“It’s true.”
“Tell us how the movie’s going,” Sean asked. “I know Erin’s dying to hear all about it. Right?”
“Um . . .” Her mouth opened and closed like a guppy. “Yes.
Yes, I would.”
That response had actually been understandable. I called that progress. Next she’d be able to articulate a few more syllables and make normal human eye contact.
Beckett talked about Fangs in the Night for a few minutes, but then turned the questions back on the family. He asked Sean about running a bed-and-breakfast and listened intently as Sean told him about two overflowing toilets on the second floor. After quizzing Nora about her day, he discussed video games with Liam.
When Beckett’s plate was cleared, Nora brought out the coffee and apple crisp for dessert. Soon, amid the clank of cups on saucers and forks on plates, the room was full of stories and laughter. I sat back and watched as the family smiled at one another. Finished each other’s sentences. Laughed before the punch line arrived.
And it made me miss my family.
The way we were. Before we changed. Before we were one less. God, it’s so unfair. Why would you pick my family to tear apart? Why take my brother? Why not some loser on death row? Some child abuser who deserves it. My brother was good. He was kind. He lived every day for you. And for what?
I pressed my napkin to my lips, then rested it on the table. “I think I’ll just go for a little walk while there’s still some light out. See that ruin on the property Erin mentioned.” I smiled at Erin’s parents. “Work off some of that amazing dessert.”
“Would you like someone to go with you?” Nora asked.
“No, thank you. I won’t be long.”
I grabbed my coat off the peg near the door and headed outside. The gray sky threatened to rain, and by the smell of earth and moisture, I knew it wouldn’t be too long in coming. I put my earbuds on and pulled up my own creation on my iPod.
I barely got out of the yard before I saw a familiar Labrador running along beside me. “Go home, Bob.”
His soulful green eyes stared into me, as if he was sending me comfort and love. The world was so simple to a dog. I scratched his head and stopped. “You have to turn back. Beckett will think I kidnapped you.”
“That’s right, he will.” Beckett walked toward us in his brown jacket, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a baseball cap on his head. “Bob, don’t trust this girl. She looks innocent, but we know her type.”
I turned off the music. “I’m sure you do. And every other type.”
He clutchd his heart. “Another sweet insult from your lips. Are you like this with all guys or—”
“Or just infamous troublemaking actors?”
His smile faded as he walked beside me down the hilly driveway. “Why’d you leave?”
“I wanted to walk.”
“You were sitting in there like you’d lost your best friend.”
“Delayed jet lag.”
“Really?” He slowed his steps and watched me. “Interesting.”
“Go back inside, Beckett.”
“I hired you to be my assistant. So if anyone is going to be bossing someone around, it’s me.”
“I’m off the clock.” I kicked a rock with my shoe. “Go find one of your groupies.”
“And end this riveting conversation?” He tossed a stick for Bob, and we both watched the dog race after it like a life was at stake.
I turned my attention back to Bob’s owner. “Why do you stay at the B and B?”
“Because they cook good.”
It was true, but I didn’t buy his reason.
“So where’s our next tourist stop?” he asked.
“They’re not just tourist stops.” It was more than that. It was like using the same map my brother did all those years ago, my longitude and latitude matching his. “I don’t know where we’re going next. I’ve been too busy with homework and practicing lately to think about it.”
The night wind blew past us, and I huddled deeper into my jacket. South Carolina girls were not used to forty-degree temps in September.
“What’s it like—going to school?”
I stopped at the sight of some wildflowers along the side of the road and reached to pick one. “School?” I shrugged. “Hectic. Busy. Loud. You go to a bunch of classes and learn a ton of stuff you care nothing about and will probably never use, and you pray the morning flies by so you can get to lunch and see your friends. You sweat through the indignities of PE and wish you had a double block of English and study hall because the rest of it is just grueling.”
His lips spread into a smile. “It sounds grand.”
“Right.”
“No, I mean it. You’re lucky.”
“I passed out in pig dissection last year, hit my head, and had to wear a giant Band-Aid on my forehead all week.”
He took the flower from my hand, and my skin tingled where his fingers brushed mine. “But you have those memories.”
“And you don’t.” His voice had been neutral, as if he’d just been making casual conversation, but the tinge of sadness in his eyes had given him away. “Did you go to school on the set?”
He nodded. “Usually me, a few other child actors, and a tutor. I graduated last year.”
“So no prom, no homecoming dance, no smelly gym class.”
“No.”
“Do you regret that?”
My breath stopped as Beckett reached out and tucked the flower above my ear, a wistful smile about his lips. “I regret a lot of things.” His face was inches from mine as he studied me.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get that experience,” I whispered.
“Nobody said life was fair.”
“It should be.”
The air stilled, suspended with unspoken words, heavy thoughts, and two people who couldn’t look away from one another.
Finally Beckett smiled, and that dimple popped.
The moment broke like a bubble in the breeze.
“So you’re a big senior, or sixth year.” Beckett cleared his throat and looked toward the darkening sky above us. “I’m sure the daughter of hotel magnate Marcus Sinclair and sister of two celebrity brothers has her whole future planned out.”
“In October I audition for the conservatory. If I get in, I’ll study there. Double major in violin and composition. That’s if I pass the audition.”
“Of course you will.”
“It’s my second time to try.” I hadn’t meant to say that. Something about the music of nature and the dimming light loosened my tongue. “Music is my life. The only thing that’s made sense the last few years.”
“I can’t imagine you failing at anything.” He raised his eyebrow, turning his statement into a question.
“That first audition . . . I didn’t even make it into the building.” The old shame barrelled through me as the memory unfurled. “My parents let me out at the entrance. I went to the auditorium while they parked, walked up the steps, went to the big double doors.” I could still feel the metal under my skin. “Then I turned around and walked away.” The doors had been so heavy, my arms couldn’t seem to open them. My head wouldn’t hold the tempo of the audition selection. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking enough to even grip the violin. “I just couldn’t do it. My parents found me sitting on a bench in front of a dorm.” Hands belted around my knees, humming my piece, and crying hot tears. “That was six months ago.” When I got a new counselor. A lady who told me I wasn’t crazy. Just broken.
“And how’s that new song coming along?”
“It has to be perfect this time. And it’s not.” Last time I had prepared a generic audition piece. But this composition would be personal. It would be Will’s.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too hard on yourself?”
“All my life. And you?” It was time to turn this conversation around. “Is acting the career you want?”
“Who wouldn’t want my life?”
“That doesn’t ans
wer my question.”
“So it doesn’t.”
“Do you ever miss your mother?”
“I never knew her, so no. But I miss what could’ve been.” He tilted his head. “It’s nothing like what you went through, is it now? It was a horrible story, about your brother. How do you get over something like that?”
“You don’t.”
The stitches on the old wound unraveled within me as I thought about the answer. “I held on to hope that he was alive for almost a year.” I wiped my nose and told myself to stop. I’d never even told my counselors that. “I prayed by the hour during those months. I had faith then. And where did that get me? Where was God when my brother died? When my world imploded?” My voice broke and I covered my face. “I have to go.” I dashed past Beckett and walked as fast as I could.
With Bob running ahead, Beckett caught up with me in three strides. He reached for my arm and pulled me to a stop. “Wait.”
“I should be over this. I know I should. But I’m not.” Through my tears, I saw concern staring back at me. And it just added another knot to the dark tangle inside. “I want to be me again—to have faith, to feel hope, to feel . . . something. Something besides this . . . this . . .” Ugliness. I closed my mouth and just shook my head.
“Hey. It’s okay to be mad.” Beckett slid his arms around me and enfolded me in a hug. “But you can’t give up on your faith.”
“What do you know about it?” I asked against his jacket.
“I watch a lot of TV.”
He rubbed circles on my back while I held on, despite my better judgment. I blinked away the last of the tears. “I just spilled my guts to a vampire.”
“It’s one of our many tricks.” He took a step back, and the wind filled the space between us. “Before I’m done with you, you’ll be craving type O and hanging out with bats.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my phone and touched the screen. “Do you recognize this?”
His hand on mine, Beckett drew the phone toward him. “It’s a Celtic cross.”
“I have to find it.”
He looked at me and gave a low laugh. “They’re all over the country. There are thousands just like that.”
No, there couldn’t be any just like that one. “This one apparently captured my brother’s attention. And I have to find it. It’s the last thing he put in his journal. If I don’t locate it, my trip is incomplete— my audition piece, incomplete. I will find this.”
“It’s going to be next to impossible.”
“It was important to my brother. And now”—I shook my head, knowing I sounded like I’d lost it—“now it’s become this obsession.” I seemed to have quite a collection of those.
Clouds darkened overhead, forming a canopy of gray. “But what if you’ve let your grief become your guilt?” His voice was as soft as the night breeze. “It’s okay to let it go.”
I shook my head and moved out of his grip. “I can’t,” I said.
“Not now. Not yet.”
And sometimes I feared . . . not ever.
Chapter Eleven
• Lunch: one apple, two plain rice cakes, Diet Coke
• Calories: 150
• Taste: zero
• Days to audition: 32
As I pedaled my bike, a man I recognized as the local butcher strolled with his wife, an umbrella over their heads. “Good day to you, Finley from America.”
“Good day to you, Mr. and Mrs. Walsh.” I loved the sound of their accents.
“Sure, we saw you running this morning,” Mr. Walsh said as I stopped, putting my toes to the ground. “We called out to you, but me wife said you had in those ear thingamabobs and couldn’t hear. Running so fast, you scared the coats right off me sheep.”
I laughed, my legs still jelly from pushing myself four miles.
Pretty good for not putting on running shoes in a month.
“Next time you come round, you stop in for tea,” Mrs. Walsh said.
“I’ll do that.” As I pedaled away, I thought how back home, we threw out invitations and knew it was just polite talk. In Ireland? It meant I’d better see you at my house soon.
A light misting rain peppered down on this chilly Wednesday afternoon, and I held my own umbrella while steering my bicycle with one hand, a skill I was proud to have acquired. And one that was necessary. I was sure I hadn’t had a frizz-free day since arriving. I guess it was the price you paid to be in one of the most beautiful places on earth.
Hopping off my bike, I wheeled it under the awning of the Rosemore and went inside. Every time I opened the door, a wave of disappointment washed over me. The nursing home looked the same. Smelled the same. Felt the same. I didn’t know why I kept hoping for it to magically transform into Disney World or some other place of happiness and smiles. But it was never going to do that. This was a building where old people came to spend their last days. Where they came to die. Like Mrs. Sweeney.
I said hello to the nurse on duty at the front desk and found my way to Mrs. Sweeney’s door. “Hello?”
I waited for Mrs. Sweeney’s usual command to leave, but heard nothing.
The room was dark, save for the dim light coming through the window. I flipped on the lights.
“Mrs. Sweeney!” She lay on the floor in a heap, eyes wide, shaking. I rushed to her and dropped to my knees. “Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes. “Does it . . . does it look like I’m all right?”
“Let me call the nurse.”
“No.” Her whisper sounded loud in the still room. “Just help me up. I’m . . . I’m too weak.”
“You might’ve broken something. I don’t think I should try to move you.” What would Erin have done? She’d have known all that medical stuff.
She lifted her head and glared. “Am I not eighty-three years old? I believe I would know if something was broken. I just can’t get meself up. Quit your prattling and give us some assistance.”
Reluctantly, I eased my arms under hers, and together we slowly raised her from the floor. The woman weighed no more than Erin’s stick of a brother, and as I settled her into her silver wheelchair, she heaved a long breath.
“Thank you.” She rested her elbow on the chair and leaned her head into her hand.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Fine.”
“Because you just thanked me.”
“’Twas an accident.” She continued to take deep, quivery breaths with her eyes closed, as if she was trying not to relive those last few moments on the floor.
“What happened?”
Mrs. Sweeney remained quiet for a long stretch before finally answering. “I had to go to the loo. Normally I can take meself.” She lifted her head and took some steadying breaths. “It was dark. I was groggy. Tripped over my slippers.” Holding up her hands she grimaced. “No harm done.”
“This time,” I said. “And how long had you been on the floor?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped as the color returned to her cheeks. “Make yourself useful and get us a glass of water.”
Biting my tongue, I did as I was told, letting my heart return to its regular pace.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”
“It’s lunchtime.” I forced my voice to speak in notes of calm.
“You crazy Irish folk let your teenagers run all over town for lunch.”
“Where you do nothing but find trouble.”
“The more scandalous the better. Like visiting nursing homes.”
I handed her the cup. “I still think I should call the nurse. Have her check you out.”
“Don’t you dare. I’ve been poked and prodded all day.”
“And nothing hurts?”
“Just me ears.”
“From my prattling. Yes, got it.” I smiled just to annoy her. “I brought us a book to read.”
She harrumphed as I sat down and pulled it from my bag.
“Stephen King.” I showed he
r the cover. “Carrie.”
“I read that years ago.” Mrs. Sweeney rubbed her elbow. “I guess I could give it another listen. Until you find me another.”
“Since it’s about a girl who ends up terrorizing people, I thought maybe you could pick up some new tricks.”
She slid me a look. “The only evil in this room is you.
Impertinent girl.”
She was half right. Sunday as I sat with the O’Callaghan family in the seventh row of their church, I found myself tuning out. After I doodled my name fifty-seven times on a bulletin, I started strat-egizing my approach with Mrs. Sweeney. The assignment wasn’t going away. I needed to deal with her in a way that would keep her at arm’s length—because I would not be getting attached—yet I needed to be friendly enough to get her to cooperate.
My church-inspired conclusion was that she was obviously a proud woman, so if she was anything like me, sympathy over her situation would not win her over. After my brother’s disappearance, there was nothing I detested more than people oozing with softly spoken words and hugs that went on way too long. And Mrs. Sweeney didn’t need that either.
At least that was the theory. And since I came up with it in a church, surely it was inspired by God. Or boredom. Either way, I thought it was sound. I’d just have to log in those twenty hours as quickly as possible, then I could say good-bye to the crabby woman.
“Are you ready for me to read?” I took her outstretched cup and placed it on the bedside table.
“I was ready ten minutes ago. If you wait any longer I’ll have time to write a novel meself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I opened the book and read, filling the sentences with an animated voice and pausing for suspense at all the right places, composing a soundtrack in my head, heavy on the strings.
By the time I got to chapter three, Mrs. Sweeney’s eyes had closed and her breathing came slow and even. I’d have been insulted, but I decided I liked her this way.
“Knock, knock!” Nurse Belinda stuck her head inside and smiled. “Cathleen, I brought the mail. Oh.” She lowered her booming voice. “She’s asleep.”
I double-checked to make sure Mrs. Sweeney was truly out. “She fell this afternoon,” I whispered.
“Did she now?” Belinda shook her head, and the salt-and-pepper bun on her head tottered. “She’s had a rough week. Hardly gets out of bed now. It breaks my heart.” She held out an envelope just as an alarm went off somewhere down the hall. “Do me a favor and stick this in her top drawer. I’ve got to go check on a resident. Cathleen always tells me to throw her mail away, but I know she just digs these letters out of the trash and saves them.” The alarm continued to squawk like an angry bird, and Belinda sailed out of the room.
There You'll Find Me Page 8
