The night before, Erin had watched my every bite, just like she had every meal that week. I’d eaten half a chicken breast.
And shoved the other half in my napkin when no one was looking. I broke it into pieces and later flushed it down the toilet.
And then I sat down on the lid and cried.
Maybe I was that girl.
The one who was losing the battle with the emptiness.
It had started out so simple. To lose a few pounds. And then the weight started flying off when I began riding my bicycle, and it had become something I could count on, control. I liked it. I did.
“Mrs. Sweeney . . .” My eyes glazed over with renewed sadness as I brought my thoughts back to my dying friend. “I’m sorry about your sister. Beckett and I tried talking to her again.”
She nodded. “He told me.”
“Oh.” Just the thought of him made me hurt. “You’ve seen him?”
Eyes still closed, she moved a finger toward her dresser where a giant bouquet of roses sat. “From Beckett?”
She didn’t respond, but I could see the card from there. And his name.
“He and I kind of got into a fight,” I said. “We said some . . . stupid things. He thinks—” Could I even say it? “Well, he thinks I don’t take care of myself very well. But it’s so hard to live up to this ideal girl he has in his head. Most guys want supermodel, Hollywood, full of drama. Beckett wants someone who doesn’t mind his double life. And he’s mad because he thought I was something and I’m not. I couldn’t be any further from his idea of this girl who has it together.” Why was I blathering on like this? I couldn’t seem to shut up. “And my parents think I have issues too. But I could turn it around right now if I wanted to.”
But then why was I still ravaged by guilt for eating dinner? And why did breakfast make me want to go to the bathroom and throw it all up?
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I said.
Her hand moved a few inches toward me on the bed, and when I looked up, Mrs. Sweeney’s glassy eyes were on mine.
I reached out and lightly covered my fingers with hers. “I’m sorry about your sister, Mrs. Sweeney. I thought I could fix it. I seem to think I can fix everything, but I can’t. And I messed up. But you apologized to her over and over. You tried to explain it, and if she didn’t have the grace to forgive you and thank you, then she is the one in the wrong. I hope you can . . .” Die with some sort of peace. Not take bitterness with you when you go. “I hope you can trust that what you did for her was an amazing sacrifice. I can’t imagine what you gave up, what you endured. And all to save your father and to keep your sister from that horrible man.”
Her hand clutched mine, and I just kept talking. “God wants you to know that you are forgiven. You don’t need to ask one more time because your slate was wiped clean decades ago. And he loves you. He’s always loved you. When that husband treated you bad, when he couldn’t show you love, God had your heart right in his hand.” I didn’t know where the words came from, but they poured out of me like I was Sister Maria. “You are beautiful and worthy. And you’re going to be reunited with your son, and you’ll never be in pain again. Do you believe that, Mrs. Sweeney?”
Tears trickled from both her eyes. She pressed on my hand again.
A hundred thousand words spun in my head like snowflakes in a winter storm, but none seemed right for what was in my heart, for what this woman needed to hear. “Your sister will see the truth.” Though maybe not this side of heaven. “And she’ll regret all the years she didn’t get to have you in her life.” I leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mrs. Sweeney’s cool forehead. “Because she missed out on knowing what a wonderful person you are.”
“Play.” She pointed to my violin. “Play.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?”
She nodded.
So I did.
I picked up the bow, set it to my violin, and let Will’s song pour out. In each movement, I saw him on the cliffs, watching the waves at Lahinch, looking over the edge of the forge on the island, losing his heart to the music of Galway. I played my guts out, praying the music would heal one girl and one woman from their heavy sprits, their hollowed hearts.
I struck the final A-flat, drawing it out, letting it echo in the room, above the beep of Mrs. Sweeney’s IV. Above the beating of my heart.
Mrs. Sweeney sniffed, then mumbled something.
“What?” I leaned closer to her.
“I know . . . that melody, that loneliness you play.” She took a labored breath, her frail chest rising beneath her gown. “The ending’s still wrong.”
“It’s the best I could do,” I whispered.
“Needs hope.” Eyes closed, tears slipped down her alabaster cheeks. “For me . . . please.” Her hand reached for mine. “Find your hope.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
STEELE MARKOV
This hunger, it gnaws at me. And if I let it go—what would remain?
Fangs in the Night, scene 8, page 49 Fierce Brothers Studios
Saturday morning.
Nobody had said another word about “the incident” to me. The family tiptoed around, and I knew they were waiting for tomorrow, when I would be my parents’ problem again, at least temporarily. I hoped.
I’d just run the flatiron through my hair for the last time when I got a text.
Meet me at the bottom of the stairs.
Beckett.
I hadn’t talked to him in exactly one hundred and twelve hours, and he hadn’t been coming to the dinner table and eating with the family. Yet he never left my mind.
The phone dinged again.
Ignore me, and I’ ll come up and get you.
Though that sent a cautious thrill down my spine, I slipped a headband over my hair, letting the minutes stretch out as I made my bed, tidied up my desk, and finally slid into my flats and went downstairs, one hesitant step at a time.
Beckett stood in the living room, talking to Sean. Conversation stopped when he saw me.
“Good morning to you,” Beckett said evenly.
“Good morning.” What if he was right about me?
“Well, I’d best check on my banana cake.” Sean walked back into the kitchen, whistling a tune, oblivious to the awkwardness rushing through the room.
“How have you been?” I asked.
Beckett’s eyes studied my face. “You’re not sleeping.”
I inhaled, focusing on drawing air through my lungs. Trying to keep my heart from falling from my chest. “I’ve been practicing a lot. Composing. I thought I had the ending for the song, but . . . turns out I didn’t.”
“I need you to come with me.”
I blinked at his abrupt tone. “I don’t believe that’s a good idea.”
“This isn’t about”—he lowered his voice—“that.”
“I still don’t—”
“I found it.” He held up a copy of my brother’s cross. “I found it.”
His words were a miraculous chorus. I stood there and let them repeat in my head. “How is that possible?”
“I checked nearly every gravestone within fifty miles of here.
Even hired some people back in the States to research online. But I found it yesterday. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this place to begin with.” He waved the photo. “Clonmacnoise.”
“Is it close?”
“It’s about a two-hour drive.” He squashed a hat down over his head, another partial disguise for the day. “We can get there and get you back so you can pack for New York.”
“I don’t know.” How could I be in the same truck with Beckett when I missed him? And when I was furious with him? “I have a lot to do today.”
“You’ve been waiting for this for weeks. Don’t miss it just because of your stupid pride.”
“Such pretty words,” I said. “I’m getting all flustered just standing here.”
“Get your coat.”
“I’m still mad at you.”
&
nbsp; “Duly noted.”
Two hours and ten minutes later, turning off a curling narrow road in the middle of nowhere, we reached the parking lot at Clonmacnoise.
“And what exactly is this place again?” We were so busy in the truck not discussing how screwed up he thought I was, I’d forgotten to ask.
“An old monastery. It goes back more than four hundred years. Monks from all over Europe came to pray and study here.”
He was strangely quiet, and I wondered why he was even doing this.
Because he was a guy of his word.
We wove through a small museum that explained some of the history, but, sensing my urgency, Beckett pressed his hand to my back and led me through a crowd of people through the various rooms and, finally, outside.
Leaving the darkness of the exhibit, I squinted against the sun as we stepped onto the grass.
There before us was a sight that stole the breath from my body.
Celtic crosses. Hundreds of them. Ivory, gray, white, in all shapes and sizes. If peace was a place, the map would lead a person right here.
“Oh,” I said. “Wow.”
Beckett slipped his sunglasses over his eyes and looked at the dramatic spread before us. “I know. It’s stunning.”
“It’s . . .” I took a few steps, hardly able to take it all in. “Holy. It’s holy and reverent.”
Many people walked about, but few spoke. It reminded me of the silence of Arlington Cemetery, a place my parents had taken us one summer. Yet these grounds were much older. The sun shined brighter over the white crosses, the sky that stretched over us seemed bluer. The River Shannon flowed in the background, a contrast of life against the emblems of death.
But it wasn’t what I saw.
It was what I felt.
A presence. A power. Like invisible arms wrapping me in a hushed embrace.
“That’s an old cathedral. St. Ciaran’s,” Beckett said. A ruin stood in the center, just walls, and we walked toward it. “Look at the way the sky looks so blue through what’s left of the window openings.”
It wasn’t just the ruin, it was everything. The riot of headstones and crosses. Their stark white shapes against the vivid green grass beneath them and the cloudless sky above. I had to walk the grounds, touch the stones. My fingers ran over inscriptions, the shapes and designs, the rough grain, the textures so cool to the touch.
God, you are here.
As sure as I breathe, I know you are.
In a cemetery of all things. Markers of death all around me.
Blackbirds flew and called overhead before landing on one of the towers. Soon many more followed, their caws an abrupt intrusion to the stillness of the morning.
“They’re always around.” Beckett pointed to a group in a tree.
“They flock here by the hundreds.”
“It’s like they hover on the perimeter. Like the dark is always there.” Waiting.
“But dark doesn’t win.” He watched me. “It doesn’t here. And it didn’t for your brother. And it won’t for you, Finley.”
My laugh was small, awkward. “You sound so sure.”
“Come on.” He took my hand and pulled me through the graves.
The sun warmed my skin as my feet trod over the uneven terrain. “They all look so similar,” I said. “Are you sure it’s the one?”
“I know it is.” After passing by three more rows, he stopped.
“There. Check the picture.”
And he was right. The very stone my brother captured in the photo.
It stood there a little crooked, with a lean to the left. In the center was a circle, linking to the stem and arms of the weathered cross. Celtic knots filled the bottom, mostly faded and one-dimensional from time. Behind the cross were three more that looked almost identical to it. But this one was different.
Because it was the one that had caught my brother’s eye. And was significant enough to be glued to the last page of his journal.
I eased to the ground and wiped away some of the dust from the engraving at the base. “Eamon McDonagh.”
Beckett stooped down beside me, his knee touching mine. “Can’t make out the date, but it doesn’t look to be as ancient as some of the others. Maybe a couple hundred years old.”
I struggled to decipher the faint Celtic font. “Can you read that?” The writing was so faded and timeworn, I feared the words on the cross would be lost. And so would my brother’s message.
Beckett scooted closer and took off his sunglasses. “‘Nay, in all these things’ . . .” He paused and squinted. “‘We are more than conquerors through him that loved us.’”
My hand automatically reached out and pressed against the letters. “Romans 8:37.” Tears pooled in my eyes. “It’s my verse.”
“What do you mean?”
I swallowed hard and tried to breathe in some courage. Goose bumps danced on my arms, and I knew I was in one of those moments God had designed just for me. “When my parents got me that last counselor, I had to pick a verse, my battle cry. Every time I felt down or just needed help, I was to say my verse out loud. That was mine.”
Beckett pulled out his phone and touched the screen. His brow furrowed as he scrolled until he found what he was looking for. “You’re right.” He held it up, and I saw the verse in bold black letters. “Do you know the rest of it?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.” I shrugged. “When you’re dealing with evil and darkness, you tend to keep it short and sweet.”
Beckett’s hand found my arm. “Finley, read it.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Just read it.”
I took the phone and sighed.
“Out loud. Like it’s your battle cry.”
Humiliation warred with curiosity as I focused on the next few verses. “‘For I am persuaded’ . . .” I cleared my throat and tried to listen to my own voice. “‘That neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”
My heart filled, the emptiness disappearing drop by drop.
And I read it again.
Neither death nor life would have the power to separate me from the love of God.
No height, no depth could separate me from the love of God.
It was just like Sister Maria said. That he’d been there all along, a constant. But I wasn’t willing.
Just like this cross had sat there for hundreds of years, the rest of my message was in that verse the whole time. Waiting for me to find it. Waiting for me to believe it. And live it.
“Sister Maria tried to tell me. But I wouldn’t listen to her. I haven’t been listening to anyone.” My fingers caressed the hard lines of the grave. “My mind’s so filled with . . . junk. I can’t . . . I couldn’t hear anything good. Couldn’t hear God. I thought . . . I thought he had left me. Just like my brother had.” Tears flowed unchecked as I turned to Beckett. “Beckett, I’m sorry. I was wrong about so much.”
He reached out his hand and wiped the moisture from my cheek. “No, I’m sorry, Fin.”
The thoughts crashed and tumbled, and I didn’t know where to start. “I don’t know that I have an eating disorder, but . . . something is wrong.” I hadn’t been able to eat breakfast again that morning, and I knew. I knew I needed help. Beckett clasped my hands in his and just listened. “I’m not who everyone thinks I am,” I said after a moment passed by. “Lately I . . . I feel better when I’m hungry, when my stomach hurts. When I see the scale dip, I get this rush of total joy. And I’ve been looking for happiness for two years.” It was out. I’d said it. And Beckett still stood beside me, holding my hand. “And . . . I’m scared. I don’t know what I’m going to tell my mom. She’s had so much sadness lately, I can’t stand what this will do to her.” But I knew I had to tell her.
“She’ll be proud of you for giving her the truth,�
� Beckett said. “That’s all anybody wants, some honesty. And you’ll go back and fight this. And if I know you, and I think I do”—he ran his thumb across my cheek—“you’ll come out of this stronger and better than ever.”
“I was meant to see this cross, that inscription. And you found it for me.” The wind blew, and my hair flew around my face. “Why would you spend so much energy on this?”
Beckett’s mouth slowly curved. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve totally fallen for you, Finley Sinclair.” I wanted to press pause on his words, then rewind them over and over. “And because I know what it meant to you. You’re looking for closure, and this is one thing you can put to rest.” He lifted his face to the sun and gave a small smile, letting my hands fall from his. “My real name is Michael Shaunessy. Me da’ changed it when I was three, and Beckett Rush was born. I’m crazy about Shark Week, Dickens novels, and comic books. I don’t understand most foreign films, and no matter how much I brag, I don’t like Mrs. O’Callaghan’s corned beef.” His voice fell low and deep as his gaze held mine. “And not too long ago, I hurt a lovely, wounded girl. I haven’t been able to stand myself since.
“Tomorrow a story will hit the media, telling the world Taylor and I are over.” He took off his hat, showing his face for all to see. “There’s a new girl in my life—when she’s ready.”
With tears in my eyes, I leaned over and kissed him. My lips covered his with all the heart I had left, even those dark and dangerous parts that cried out for repair. As Beckett’s hands cradled my face and the sharp breeze pushed against my back, something bloomed inside, like a flower pushing through the ground in the winter chill. There was life for me. And I wanted to live it.
“I’ve missed you.” Beckett kissed my forehead, held his lips against my temple.
There You'll Find Me Page 24
