There You'll Find Me (25 page)

“Cathleen’s had a rough day.”

The afternoon nurse spoke in a hushed, bless-her-heart tone, as if Mrs. Sweeney were as fragile as glass. I felt the anger build in my chest. Didn’t she know Mrs. Sweeney didn’t like sympathy?

I just nodded and headed down hall C, where I found Mrs. Sweeney in bed, eyes closed and her face taut with discomfort.

I wanted to ask her if she was okay, if there was anything I could do to make it all go away, but I’d have been no better than the nurse. Beckett had dropped me off on our way back into Abbeyglen, and my mind was filled with so many thoughts, so many worries, I just wanted to pull them out and put them into proper order like the shoes in my closet.

Sitting in the chair beside her bed, I reached into my bag for the Stephen King book. It was a grisly thing, but Mrs. Sweeney must’ve liked it. Not that she’d have told me. But her snoring had cut down considerably.

“I thought I’d read a few chapters today.” I took out my bookmark and set it on the table. “Unless you’d rather do something else.”

She shook her head and shivered beneath her blankets.

I reached for the thick comforter at the end of her bed and spread it over her, tucking it around her shoulders, talking as I went. “You will not believe what Beatrice has done now. She totally set me up to get in trouble for cheating.” I fluffed Mrs. Sweeney’s pillow, adjusted the incline of her bed, and got her some fresh water. “Erin said she’s going to create a plague just for Beatrice.” The chair’s legs scuffed the floor as I sat down and pulled it toward her bed. “Mrs. Sweeney, I want you to know I don’t care what happened with your sister and her fiancé all those years ago. I know you weren’t a bad person. Not on purpose.”

“’Course I was,” came her wheezy voice. “Don’t be so naïve.

Took away me sister’s fella. ’Tis just as it sounds, so.”

“I know about your son.”

Five long seconds ticked by before she spoke. “Ah, John.” She breathed the name like a prayer, a plea, a regret.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Her lips thinned as she shook her head. “’Tis not a happy tale.”

“You have me reading a book about a girl who tries to kill an entire town. Anything else at this point would be a pick-me-up.”

She inhaled slow and deep, as if calling up the memories with her breath. Her sleepy eyes peeled open, and I could tell from the glaze they’d upped her morphine, taking away some of the pain. And her usual filter.

“Me father was a gambler, so he was,” Mrs. Sweeney finally said, her words slightly slurred. “He’d bet on anything—horses, politics . . . the weather. Caught up with him. He was on the verge of losing the house. It would’ve killed me mother, since the property had been in her family for generations.” She licked her parched lips before I helped her sip from her water. “Times were hard. Me father got a loan that had a high interest rate.”

“One of his daughters?”

She nodded against her pillow. “Our name meant something back then. Charles Sweeney had money, but he didn’t have the respectability. So he bought it.”

“You?”

“Me baby sister. She was the pretty one. Fancied him immediately. Charles was a charmer, he was. But I saw through him, I did.”

“Was he abusive?” I couldn’t very well tell her I had talked to the MacNamara sisters, but maybe she’d just think I was a very good guesser.

Mrs. Sweeney coughed into her fist. “Not with his hands. Oh, but he was too smart for that. He left bruises where you couldn’t see . . . at first.”

“So how did you end up with him?”

The three lines between her eyebrows deepened. “I’m tired, girl. Leave me alone now.”

But I couldn’t. Not yet. “You took your sister’s place, didn’t you?”

“The story is I wanted him for meself.”

“No, you didn’t,” I said softly. “You were protecting your sister.

And she doesn’t know.”

Her coughs wracked her thin frame, and I helped her take another drink of water. “Leave me now. I’m old and sick. And you’re just nosy.”

“How did he die?”

“The town said I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“If wishes were bullets . . .”

A feeling came over me, so powerful it could’ve lit that darkened room. “I . . . I want to pray for you.”

“Save it.”

I reached for her hand anyway, hanging on when she attempted to pull away. “I’m kind of rusty, so this won’t exactly be poetic.”

“I just want it to be quick.”

I closed my eyes and waited for a feeling of godly peace to steal over me before I began.

It did not.

“Lord, you know Mrs. Sweeney’s hurts. She’s carried them around a long time, and she needs to let them go. Open the door so she can make peace with her sister. Help both of them see truth and find their way back to each other. And to you. God, let me be Mrs. Sweeney’s hands and feet. Use me to help her however I can.” I cut her a glance. “Even though she can be mean. And she makes fun of my voices when I read.”

“Wrap it up anytime.”

“Amen.”

She said nothing, but when I gave her hand a squeeze, she didn’t pull away. Or yell for the nurse. And that in itself was some small miracle.

“Leave me now.”

I stood up, filled with a tattered sense of purpose. “I’ll be back Monday.”

“I’ll count the seconds.”

“We’ll talk more. I like this heart-to-heart stuff.”

“We’re through talking about this. Leave it be.”

“You don’t want me to do that.”

“I’ve lived with this for over fifty years. Don’t be adding to my grief.”

“I’m going to fix this, Mrs. Sweeney.”

She lifted one thin, fragile brow. “Do us a favor.”

I leaned closer. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Fix your own blooming life instead.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Your Facebook pics of Abbeyglen are gorgeous.
Maybe you could smile in some of them for your favorite sister-in-law? Love you, girl!
—Lucy

Sent to my iPhone

I
spent the hour before dinner running up and down the O’Callaghans’ road. The steep incline of the driveway provided extra resistance for my legs, and I envisioned my thighs becoming leaner with every step. A string of worries floated through my mind, and it just made me run harder. At least my troubles were fuel for burning calories. With staying away from craft services and riding my bike, I’d lost at least a jeans’ size. It gave me such a thrill of accomplishment. So many things seemed out of control in my world. Finally, something I could manage.

When I slipped through the back door and into the kitchen, the family was already gathered. Nora and Sean stood at the stove discussing the messy occupants of the Rosebud room while Liam sat next to his sister, who held her phone to her ear.

Nora stopped stirring as I walked past. “Out for a run?”

“Yeah. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, so I thought I’d squeeze one in.”

“Didn’t you run this morning?” she asked.

I knew Mom had informed her about my “issues” back home. “My counselor told me it was a good way to counteract anxiety or the blues,” I said for her ears only.

“Ah.” Her pause was uncertain. “Well, you’d come to me if you were feeling overwhelmed, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

The door between the guest dining room and kitchen swung open, and I knew without turning around who’d just walked in.

“Beckett!” Liam leaped from his seat.

“Hey, dude.” Beckett held up his hand, and he and Liam did some tribal masculine handshake.

“Liam,” I said. “Don’t you know the proper way to greet an actor is with an air-kiss?”

Beckett walked to the table. “Not for my man here.” His voice dipped as he stood beside me. “But you’re welcome to greet me that way anytime.”

“Just in time for dinner.” Sean peered into the stove. “Finley, would you get Beckett something to drink, please?”

Beckett caught my less-than-pleasant expression. “Water will be fine. Not too much ice. Add a slice of lemon.” He reached for my hand and electric currents blazed up my arm. “And don’t spit in it.”

“That’s a lot to remember. You’ll understand if I forget at least one of those commands.” His thumb slid across my arm as he laughed and let me go.

Erin put the phone beside her plate, then propped her chin in her hand. “Samuel Connolly is avoiding me.”

Beckett smiled at Erin. “Do you realize you just spoke a full sentence in front of me?”

“I guess dropping the potatoes in your lap was a bonding experience.”

“Glad some good could come of it.”

I returned with Beckett’s water, minus the lemon, and set it beside his plate. “Surely Samuel’s not ignoring you.”

“No, he is.” She shot Beckett a sheepish glance, then scrolled through her texts.

“Out with it,” Beckett said. “Let’s hear this tale.”

Erin took a fortifying breath. “Two weeks ago we were talking on the phone, texting, messaging each other on Facebook. But now he won’t even answer his mobile.”

“Maybe he’s just busy.” I sat down beside her, inhaling the aroma of baked chicken.

“Or maybe he knows I intend to ask him to the dance.”

“Or maybe,” Liam said, “maybe he was attacked by a zombie and he has mush for brains and his limbs are rotting off as we speak.”

Erin blinked twice. “I guess as long as he’d be my date, I wouldn’t care.”

Sean meandered to the table, wearing a “Real Men Make Flaky Pie Crusts” apron. “This boy would be crazy not to go with you, Erin.” He pushed up his sleeves. “Do I need to have a chat with him? Show him me old weapon collection?”

“Not helping, Dad. I just don’t understand what changed. We were talking every day and suddenly . . . nothing. I wonder what I’ve done.”

Associated with me, for one thing. I’d have bet my phone Beatrice was behind this.

“No big plans with the cast?” Nora set a platter of chicken on the table.

Beckett flashed her his million-dollar smile. “They’re out celebrating a birthday. But when you told me you were fixing your famous chicken again, I knew this was where the party was.”

Seriously? Could he not turn off the charm for one second? He was practically flirting with someone’s
mother
.

“I’m just glad someone appreciates my cooking.” Nora stood behind me and gave my shoulders a squeeze. “This one eats like a bird anymore, and Liam wants nothing but hot dogs and crisps.”

Dinner was a slow affair, with Sean and Beckett swapping stories of their world travels. Nora tried to cheer up Erin about her dance date potential, but nothing perked her up except the promise of dessert. Liam wove himself into every conversation, somehow finding a way to insert girls or Legos into every topic.

I cut up my chicken into small pieces and ate what I could. As soon as the creamy taste of butter passed my tongue, I gave myself permission to leave more than half on my plate. I was all about eating, but I refused to clog my arteries with fattening dairy products. Ireland was not the easiest place to maintain a diet.

My remaining chicken pieces got shoved under my mashed potatoes. Though my stomach told me it wasn’t quite full, it would have to do. I refilled my water and drank two more glasses instead.

“Time for dessert.” Nora stood up and went to the fridge. “Sean made a lovely tart.”

“Let’s take it into the living room,” Erin said.

Sean stood up. “I’ll grab the coffee.”

I rose with the intention of helping Nora serve, but Beckett beat me to it. With nothing else to do, I joined Liam on the couch.

He reached for the remote and turned on the TV. The room filled with the sound of a BBC station.

. . . Taliban sent a video message to the British prime minister threatening another attack unless the suspected terrorist is released from prison. Mullah Kakir is accused of plotting the London subway bombing. He was also suspected of having ties to the bombing of the school in Afghanistan that took the lives of twenty-five children and American reporter—