There You'll Find Me

by Thomas Nelson

  “Here we are now,” he said. “The lovely Mrs. Doyle’s house.”

  The home looked the same, yet the urgency was so much more elevated than the last time we were there. My assignment with Mrs. Sweeney was almost complete. I only needed two more hours; I had to get this settled.

  Beckett held an umbrella over us as we walked up the gravel drive to the front door and knocked. The smell of his cologne, normally bliss to my senses, danced on my gag reflexes and teased my empty stomach. Knowing dinner would be involved, I had skipped breakfast and eaten only some tuna and rice cakes for lunch, using that time to practice instead. But I’d make up for it at the restaurant. Maybe even go crazy and have some bread.

  The door opened and a familiar face peeked out. “Yes?” Recognition dawned on Mrs. Doyle’s face. “What are you thinking, coming all the way out here in the rain?”

  “We’d like to talk to you,” I said. “Please. It’s important.”

  “I’ve nothing to say.”

  “We’ve come a long way. This girl’s only trying to help.” Beckett turned up the voltage on his megawatt smile. “Please, missus.”

  She huffed and stared at our drippy umbrella. “Be quick about it.” She held open the door. “You’re liable to catch your death out there.”

  Shaking off the rain, we followed Mrs. Doyle into her living room.

  “Sit down.” She swatted a small Yorkie off her couch. “I’ll get us some tea.”

  “You can stop looking so arrogant,” I whispered to Beckett as I took a seat beside him. “You haven’t won her over yet.”

  He looked down at me, eyes smiling. Then pressed his lips to my cheek.

  And my bleak heart became a little more his.

  Some time later Mrs. Doyle returned, carrying a tray she set on a cherry coffee table, and doctored up our teacups. “Well, get on with your news, so.”

  Beckett held the dainty china in his movie hero’s hands. “We just wanted to let you know Cathleen Sweeney isn’t expected to make it much longer.”

  Mrs. Doyle’s spoon paused in her cup. “So . . . Cathleen . . . she’s that bad, is she?”

  “She sleeps a lot,” I said. “She’s in pain. She talks about the past some. Mentions you, of course.”

  Mrs. Doyle sliced into a loaf of what looked like pumpkin bread, her hands slightly shaking. “And who did you say you were to her?”

  “I go to Sacred Heart in Abbeyglen. I was assigned to visit Mrs. Sweeney for a project. She was my adopted grandmother, so to speak. She, um . . . there have been quite a few talks about her regrets. She told me about her marriage, her guilt, her anger . . . her bitterness.”

  “Her bitterness?”

  “Mrs. Doyle,” I said. “Your sister married Mr. Sweeney to protect you.”

  She placed a piece of bread on each of the three plates and slid them our way. “I loved that man. I never understood how she could just take something so precious from her own sister.”

  “She was protecting you.”

  “She wanted him for herself.”

  “He abused her,” Beckett said. “That wasn’t just village gossip. It was not a happy courtship or marriage. She was trying to spare you from that. She left him to save her own life.”

  Mrs. Doyle sat still as a museum statue. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “It was in her letters to you.” I picked at a corner of the pumpkin bread. Half hour of running. A slab of butter added another fifteen minutes. “Didn’t you read any of them?”

  “And why would I?” Mrs. Doyle’s voice lifted half an octave.

  “Didn’t you want to know why she did what she did?” I asked.

  “I saw it with me own eyes. Saw her flirt and finesse her way into his heart.”

  “Your father was broke.” So weird to be giving a stranger such personal information about her own family. “And Charles Sweeney had a wretched reputation. He had banks to build, but the town didn’t trust him. So . . .”

  “No.” Mrs. Doyle shook her white head. “No, me father would not have taken money in exchange for our marriage.”

  “That’s exactly what happened,” Beckett said. “Money exchanged hands. You were wooed by Mr. Sweeney first. His first pick between you and your sister.”

  White-faced, Fiona Doyle sat back in her chair, her hand clutching a napkin, as if the revelation was almost too much to bear. “I’m to believe me sister did this for me?”

  “Cathleen asked around. Did some digging on the newcomer Mr. Sweeney,” I said. “Found out he had an ex-fiancée in Dublin. A woman he had treated miserably until she left him at the altar, causing a big scandal to herself and her family.”

  “Then she begged your father to drop the arrangement,” Beckett said. “But your father wouldn’t hear of it. He was in too deep and Charles Sweeney was too dangerous to cross. So she convinced him to let her take your place.”

  Mrs. Doyle’s eyes brimmed with tears and her lips quivered. “If that’s true, why didn’t she just tell me?”

  “She wasn’t allowed to when Charles Sweeney was alive. He threatened her with your father’s farm and who knows what else. And then after he died, she tried to contact you.”

  Taking off her rimless glasses, Mrs. Doyle gave a sigh and welcomed the dog into her lap. “I was so embarrassed that Charles tossed me over for Cathleen. Everywhere I went in town, people would look at me with such pity. The old ladies would point and whisper, ‘There’s that Fiona Higgins. She couldn’t hang on to one so fine as Charles Sweeney.’ I got my fill of it; I simply left. Father gave me money and I went to work in an office in Limerick and never looked back.”

  “And you married?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.” A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Two years later I met a man. He was a county doctor and stopped by to check on Mrs. Travis, the old woman who rented me a room. I saw after her in exchange for a place to stay and an evening meal. We were married until his death last year.” She gestured with her chin toward the mantel. “Those are our three kids. Ten grandchildren.”

  “You had a whole beautiful life.” It was so unfair. “Your sister lost her awful husband, lost her one child, and never remarried. She spent the rest of her life writing to you and—”

  “Finley.” Beckett’s hand on my arm stilled me. “Mrs. Doyle, your sister’s dying wish is that she would have your forgiveness. We think it would be a grand gesture if you’d come and visit her at the nursing home. Forgive each other.”

  “Why on earth would she need to forgive me? Your story is quite . . . fantastical. I don’t know what to believe. Still so much hurt after all these years.” Mrs. Doyle sniffled into her crumpled napkin. “As for my visiting, I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Me children don’t live nearby. I, meself, do not drive.”

  “Easily solved,” Beckett said. “I’ll send someone to pick you up. You need only call.”

  She watched him with clear reservation. “I don’t know.”

  “Are you a woman of faith, Mrs. Doyle?” Beckett asked.

  “I’ve been a devout Catholic all my life.”

  “Then think of it as blessing someone else.” Beckett regarded her with eyes as watchful as Steele Markov’s. “Or just doing the right thing.” He stood up and pulled me with him. “Thank you, missus. We’ll leave you to your evening now.”

  She led us to the door, her face unreadable when she closed it behind us.

  “How could she have any doubts now?” I asked as soon as Beckett started the truck.

  “Nothing about the lives of those two women has been right. She has years of heartbreak to sort through. She’ll come around though.” The rain fell in sheets on the windshield, and the cold slipped inside and settled between us.

  And though it was all so crazy, I wanted to believe him.

  Because somewhere along the way Mrs. Sweeney had become important.

  And she couldn’t go without knowing there were people in the world who loved her.

  Like me.

  I wa
s seconds away from throwing Beckett’s phone out the window.

  “You’re a popular guy,” I said as he ended his seventh call since we’d left Mrs. Doyle’s.

  “Sorry. Business.” He sent me a sheepish grin as he drove. “And I realized I forgot something on the set. Do you mind if we stop by there before going to dinner?”

  With the way he was looking at me, I’d have agreed to anything. “No problem.”

  The familiar outline of Abbeyglen greeted us, and I felt a stab of disappointment. I had hoped our date would’ve involved Galway, some soul spinning music, and just enough dancing to have carried my heart away. But Beckett wanted to eat at one of his favorite pubs downtown.

  I was too upset to eat anyway. How could Mrs. Doyle sit there and listen to all we’d said and not immediately race out to see her sister?

  The truck came to a lurching stop, and Beckett climbed out and walked to my side with an unhurried stride.

  “You want me to go in with you?” I asked as the door opened. The castle stood before us, almost hidden in the dark shadows. I could imagine it being a vampire’s lair.

  “I don’t want to leave you out here alone.” His hand clasped around mine as he helped me down. “Something might get you.”

  I was afraid something already had. It was six feet of enigmatic boy with a lethal grin and hypnotic eyes.

  Holding the umbrella over me, Beckett pressed his hand to my back and guided me through the wet grass to the entrance of the castle.

  “They forgot to leave the porch light on.” I smiled as Beckett stepped in front of me, his hands working on the latch of the door the set builders had created, as time had long ago done away with the original.

  The door creaked on its large hinges as it swung open. Beckett took my hand, his fingers surrounding mine, and pulled me inside.

  Darkness consumed us as we stepped into the entryway, and I blinked against the wave of dizziness that tugged at my head. Surely it was just my eyes adjusting to the dark.

  “Just around this corner are the lights. Not much farther.” His grip tightened on mine. “I’ve got you.”

  I shuffled my feet slowly across the uneven floor, wary of tripping and landing flat on my face. “What did you say you needed here?”

  He pulled me closer to him, and I inhaled the warm scent of his shirt. “This.”

  Rounding the corner, dim lights appeared. My sight returned.

  And my breath suspended on a gasp.

  In the center of the great hall, amid modern cameras and equipment, stood flickering candles covering the space and turning it into a magical dream. From the candelabras to the pillars on iron stands reaching from the floor, the tapers shimmied to their own rhythms as they formed a circle around a table with two seats just waiting for late-night visitors.

  “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

  You 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 my
self 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.