Beckett looked over my head. “And mine is coming down the stairs.”

Erin floated toward us, a vision in white. Her hair sat atop her head in an intricate twist, thanks to our afternoon at the salon. Her dangling earrings sparkled in the light and matched the sequins on her heels. One day I wanted to have her elegance, her chic.

“Hi, Beckett,” she said, her cheeks a bright pink. “Thanks, um. Thanks for . . . going with me.”

“Hey, it’s me.” He gave her a big-brother grin meant to put her at ease. “The guy who’s been eating dinner with you for weeks.

You’ve seen me with tartar sauce on my chin and milk on my lip.

Don’t be nervous, okay?”

My heart melted a little bit more as Beckett went into a story about a time he split his pants at a premiere.

“Your date, Finley.” Sean stared down the new arrival. “You boys are aware of my vast army experience?”

Nora came back down with the camera. “Sean, you bake pastries and fluff pillows now. Leave the fellas alone.”

“Glad you could join us.” Beckett held out his hand and my date shook it. “I’m Beckett Rush.”

“Joshua Smith.” He took anxious eyes off Sean. “Wow, who’d have thought after just a few weeks living here, I’d meet a famous actor
and
get a date for the dance?”

I heard the music from a half-mile away.

Sitting beside Beckett as he drove, I was pressed up against him and the knobby gearshift until I could hardly draw a breath. On my other side Erin and Joshua laughed at the four of us, crammed in Beckett’s truck like circus clowns.

As glad as I was for an excuse to be so near Beckett, my mind kept replaying Erin’s words, her face. But she was wrong. There was nothing wrong with me. Nothing that wouldn’t go away when I found the source of my brother’s last picture, finished my audition piece, and had my acceptance letter in hand from the Conservatory.

But what if Erin told Nora? What if Nora told my mom?

“Here we go.” Beckett parked in between a compact car and another truck on the side of the road, cut the engine, then opened the door. “Saint Flanagan would be glad you’re here, sure he would,” Beckett said as he held out both hands and helped me out. “And so am I, Finley Sinclair.” Handing me my shawl, Beckett leaned toward me. “Is something bothering you tonight?”