Call when you arrive. You know how your mother worries. And be careful of strangers. Can’t trust anyone these days.
—Dad
Sent to my BlackBerry
If I never got on a plane again, it would be too soon. All I wanted to do was crash into a bed and stretch out my tired body until I passed out into sleepy bliss.
After some unsuccessful small talk, Beckett and I spent the remaining hours alternating between sleeping and ignoring one another. Just when I had started to feel badly and thought to attempt some kindness and genuine conversation, I opened a new OK! magazine, only to be greeted by an article about the movie star beside me and his wild night in Los Angeles weeks ago. A yelling match with his producer. Dinner at Spago with three blond starlets. A hotel room carelessly trashed.
So I watched one of the in-flight movies instead.
“Enjoy your stay in Abbeyglen.” Beckett Rush grabbed his bag from the overhead bin as the passengers in front of us shuffled to the exit.
“Thank you.” I hitched my backpack tighter and finally met his laughing eyes. “Nice to meet you.” My voice was flat as my wilted hair.
Those full lips quirked. “Right. And you as well, Felicity.”
“It’s Finley.”
“I had a grand time sitting beside you.” His accent made his words sound almost sincere.
“Uh-huh.” I stepped into the aisle, grateful to be minutes from escape.
“Who knows?” he said. “We might run into each other again.
Our paths might cross. Our circles might intersect.”
I turned away from my inspection of the slow-moving woman in front of me and stared at this arrogant boy. “Pretty sure I don’t hang out in the same circles as you.”
“That’s not what the tabloids say.”
“My party days are over.” My look dismissed him from the top of his Colts cap to his designer shoes. “A temporary lapse of judgment for me. Not something I want to make a career of.”
“A little fun never hurt anyone. In fact, it pays my bills.”
“There are more important things to care about.” Like my audition. I wouldn’t blow it again.
Beckett stared for one second before he threw his head back and laughed. “You take care of yourself, Frances. I hope you find just what you need in Ireland. And maybe even . . . a little fun.”
“My name is—” I snapped my lips together. Never mind. The boy was an actor. Not a rocket scientist. Clearly he wasn’t blessed with an ample amount of brain cells. Just stunningly good looks. And a voice that could charm a weaker girl into handing over her purity ring with one syllable.
The line in front of me finally moved. Two teenage girls ahead turned and gawked at Beckett.
“Is that—”
“Could it be him?”
“It’s not,” I said loud enough for them to hear. “Just his body double. Not nearly as cute.” I lowered my voice to a stage whisper.
“And a little s-l-o-w, if you take my meaning.”
Leaving Beckett Rush behind forever, I grabbed my beloved violin, then followed the line that emptied into the Shannon airport. Stepping out of the traffic of busy travelers, I called home. My mom’s sleepy voice answered on the fourth ring.
“I made it.”
“Good to hear your voice.” I heard a rustle of blankets and my dad mumbling in the background. It was ten p.m. there, and my parents were early birds. “Your father said he loves you and to call him later.”
“Did he just roll over and go back to sleep?”
“The man sleeps through hurricanes.” My mom yawned.
“Now, Finley, don’t forget what your counselor said.”
“I know.” Would I ever outrun my past? “I’ll call her if I get stressed or overwhelmed.”
“Or if those feelings start to come over you again.”
“I’ve been okay for six months, Mom.” No anxiety meds, no more depression talk. “You promised you wouldn’t push.”
“We love you. We just want you to take care of yourself. It’s been a long haul for you, and I don’t want anything to mess it up.”
“I have to go. The O’Callaghans are probably waiting.”
“I miss you already.”
“Talk to you soon.”
“Stay away from the black pudding.”
“Mother—”
“And don’t ride your bicycle on the wrong side of the road.”
Ten minutes later I made it to baggage claim, where the machine gave a mighty groan and bags began to file out like weary soldiers. It was a long, tiring wait before I saw mine appear.
“Excuse me.” I tried to step past a large gentleman standing in the way. “Sir, if I could just—” No! There went my suitcases. Using a little more elbow than manners, I nudged by the man and reached for the handle of my bag. I wrenched one off the belt and made a grab for the other. “Sir, would you mind grabbing that?” Fatigue pounded into me like a high tide. I swiped for the bag again, my fingers making contact. But couldn’t keep hold.
I moved back and took a seat on the floor, knowing I’d have to wait ’til it came around again. So tired. And hungry. And smelly. And in need of caffeine.
Lord, I do not want to sit down and bawl right here in the middle of the airport.
“I believe this is yours?”
I looked up and saw Beckett Rush standing over me, my rogue suitcase beside him.
The guy could’ve put somebody into a trance with those eyes.
“How did you know that was mine?”
“I just got a hunch.” His arrogant smile quirked on his lips.
“Like when I saw you nearly swan dive onto the conveyer belt.”
“Your vampire instincts are uncanny.” My fingers brushed his as I pulled my suitcase to me, my face burning at the sight of his smirk. “Thank you.”
“Welcome to Ireland, Fiona Sinclair.” And with that, Beckett Rush dismissed me and walked away.
I probably should’ve gotten his autograph.
And sold it on eBay.
Wearily tugging my stuff, I might as well have been dragging a mountain. I finally made it to the reception area and searched the small crowd for a redheaded girl with large brown eyes that matched the picture on my phone.
“Finley?”
Exhausted and hopeful, I turned at the voice.
A teenage girl stood behind me, eyes bright and smile wide.
“You are Finley!” She crushed me to her, and my arms wrapped around her thin frame. She couldn’t be any more than a size two, standing a head shorter than my five-eight. “I’d recognize you anywhere. You look just like your picture!”
I hugged the girl and laughed. “I guess you’re Erin.” At least I hoped she was my host sister. Otherwise, this was way too much PDA.
“Did you have yourself a good trip?” she asked.
Across the way I saw Beckett surrounded by what must’ve been his entourage. “A little turbulence.”
“Come meet my family.” I followed her to a smiling trio. “This is my mam, Nora. My dad, Sean.”
“Very fine to meet you,” Nora said. She gave me a light hug, and I shook Sean’s hand. Erin’s parents reminded me of the Jack Spratt nursery rhyme. Her mom was just as short and plump as her father was tall and thin. They all looked very perky for three in the morning.
“And this is Liam,” Erin said with less enthusiasm.
“I’m twelve.” His chestnut hair matched his father’s, one shade darker than my own brown wavy locks. “But I’m mature for my age. In case you felt like dating a younger man.”
“Mature?” Erin snorted. “You still play with Legos.”
“Just practicing for my future in engineering.” His voice cracked in an unintended squeak. “Mam says one day girls are gonna fall for my intelligence.” Liam wiggled those brows toward me. “Better get me while I’m still available.”
“Don’t scare her away, dear.” Nora pulled her son to her side.
“He imagines himself a little Romeo, this one does.”
Erin eyed her brother. “And you know what happened to Romeo.”
As Sean drove, the family took turns pelting me with questions and throwing out random tidbits about each one of them. I wanted to tell them my brain had turned to mush hours ago, but I just smiled and nodded instead.
“We inherited a bed-and-breakfast,” Erin said as one topic crashed into another. “It’s a lot of work, but quite fun to live in. My father just retired from the army, and now he’s unclogging toilets and burning scones. Show Finley your hand, Dad.” She laughed as we cruised down the road. “Mam has to bandage a new wound every day.”
“At one time in my life, didn’t I dodge mortar fire for a living?” Sean O’Callaghan navigated the car on the roundabout. “Now I take hits wearing an apron and making jam.”
“And a right fine job you’re doing too.” Nora patted her husband’s arm and sent a wink to us in the backseat.
The busy intersecting highways finally lost their American big-city appearance and gave way to fields, too dark to see. My chest filled with an empty ache as I tried to imagine the beauty hidden by the night. In the daytime, I knew the meadows would be as green as though Photoshopped by God, like in my brother’s pictures. We sailed by a farm with what looked like the remains of a castle tower just sitting out by the fence, and I leaned past Erin’s brother to get a closer view.
“They’re all over the place,” Erin said. “Just some ruins. We have one on our property.”
“It looks like a princess used to live there,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else. “Maybe she was besieged by an angry dragon. And one day her prince finally came to save her.”
Sitting beside me, Liam patted my hand. “I’ll save you anytime, Finley.”
I’d had too many moments when I had needed saving. But I wanted those to be over. This stay in Ireland marked that new beginning. No more trouble. No more desperate mistakes.
And definitely, no more drama.
“Here we are!”
Following Erin, I slid out of the car with my heavy limbs and took in my temporary home, aided by the lights of the small parking lot.
The house perched on a hill as if it were spying on the town below. Cobalt-blue shutters popped against the cream-colored wooden siding. A flower box sat beneath each window with blooms and greenery spilling out over the edges. It all beckoned me to come inside and be happy.
“Give us your violin, so.” Liam reached for the case I was holding.
“It’s no trouble.” I didn’t trust it in anyone else’s hands. Will had gotten the instrument in junior high. He hadn’t stuck with it, but he’d given it to me when I was in fourth grade, and I would’ve run into a burning house for my violin.
Walking across the front step, I had to sidestep a faithful chocolate Lab that sat on guard duty, wagging its tail.
“Cute dog.” I petted the soft, smooth head.
“That’s Bob.” Erin opened the door. “He’s just a visitor, that one is.”
Sean and Liam took my things upstairs as Erin and her mom showed me around.
“This is the living quarters,” Nora said. “On the other side of the kitchen is the guests’ part of the house.”
“The good part,” Erin said. “The part that doesn’t have a leaky roof.”
The home was cozy, yet large, filled with three bedrooms, a living room, a gigantic kitchen, and a breakfast nook where a scarred oak table was snugly tucked in the corner. It looked like it’d been through many meals, but I couldn’t find a speck of dust, and I knew my dad would approve of that. A family lived here. One who didn’t have to share the space with sadness and regret.
“Take her upstairs and show her where she’s staying.” Nora O’Callaghan gave my back a motherly pat. “I’ll have a nice, big breakfast ready when you wake up.”
Erin and I climbed the oak steps, my shoes landing on wood worn until the shine had dulled. Walking behind Erin, I noticed the cut of her jeans. The familiar style of her gray sweater. I didn’t know what I expected, but every Irish person I’d seen so far had been dressed like the average American. Erin’s outfit could’ve come from the mall back home.
On the second floor, Erin showed me her brother’s room, where robotic sounds drifted through the closed door. “I’d advise you to stay as far away from Liam’s room as possible.” Her heart-shaped face scrunched. “It smells like feet.”
We peeked into Erin’s room, which was two doors down. The yellow walls were a natural match to her personality.
“My mam thought you’d prefer the room we fixed up in the attic. She said you’d want your own space where you could practice undisturbed. Can’t hear a thing from up there. So to the top floor we go.”
The stairs steepened and narrowed, and my tired body struggled with every move. When I hit the top, moonlight streamed through a window as big as the O’Callaghans’ car.
“It’s said the daughter of the original owner of Birch Hill House would climb up here and keep lookout for her fiancé, a seaman.” Erin stood before the window, a smile playing about her lips. “One time he was scheduled to return, and she took her post. And she waited and waited.” Her voice dropped to a sad whisper. “After two weeks of doing nothing but staring out toward the ocean, she finally had to accept the cold truth.”
I looked toward the horizon where I knew the ocean lay. “His boat had dashed against the rocks, plunging him to a watery grave, never to return?”
“No.” Erin blinked. “That he had horrible navigation sense and would have to be a cobbler like his father if he expected to ever be her mister.” She eyed me warily. “You’re a wee bit dark, aren’t you?”
Before I could answer, Erin did a happy spin before the window, her red ponytail swishing the air. “I think Abbeyglen will be exactly what you need. You’re going to love it here.”
“I hope so.” I smiled at her enthusiasm. “I’m certainly going to try.”
“Good night, then. I know you’re exhausted, so I’ll quit talking and let you get some rest.” She hugged me again and tiptoed out, leaving me to stand there contemplating the same window, the same vast darkness beyond it.
God, my brother felt your presence so strongly here in Ireland. Will you be here for me?
But, as usual, there was no answer. There hadn’t been in some time.
After brushing my teeth, I found Mrs. O’Callaghan had turned down my bed, and on a small table beside my pillow burned a lamp, the only light in the room. I unpacked, placing my pants, all perfectly folded, in drawers. I hung my shirts and skirts by color on a clothes rack, then went about lining up my shoes, adjusting their angles until each was symmetrical to its mate and peace settled in my mind.
For the moment.
I flopped onto the bed, not even bothering to change into my PJs, and grabbed my backpack, pulling out my brother’s travel journal.
As Handel softly streamed from my laptop, I gave into the pull to rub my hand over the soft leather cover of the book, then opened to the first page and saw Will’s familiar handwriting. The loop of his upper case, the dips of his lower.
Travel Journal of Will Sinclair
Foreign Exchange Program
Abbeyglen, Ireland
Mom had given me the journal after my brother’s memorial. Two days later the call came confirming my acceptance into the program to study abroad. Same country. Same town. Will had loved it here, even returned a few times.
After I got the placement, I knew—my audition song would be for Will. For his Ireland. So far my composition was inspired by every picture in his journal. Except I lacked an ending.
Though I had the first page of his journal memorized, I read the words again.
Arrived in Abbeyglen. I’m excited to look at it all. Do it all. This place is awesome.
It was the last page that plagued me. The travelogue was filled with journal entries and a few photos, each one meticulously explained. But toward the back, pressed into the center of the paper, was a picture of a single cross gravestone. No explanation. No commentary. I wanted to see every single spot my brother did. Feel what he felt. Feel . . . something. I would set foot on each landmark Will had and see it with my eyes and my brother’s words. And when I found that Celtic cross, I knew I’d have what I needed to write the finale to my audition piece.
And perhaps I’d find Will at each of the stops. As each day passed, my grief over him seemed to widen, but my memories of him only lessened. And that couldn’t happen. I wasn’t going to let it.
My weary eyes drifted to the final sentence in his first entry.
God, I see you in everything.
I shut the book. Turned out the light.
I, too, wanted this place to be awesome.
But God?
I couldn’t see him anywhere.