There You'll Find Me (8 page)

“Something like that.” His eyes on mine darkened. “It made a difference.”

“Well.” Unexpected delight shimmied through me. “Glad I could help.”

He stopped as we reached the first steps. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Not on your life.”

“Hear me out—”

“I’m not interested.”

“It’s nothing dodgy.” His accent had grown stronger, and I wondered if I’d hurt his feelings. But that would’ve been impossible. “I want you to be my assistant.”

I laughed as I zipped my jacket. “Is that what you call it?”

“I’m serious.” He shoved his hat farther down on his head to block his face. “You’d just have to work a few hours a day after school. Help me with lines. That’s all. I promise.”

My eyes narrowed. “And what would I get in return, bragging rights? My name linked with yours in the magazines? No thanks.”

“I’m asking you because . . . you’re different. You’re not into me. I’m not into you. There’s no risk here.”

Well, that had all the charm of a razor cut to the ankle.

Of course he wasn’t into me. Why should he have been? He was around beautiful actresses all day.

“What I mean is, you’re not impressed by my name or what I can get for you.” He shook his head as if he were trying to dislodge the idea. “I know it’s crazy.”

“And what would I get in return?”

“I’ll take you around Ireland. Show you the sights.” He lifted his hands in the air. “No strings attached. And no
funny business
.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to recreate your brother’s steps or don’t you?”

“Yes.” Desperately. For Will. For me.

“I could really use your help, Finley.”

The raw appeal on his face had me wondering if I’d be crazy to get involved in anything Beckett Rush was a part of. “Let’s just see how much of a tour guide you are first.”

The wind picked up even more as we got closer to the cliffs.

“It’s the ocean breeze,” he said. “Wait ’til you see the water.”

We walked up a series of steps until I finally stopped him so I could take a good look.

“The better view is up there.” He pointed beyond us.

I dug out my camera and started clicking. “You can’t rush me.”

“You didn’t tell me there were stipulations on my sightseeing duties.”

I took a shot of the water below. “I’d like to actually
see
the cliffs. Not just drive by them.” In the distance there they stood, jagged and majestic, green grass topping them like icing, the azure-blue waves below. I wished I had my violin to provide the harmony.

“What are you looking for?”

At this, I lowered my camera. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I just know I’m supposed to look.”

“Come on. I’ll take you to the best spot.”

I tagged along behind him, practically running to keep up with his long strides. We walked a way, passing other tourists. A man in ugly but comfortable shoes. A woman sporting a fanny pack. People taking pictures. A family posing as a stranger captured the moment forever. Beckett kept his head down and his sunglasses covering those famous eyes.

The trail narrowed, and as we followed the sidewalk around a corner, I spied cows in a field as green as emeralds, munching on clover and ignoring those of us in search of the best view. We walked past the fenced-in cattle and I took another picture.

“They’re cows, Finley.”

“We don’t have a lot of these in Charleston.”

We reached the lookout at the top, and I had to tell myself to breathe again. The cliffs stretched out and wrapped around on either side of us. Beneath us the waves crashed and tumbled. Birds swooped in and dove toward the sea, only to land and perch on the rocks.

The wind sent my hair into orbit around my face, and I lifted an unsteady hand to hold it back.

I knew this place. These rocks. That water. That sky.

I breathed it all in. Tried to memorize its smell, the taste of it on my tongue. It was completely new, yet familiar all at the same time. My eyes failed me, as I couldn’t take it in fast enough. Couldn’t see it all without swiveling my head and looking in turns.

Beckett stood beside me. “Some people say they’re just cliffs.”

“But they’re not.” I shook my head, turned to look up at him.

“And you don’t believe that either. It’s . . .” I struggled with the words. There didn’t seem to be any to capture what I saw, what I felt.

His chest rose as he inhaled, his eyes still on mine. “Follow me.”

I managed to get a few pictures, taking some as I walked. We left the main path until we came to a sign.

“Please don’t go beyond this point,” it said.

“I’m kind of trying to follow these sorts of warnings these days.” I stared at the sign. “Maybe we should turn back.”

“It’s just so herds of tourists don’t come any farther. Mind your step.”

I stayed right where I was.

“If I’m going to be your bloomin’ tour guide, I’m going to do it right.” He held out his hand. “Do you think I’d take you somewhere dangerous?”

“You bite people for a living.”

“Don’t be a chicken.”

“If you push me over the edge, my parents will be seriously ticked.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me along. “They’ll probably send me a thank-you note.”

Beckett Rush was holding my hand.

For the purpose of rudely speeding me along.

But still. For five whole seconds, his hand covered mine.

We came to the peak. And the panoramic view had tears stinging my eyes.

The sun skimmed along the water, making a luminous path.

A castle tower loomed from the opposite side, just begging me to come and explore. It looked to be whole, unlike the others I’d seen around. Small yellow flowers danced at our ankles as I stared at the view that went for miles.

“I got it right,” I said. “The piece of the song I wrote from Will’s picture. It fits this perfectly.”

I remembered the scripture beneath the picture of the cliffs in Will’s journal. “Lord, Your faithful love reaches to heaven, Your faithfulness to the skies.” Realizing I’d just spoken the words out loud, my cheeks burned. “When my brother came here a long time ago, it made him think of that verse.”

Does your love reach this far, God? And if it extends to heaven and beyond . . . why can’t it seem to find me?

“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice clouded with embarrassment.

“It’s more than that.” He watched the ocean below. “It’s like God painted it himself, then spun it into motion.” Beckett angled his head toward me, took his aviators off, and let his eyes burn into mine. “
This
is Ireland, Finley. It’s rough. It’s wild. And it is holy.”

I couldn’t look away from him. The breeze tossed my hair, bit against my jacket, and all I could do was watch this mercurial boy.

His piercing gaze still holding mine, his fingers eased toward my face. I closed my eyes as his skin brushed mine, his thumb tracing a path across my cheek.

Behind me a seagull called, its cry piercing the air.

And the spell was broken.

Beckett cleared his throat, dropped his hand. “It was . . .”

Insanity. Ridiculous. A moment of crazy.

It was seconds of heart-twisting awe.

“It was a bug.” He pulled his jacket tighter. Sniffed against the chill.

“Right.” Of course.

“Finley?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Do we have a deal?”

Praying I wasn’t about to return to a life of trouble, I gave him my answer.

“Yes.”

Chapter Seven

Everyone hangs out in pubs. It’s a family place, not like a bar back home. It’s where you talk with your neighbor, hear some music, eat a hot meal, and listen to the stories firing all over the room.

—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland

T
he whole town is daft over St. Flanagan’s Day,” Erin said to Orla and me as we passed through the doorway of Molly Delaney’s pub. The lunch crowd filled the long oak bar as well as the wall-to-wall tables.

“Well, if it isn’t Sean O’Callaghan’s daughter.”

Erin smiled. “Good afternoon, Molly.”

A short, white-haired woman toddled over to us and gestured with her chin. “I’ve just the table for you girls. Right by the window so you can see if any fine fellas walk by.” She gave us a saucy wink as we giggled. “Didn’t I raise five girls of me own? Sure. I know how you ladies come in for more than just the finest stew in Abbeyglen. Have you got your dates for the dance, so?”

I pulled my finger down the sticky menu in search of a salad. It was hard to concentrate on food with the man in the back corner playing his guitar. All I wanted to do was watch and listen. “What’s this St. Flanagan’s?”

“Och, have you not warned her then? That she has a full day of dancin’ and eatin’ ahead of her?” Molly shook her head. “You need to find this girl a date.”

“It’s just a holiday,” Orla said. “With some silly tradition of girls asking boys to the dance.”

“Silly tradition?” The old man at the table next to us put down his glass mug and shoved aside his plate of fish. “Why, it’s almost the most important day of the year.”

Molly
harrumph
ed and leaned toward me. “That’s Ennis O’Toole, the mayor. Doesn’t give a fig about the history. Just smells the money when the tourists come round.”

“I heard that, Molly.” Mr. O’Toole rose from his chair and joined us. “It was 1477 and none other than Christopher Columbus himself sailed into our harbor with a vessel unlike any ever seen before in Abbeyglen.” The mayor’s eyes shone beneath drapey lids.

“So Columbus gets sick, he does.”

Molly clucked her tongue. “Thought he was a goner.”

“’Tis true. But Father Patrick Flanagan had the gift of healing in his hands, he did. So as Columbus’s crew prepared for the worst, and while Columbus tossed and pitched with the fever, Father Flanagan prayed for Chris twenty-four hours straight. He took no food or drink. Just prayed for the man. Columbus’s men thought the good priest was surely administering last rites.” The mayor’s voice pulled us all into the story, and I saw it unfold in my mind.

“By sunrise the next day, Columbus woke up a new man, asking for his ship.”

“And a pint of ale,” Molly said.

“A great party was had to celebrate his miraculous recovery,”

Mr. O’Toole said. “It lasted as long as the prayer vigil. And as the famous explorer left, he called out a blessing on Abbeyglen, wishing prosperity for one and all. And ever since then, our fishing nets have been full and our cows have been fat.”

“And there’s a stupid dance,” Orla drolled.

The mayor shuffled back to his table. “It’s where I met me wife.”

“And why do the girls ask the boys?” I asked.

“Because Father Flanagan was too shy.” Mr. O’Toole popped a fry into his mouth. “He’d have never asked a lady to dance.”

“He was a priest,” Orla said.

The man shrugged. “Technicality.”

“It’s just an old tradition is why,” Molly said. “Been around for generations.”

“Molly, going to be a quarter ring around the moon tonight.

Rain. And you know what that means?”

“That you watched the weatherman?”

“Time to plant the onions.”

“No,” chimed in another man walking by. “That’s if you find three crickets belly up on your front stoop.”

“Very helpful, you are.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Let these ladies get to their lunch. They have big things to plan.” She took our drink orders and bustled back to the kitchen.