There You'll Find Me (18 page)

“What happened?”

“Don’t you know?”

I shook my head.

“Cathleen stole her own sister’s fiancé.”

And with that, he departed, weaving through the crowd, back to his beloved music.

“So there you have it,” Beckett said. “Except—”

“Yes?”

“If Mrs. Sweeney is the man-stealer, why is she the one who’s so bitter?”

“I don’t know, unless it’s because—” And then I recalled Mrs. Sweeney’s cryptic words.

My fate is like those envelopes—sealed and tossed aside
.

“Because she needs her sister’s forgiveness.”

With the crowd buzzing around us, we listened to the band, and I saw all the instruments my brother had described. But nobody played with as much life as Mr. Murphy. As the band picked up the pace, Mr. Murphy dropped his bow and began to dance a jig. The crowd clapped in time, and soon a couple got up and joined him. Then three more.

The music became a living thing in the room, as well as in my heart, where it sent powerful shock waves of . . . something.

“I wish you could see your face right now.” I looked across the table to find Beckett’s eyes on mine.

“I never can describe it. But it’s here. Do you feel it?” I put a hand to my chest. “Do you feel it?”

His smile was a slow lift of his lips. “I feel it indeed.”

“I’ve never heard anything like Mr. Murphy. He plays with everything he’s got.”

“Wish he danced half as good and—”

“
Shh
. Wait.” I held up my hand, humming. “I gotta get this.” Grabbing my phone, I pushed a few buttons, activating the voice recorder, and hummed right into it. “I need to change part of Will’s song. I hear it so clear.”

“From the band?”

“No, in my head. Sometimes it’s like God just downloads it.”

“The God who’s not talking to you.”

I smiled. The song would come together. “He sends me occasional love notes, I guess.”

“You should play tonight.”

I looked back at the band. Let the music fill every cut and scrape on my spirit. “I just want to listen.”

Beckett watched me over the salt and pepper shakers. “Then let’s dance.”

“No, thank you.”

He held out his hand. “If you want the full effect, you can’t very well do it from your seat.”

Before I could argue, he pulled me to my feet and out into the crowd. I thought there couldn’t possibly be room for one more person, but Beckett wedged us in and turned his laughing eyes to mine.

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” I said, already feeling the embarrassment creep up my neck.

“You don’t have to know the steps.” He drew me closer, resting his hand at my hip. “Just feel the music.” And with a look of challenge, he put us into motion. Spinning, skipping, clapping, he propelled us around the tiny space. My shoes stomped across the rough-hewn floor, and when I tripped over Beckett’s feet, his firm hold steadied me at once. “I’ve got you.” His face hovered inches from mine. “I won’t let you fall.”

The music swelled and crashed, the instruments playing their own tune, yet still coming together in perfectly mismatched unity.

“You’re trying too hard.” Beckett sang off-key in my ear. “Don’t overthink it.”

I assumed he was talking about the dancing, but it might as well have been the advice for every part of my life. The more I thought, the foggier things became.

So I just let go. My feet skipped to the frantic tempo, and I released my hold on Beckett, clapping my hands as I followed his lead. My hair whipped across my shoulder, in my face. I imagined I looked like a chicken having a fit, but I didn’t even care.

The drum beat in a fierce staccato, and the pounding rumbled in my chest. Donal Murphy’s violin sang the solo, calling out to every lonely, empty heart in the room—come and be happy. And mine longed to answer. The flute intertwined with the guitar, almost like angels orchestrated the notes.

The Lord will send His faithful love by day; His song will be with me in the night
.

Are you here for me too, God? Or just there for those so strong in their faith like Will?

Laughing, Beckett took my right hand and spun me round.

And then I was laughing too.

It was the sound made by a girl who hadn’t lost a brother. A girl who wasn’t angry, who hadn’t had her world upended.

The music exploded to a finale, and Beckett twirled me one more time. Completely winded, I clutched his shoulders to steady myself and catch my breath.

And stood straighter. As if a few ounces of the weight had lifted.

“Admit it,” he said. “You had fun.”

“I did.” I tilted my head back and smiled. “You were right.”

“What’s that?” He cupped his ear. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“You were right. And I was . . . wrong.”

With his silver eyes on me, he reached out and pushed a strand of hair from my cheek. His finger stroked the delicate skin of my ear as he tucked the tendril in place. “You’re not too bad, Finley Sinclair.”

I couldn’t have looked away from this boy if the room had caught on fire. “You’re okay yourself. At times.”

“But we can’t get involved.”

“No.” I swallowed. “Definitely not.”

His face lowered a fraction of an inch. “Because I’m infamously bad.”

“And I’m staying away from trouble.”

His voice was rough, husky. “It would never work.”

I took a step closer. “Impossible.”

He traced my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “We don’t even like each other.”

“I pretty much can’t stand you.”

And then his lips crushed to mine. In the middle of McPherson’s Pub, as Mr. Murphy played his fiddle and total strangers danced around us. I curled my arms around Beckett’s neck and pulled him nearer. My eyes closed as music and boy consumed me, his lips sliding over mine once more. It was both too much and not enough.

And it had to stop.

I moved away, bringing shaking fingers to my lips. “What just happened?”

Shutters fell over Beckett’s eyes as he took a step back. “You just kissed me.”

“I didn’t kiss
you
. You kissed me!”

He cleared his throat, ran a hand over the light stubble on his face. “’Tis a matter of opinion.”

“’
Tis
not. And what would Taylor think of this? I—”

Beckett placed one finger against my lips, locking his eyes with mine. “The blame lies with Donal Murphy and his magic tunes. We forget it.” He dropped his hand. “We forget it. Agreed?”

Forget the kiss that went straight to my toes? That his hands held on to me like they’d never let me go? That my heart leaped out of my chest and fluttered like a bird?

I nodded my head. “Already forgotten.”

Chapter Fifteen

• Number of cemeteries visited this week: 2

• Number of miles run today: 3

• Number of times I redid hair in last hour: 3

• Number of times I’ve thought of one certain vampire in last 30 minutes: 12.5

B
eckett Rush. The hottest actor on the planet. Kissed me.

This was the thought that replayed in my head all day Sunday into Monday at school. Through all of church, I doodled hearts and swirly doodads, then realizing what I’d done, I scribbled big
X
s to cover them up. Erin peeked over at the finished product and gave a frown. I thought she now doubted my salvation. Or maybe just my art abilities.

And today in school had been the same thing. In trig, I got called on twice, and both times my intelligent answer was, “Huh?” And who could listen to Beatrice drone on as Macbeth when I heard Beckett’s voice in my ear? Saw his sculpted face coming near mine?

All because Beckett Rush kissed me. Plain Jane me.

And I didn’t know why. He didn’t like me. I didn’t like him. He had Taylor, and I was steering clear of the party life.

“We missed you at lunch again today,” Orla said as we walked outside after school.

“I’ve got to get my hours in at the old folks’ home.” Mrs. Sweeney’s clock was ticking, and I didn’t want to be around when God pressed her eternal snooze button.

Erin ran to catch up. “There’s a new documentary on tonight about organ harvesting. Who’s in?”

“Hello, girls.”

We all turned and saw Beatrice, flanked by her entourage of Poshes.

“How is the hunt for a date going?” Beatrice asked Erin. The two friends beside her shared a vicious grin.

“I’ve got my date,” Erin said.

“Who was it you said you were taking again?” Beatrice asked.

“I . . . I, um, didn’t.”

Beatrice’s laugh was like blunt nails on a dry chalkboard. “Let me guess . . . because he doesn’t exist?”

“Are you calling Erin a liar?” Orla pushed her sweater sleeves up to her elbows.

“If the St. Flanagan’s Day dress fits . . .” Condescension fizzed from Beatrice’s lips. “But if she says she has a date, then who am I to doubt? Can’t wait to meet him.” Beatrice and her sisterhood of snobs gave us parting glares, then sauntered down the sidewalk in the other direction, completely dismissing a world where normals like Erin and the rest of us existed.

“I have
got
to find a date,” Erin mumbled.

Orla popped her gum twice, still glaring at the back of Beatrice’s head. “My cousin’s still available.”

“Your cousin wears eyeliner.”

“It’s just a phase.”

“Finley, you should ask Beckett to go with you,” Erin said.

I stumbled over a rock the size of a quarter. “There’s no way. He doesn’t like me like that.” Did he?

“You’ve been humming ever since your evening in Galway.”

Orla’s tone dared me to cough up some details.

“Just working on my song.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Orla said. “But if I’d gone out with Beckett Rush . . . I’d be humming too.”

I made four loops around town on my bicycle before finally stopping at the set. And that was just because I had to tinkle. Besides burning some calories from an overindulgent weekend of Mr. O’Callaghan’s cooking, I needed to burn off some of my nervousness.

It didn’t work.

I popped the kickstand and walked to the open field where the swarming crew fluttered around the actors in the scene.

The director spoke to Taylor, and as she nodded vigorously, her impossibly voluminous hair flowed around her like spun silk. Or really good extensions.

A dry tickle scratched my throat, and I coughed into my hand.

Beckett stepped away from his position beside Taylor. And looked right at me.