There You'll Find Me (38 page)

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
caw
s 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.

“I missed you too. I’ve been running our fight over in my head. Everything I said was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t. I realized you said some things that were true as well. I talked to me da’ a few days ago.” He paused to let a couple walk around us. “I told him I wasn’t going to do anymore movies for a while, and I needed a break. Some time to get my head together, figure out what I want to do. And some space to be a normal guy. I want to take Bob fishing. Go to the beach. Maybe train for a triathalon.”

“That last part really isn’t normal.”

“I want to check out some colleges and see if maybe I want to go to school full-time on this hiatus.”

“What did your dad say?”

“Too much.” Beckett watched some tourists two rows over.

“We had a big fight, then he left. I haven’t talked to him since.”

“I know that’s killing you.”

“We have to refigure our roles, you know? I need a father right now. Not a manager.”

“So no more vampires?”

“Filming wraps up next week, then I’m officially retiring my fangs.”

“Girls’ hearts will be shattered.”

He tipped up my chin, and his steady gaze locked on mine.

“I’m only worried about one girl’s heart.”

Oh. My.

“I’m messed up,” I said. “I mean I’m completely jacked up. You get that, right? As in petrified, have no idea what’s going to become of me,
jacked
up. My mind is not in a good place, my sense of reality— apparently it’s kinda skewed.”

Beckett pulled me to him and wrapped me in his arms. “I’ve dealt with Hollywood actors for years. I think I might be some good support, so I do.”

“I’m one big panic attack waiting to happen,” I said against his chest. “Do you really want to be around to see that?”

“Yes. I do.” He kissed the top of my head. “You can do this, Finley. I know you can heal.”

“Wait . . .” I put my ear to the wind and listened to the sounds around me.

The melody entered my heart, and I saw the notes fall into place in the last few bars of Will’s song.

I had to hum it, seal it in my spirit.

Beckett smiled. “You getting something there?”

“Yeah.” I laughed, really laughed. “I think I finally have it.”

“And what is it?”

“Hope,” I said. “I’m humming Mrs. Sweeney’s hope.”

Beckett held my hand in his. “And your own?”

“Maybe.” I nodded. “Just maybe.”

God, I don’t know what lies ahead or what will happen next. But you’re going to be there, aren’t you? Even when the world tricks me into thinking you’re not. Things are going to be different
. I’m
going to be different. And I’m going to get it right this time
.

“So why do you believe your brother put the photo on a blank page?” Beckett asked as we both looked up at Will’s cross.

I thought of the picture glued into that final spot in his journal.

“Because it was my story to finish all along.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

• Days ’til audition: 2

A
re you sure you want to do this?” Beckett threw my carryon in the back of his truck beside Bob, who waved at me with his cheery tail.