Read an Excerpt
There You'll Find Me
By Jenny B. Jones
Thomas Nelson
Copyright © 2011 Jenny B. Jones
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59554-540-4
Chapter One
I'm on my way to Ireland! I've pretty much lost a whole night's sleep on the plane, but who cares? Great things are waiting for me. I know it.
—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland
Miss?"
I pulled out an earbud as the flight attendant leaned over me. "Yes?"
"We have a few seats available in first class. Would you like to have one of them?"
Seats like recliners, meals that didn't taste like burned Lean Cuisines, and no guy in front of me leaned back 'til he was in my lap? "Yes, please."
I grabbed my backpack and followed the woman through the narrow aisle, dodging two ladies on their way to the bathroom.
Five more hours of the flight to Shannon, Ireland. I couldn't get there fast enough. But a cushy seat would surely help pass the time.
"Here we go." She smiled widely, and her eyes brimmed with an excessive amount of enthusiasm for a good deed she surely did every day.
Thanking the flight attendant, I slipped into the seat, the leather crunching beneath me, and set my backpack at my feet.
"Have fun," she said.
Have fun?
I glanced at the guy beside me. He leaned against the wall, his head propped into his hand, a Colts hat covering his head and shielding his eyes from view. From the stillness of his body, he had to be asleep.
I settled in, pulled out my travel pillow, zipped up my hoodie, and burrowed. Reaching for the newspaper, I opened to the second page, where the article from the front left off.
... The latest bombing in Iraq has been claimed by terrorist Hassan Al Farran, ringleader of the al Qaeda cell thought to be responsible for the deadly blast in Afghanistan that killed a schoolhouse of children, as well as CNN correspondent and humanitarian Will Sinclair, son of hotel magnate Marcus Sinclair. On the Most Wanted list, Al Farran is number four in command in the Taliban and continues to elude capture.
As the familiar churning began in my stomach, I took a few deep breaths. One day the pain wouldn't be as fresh as if the loss of my brother had just happened. Instead of two years ago. My counselor said I should've been past the anger stage. But I wasn't.
But on October twentieth, perhaps I would be.
I continued to read the article, but it provided no new information, and soon the words swam and blurred until I finally had to close my eyes and rest for just a bit in the dimmed lights of the plane.
* * *
"The captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign. Please remain in your seats and refrain from moving about the cabin."
Somewhere in the fog of my sleepy brain, the flight attendant's voice registered, but I couldn't seem to pull myself to the surface. So tired. And warm. And comfy.
"Sir, your friend needs to put her seat belt on."
"As much as I like a lovely girl leaning on my shoulder," a lilting voice whispered near my ear, "I think you might want to listen to the flight attendant."
My head lifted with a jerk as the plane shuddered. "What?" Where am I? What time is it?
The boy beside me laughed, and after I blinked a few times, I saw him more clearly.
Snapping myself in, my cheeks warmed. "Was I just—" "Sleeping on me?" He nodded his head, his blond hair peeping out from his cap. "Yeah."
"And did I—"
"Drool?" His voice carried a hint of Ireland. "Not much."
Gray eyes. Chiseled cheekbones. A grin that revealed a dimple. A voice low enough to send chills along my aching neck. A smile that would send most teen girls into a squealing fit of adoration and hyperventilation.
"Oh my gosh—"
"Shhh." He pressed one finger to his lips. "Don't say a word. I've gotten this far without being bothered."
"Beckett Rush."
He flashed that million-dollar grin again. The one that earned this nineteen-year-old the lead role as the darkly romantic Steele Markov in a franchise of films such as Vampire Boarding School and Friday Night Bites.
"If you stay mum about this, I'll give you an autograph." He leaned close. "But you should know I've given up signing body parts."
I blinked twice, my mouth open in an O.
"I know, it's shocking," he said. "I guess the flight attendant thought she was doing you a favor sitting you next to me, but—"
"I don't want your autograph," I finally managed.
Beckett tilted his head and flashed those gunmetal grays. "Okay. One picture. But later. After we land, and I've had my breakfast."
"I don't want your picture either." I scooted away from his seat. "The last thing I want, Mr. Hollywood Party Boy, is to be photographed with you, where it will surely land in some trash magazine. As if I need any more of that."
His frown was the first genuine facial expression I'd witnessed. No doubt, Beckett Rush was not used to anything but fawning and fainting from teenage girls. And their mothers.
"Have we met?" he asked.
"No." Digging into my backpack, I pulled out a magazine and flipped past the glossy cover. None of the girls looked like me. They were all rail thin, unlike my size nine. Scrawny legs, where my own were muscular from years of cheerleading. And their hair displayed artful compositions of chaos and grace, while my long, dark locks were stuffed into a messy bun on top of my head after an endless day of travel.
"Are you sure, so?"
"Quite." Returning the magazine to my bag, I retrieved the sheet music I'd been working on for weeks. My audition piece.
"Because now that I get a good look at you, you seem familiar."
I swiped my fingers through my brunette bangs until they offered a little coverage. "I have one of those faces."
"And you've certainly a strong dislike of me." I could feel his eyes study me as I reread the first eight measures. "As if I've done something to you."
"You have not."
"Then—"
"It's your type," I said, without looking up. "I know your type."
"Well now, that's interesting."
His cologne filtered my way and clung to my shirt where I'd fallen asleep against him. I probably had crease marks on my face from his shoulder. How embarrassing.
"Did you have a good nap, then?"
Boys like him were only after one thing. And I was done with him and his entire species. "Fine. Thank you."
"Since we've established who I am . . ." He lifted a blond brow when I didn't respond. "The next line is where you tell me your name. I think if you're going to drool on me, we should at least be on a first-name basis."
I sighed and looked toward the window where I saw nothing but dark sky.
"You look like a Myrtle to me," he said to himself. "Maybe a Mavis. But I could be wrong."
"Finley." I tried to rearrange my mussed hair with my fingers. "Finley Sinclair."
Silence. Then his eyes widened. "Of the hotel fame?"
Here we go. "My dad might own a hotel or two."
"One or two thousand." And then new understanding dawned. "You've had quite a year. I think I saw you on the cover of People some months back. 'Hotel heiress sneaks into club and parties the night away.'"
"That was last spring." And I had worked my tail off making amends, getting away from what my dad had called my crazy season. Thank goodness any small amount of notoriety I had did not extend to foreign countries. I would start over with a clean slate. "The article was grossly exaggerated, and I'm sorry I took a photo op away from you. But don't worry, your Wild Child title is safe. I don't want it." Not anymore, though you couldn't tell it from my list of escapades last year. And I was done associating with people like Beckett, or my ex-boyfriend, who just wanted to have a good time and didn't care about the costs.
I didn't miss the flash of Beckett's eyes before his amiable mask returned. "Since you're not a member of my fan club, let's talk about something else," he said. "A safer topic perhaps. What brings you to Ireland?"
Years of manners drilled into me made it impossible to totally ignore him. But I wished I were still asleep, blissfully unaware of the choppy skies or whom I was sitting next to. "I'm going to Abbeyglen. Foreign exchange program." And I was two weeks overdue. Instead of leaving last month like I was supposed to, I had opted for an orchestra camp instead. Now I would arrive mere days before school began.
My body jolted as we hit another air pocket.
"So your parents wanted you out of the country."
"It was my choice, actually. My brother Will came here for his senior year and I wanted to do the same. I hope to see every place he went." I thought of his travel journal in my backpack, sandwiched between a romance novel and Seventeen. And Will's violin, stowed in the front of the plane, the one I would use to get into the New York Conservatory. I'd stay in Abbeyglen through March, then go back to Charleston and graduate with my class. Just enough time to soak up the culture, buy my parents some souvenirs, and totally change my life.
Beckett put his elbow on my armrest and leaned my way. "I'm sorry about your brother."
"How did you know about Will?"
"What happened to him got the whole world's attention. I've already read two scripts based on your brother's life."
Anger had a stranglehold on my throat, and I considered pulling down one of those masks until the black spots went away. "Will's life was more than some Hollywood opportunity." How dare they commercialize the event that ripped my family in two? I'd seen enough of the real video footage to last me the rest of my days.
"I know that must've been hard."
"Thank you," I finally said. "Life can be hard. In the real world." What did Mr. Vampire know of difficulties? He lived in a magical palace where girls threw him rose petals and their never-ending loyalty. His movies' opening-night revenues could build a hundred of the schools in Afghanistan my brother had worked so hard for.
His smile was a slow lift of the lips. "Just a piece of advice. You might want to brush up on your people skills if you're going to make it in Abbeyglen. The Irish are some of the nicest folks on earth, to be sure. They won't take kindly to your surly attitude and sullen looks." Beckett's eyes took a lazy stroll over my face. "Pretty though those looks might be."
The boy was unreal. "Does that seriously work on girls?"
"Yes." He scratched his chin as he contemplated this. "Yes, it does."
I delicately cleared my throat and studied my nails. "Did absolutely nothing for me."
"Interesting. I guess there's a first time for everything." He shrugged. "So you don't care to sit by me. And you don't want my autograph. What is it you do want, Finley Sinclair?"
Some peace. Some healing. To hear God's voice again.
I wanted to find my brother's Ireland. To put it into song. And I wanted my heart back.
"I'll know it when I find it." I looked past Beckett and into the night sky. "Or when it finds me."
Chapter Two
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?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from There You'll Find Me by Jenny B. Jones Copyright © 2011 by Jenny B. Jones. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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