Chapter 4
P atrick parked his truck outside Jack and Emma’s cozy home and picked up the bottle of wine he’d brought with him.
A few years ago, he’d met Emma and her two children at what turned out to be a surprise engagement party for his grandson, Noah. From that first moment, Emma had reminded him of his late wife, Mary. She was radiant and warm, with a smile that lit every room she entered.
Her twins, Molly and Dylan, were reflections of their mom’s generous spirit.
Patrick had watched with quiet satisfaction as Jack, his oldest grandson, fell in love with Emma during his visits to Sapphire Bay.
What started as a friendship had blossomed into the kind of deep, lasting love Patrick had shared with his wife.
As he climbed the wooden stairs, he smelled the delicious scent of Emma’s famous pot roast. He was getting used to how different evenings like this felt from the sterile dinner parties he’d hosted in his Manhattan penthouse.
Those had been about business connections and social obligations. This was about family.
The door swung open before he could knock, and nine-year-old Molly launched herself into his arms with the kind of unrestrained affection that still caught him off guard.
“Poppa!” she squealed, her red curls bouncing as she hugged him tight. “Mom made your favorite dessert, and Dylan’s building something super cool, and I have lots to tell you about what happened at school today. Madison thinks Toby is so smart, but he’s not really.”
Patrick chuckled, the sound coming easier now than it had when Jack and Noah were children.
Back then, his laughter had been rationed and measured, kept behind the walls he’d built around his heart after losing his son and daughter-in-law in a car accident.
After their parents died, Noah and Jack came to live with Patrick and his wife.
“Slow down, sweetheart,” he said to Molly. “We have all evening.”
“Molly, let Poppa come inside,” Emma called from the kitchen, her voice warm with amusement.
She appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her smile genuine and welcoming.
“It’s great to see you, Patrick. Jack’s in the living room with Dylan.
They’re working on Dylan’s science project. ”
Patrick handed Emma the bottle of wine. It wasn’t the expensive vintage he would have brought to a Manhattan dinner, but a local wine he’d discovered at the general store. “Mabel recommended this one. She said it pairs well with your pot roast.”
“Mabel knows her wine,” Emma laughed. “Though I suspect she knows more about everyone in town.”
As they walked toward the living room, Patrick saw Jack kneeling on the floor.
With his suit jacket discarded and his sleeves rolled up, his grandson was absorbed in helping Dylan construct an elaborate bridge using wooden craft sticks.
The scene made something tighten in Patrick’s chest. It wasn’t the old familiar ache of regret, but something warmer and prouder.
“The key is in the triangular supports,” Jack was saying, his voice patient and encouraging. “See how the weight gets distributed when we add this crossbeam here?”
Dylan nodded, his red hair falling into his eyes as he concentrated. “Like how you and Poppa build the tiny houses? With the beams that hold everything up?”
“Exactly like that,” Patrick said, settling into the nearby armchair with a grunt that reminded him of his age. “Your dad understands engineering better than most people twice his age.”
Dylan looked up, his face lighting up. “Poppa! Can you help us? The bridge has to hold a book, and we’re trying to span it between these two chairs.”
Molly held Patrick’s hand. “I want to tell Poppa about school first.”
Emma handed Molly a tablecloth. “After you’ve set the table.”
Molly’s deep sigh made Patrick smile. “It won’t take long,” he told her. “After you’ve finished, you can tell me all about your day.”
“Okay,” Molly said slowly. “But don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” Patrick assured her. After Molly left the living room, he studied the bridge project with the same attention he’d once given to multimillion-dollar construction contracts.
Dylan had a natural instinct for engineering, the same way Jack had shown promise even as a child. But where Patrick had pushed Jack and Noah relentlessly, he was completely different with Dylan.
Patrick eased himself onto the carpet, ignoring the protest from his knees. “Tell me about your biggest challenge, Dylan.”
“The middle keeps sagging,” Dylan explained, his young face scrunched in concentration. “Each time we add a book, it bends down and the book falls off.”
Patrick studied the bridge and then picked up one of the wooden sticks.
“That’s because your bridge is trying to become a catenary curve.
Do you know what that is?” Dylan shook his head, and Patrick smiled.
“It’s the natural shape a flexible material takes when it hangs between two points.
But we want a bridge that resists that curve. ”
He showed Dylan how to create tension cables using string, how to reinforce the joints with small amounts of craft glue, and how to consider load distribution.
But unlike the impatient, demanding grandfather he’d been forty years ago, Patrick let Dylan make mistakes, let him discover solutions, and praised his questions.
“You’re really good at this, Poppa,” Dylan said quietly, focusing intently on gluing a joint just the way Patrick had shown him.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Patrick replied, then added something he never would have said to Jack or Noah at that age. “But you know what? I think you might be better at this than I was at your age. You ask the right questions, and you’re not afraid to try new ideas.”
Dylan’s smile could have powered the lights in the house.
Molly appeared in the doorway. She’d changed from her school clothes into a dress she’d clearly chosen for their family dinner.
With its purple tulle skirt covered in sparkles, it was one of her favorites.
She perched on the arm of Patrick’s chair, her natural chattiness a stark contrast to Dylan’s quiet thoughtfulness.
“Poppa, you won’t believe what happened at school.
So Madison—she’s in my class and she thinks she knows everything about everything—she said that her brother told her boys are better at math and science than girls.
That’s completely stupid because I got a higher score on our last math test than anyone in the class, including Tyler, who’s always showing off about how smart he is. ”
Patrick wrapped his arm around Molly’s waist. “And what did you tell Madison?”
“I told her that my dad owns a big company in New York City, and that Mom runs her own business and is super smart about money and stuff. She kind of turned up her nose at that, so I told her that you know everything about building, and that being good at things has nothing to do with whether you’re a boy or a girl.
It has to do with whether you work hard and pay attention. ”
“That sounds like exactly the right thing to say,” Patrick said, his chest swelling with pride. “What did Madison say to that?”
“She got all huffy and said her brother is in high school, so he must know what he’s talking about.
But then Mrs. Rodriguez heard us and said that some of the best engineers and scientists in the world are women.
She told us about a lady who basically built the Brooklyn Bridge when her husband got sick, and Madison got all quiet after that. ”
“Her name was Emily Roebling,” Patrick mused. “A long time ago, I read a book about her. She was an extraordinary woman.”
“Did you tell Dad about her when he was my age?” Molly asked.
The question hung in the air for a moment. Jack looked up from the bridge project, his eyes meeting his grandfather’s with understanding and something that might have been forgiveness.
“I don’t think so. When your dad was your age, I spent most of my time at work. Your dad’s Grandma looked after him and Uncle Noah for most of the time.”
Dylan looked up from his bridge. “Did you miss spending time with them?”
“I didn’t realize how much I missed them until it was almost too late,” Patrick said, his voice thick with emotion. “Moving here has meant I can spend more time with my family.” He wrapped his arm around Molly’s waist. “Whatever happens, I’ll always love you and Dylan, exactly as you are.”
“Good,” Molly said matter-of-factly, “because sometimes I’m really annoying. Just ask Dylan.”
“You are really annoying,” Dylan agreed cheerfully, then added, “but I still like you.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Emma called from the kitchen.
As they gathered around the dining table, Patrick sat beside Dylan.
“Poppa,” Dylan said as Emma served the pot roast, “after dinner, can we add another book to test the bridge? I want to see if our reinforcements worked.”
“You bet,” Patrick replied, then caught Jack’s eye across the table. His grandson was smiling, but there was something deeper there—recognition, perhaps, of the man Dylan and Molly were getting to know, the one Jack and Noah had only occasionally glimpsed in their childhood.
“And then can I show you my new story?” Molly added. “It’s about a girl who builds a rocket ship out of plastic bottles and flies to Jupiter to meet aliens who are really good at math.”
“Plastic bottles wouldn’t work for a rocket ship,” Dylan said seriously. “The heat from the engines would burn them up.”
“It’s not true, Dylan,” Molly replied with dramatic exasperation. “In fiction, plastic bottles can do whatever you want them to do.”
Patrick laughed. “I’d love to read your story, Molly. And Dylan, after we test your bridge, maybe we can all design a plastic rocket that might work.”
“Really?” the twins asked simultaneously.
“Really,” Patrick confirmed, and meant it. This was what he’d missed with Jack and Noah—not just the achievements and the milestones, but the wonder, the questions, the simple joy of discovering the world alongside someone you loved.
Over the last few years, he’d learned that love multiplied when you gave it freely.
That patience was a gift you gave not just to children but to yourself.
And that the time spent listening to a nine-year-old’s theories about alien mathematics was infinitely more valuable than any business deal he’d ever closed.
As they ate the delicious meal Emma had cooked, Jack leaned closer to him.
“Thank you,” his grandson said quietly.
“For what?”
“For being the grandfather to Molly and Dylan that you wanted to be to Noah and me, but didn’t know how.”
Patrick lowered his fork to his plate. “I’m sorry I wasn’t better at it back then.”
“You were doing the best you could with what you knew,” Jack replied. “And look how Noah and I turned out. We’re not perfect, but we’re okay. More than okay.”
“You’re both incredible,” Patrick said, the words coming more easily now than they ever had when Jack was young. “I should have told you that more often.”
“You’re telling me now,” Jack said simply. “And you’re showing Dylan and Molly every day what it looks like to be loved. That’s a pretty good legacy.”
As Molly launched into another story about school, Patrick thought about how strange life could be. He’d spent decades thinking he understood love, success, and family.
It wasn’t until he was in his late sixties that he discovered that the secret to a happy life was much simpler than he’d imagined.
It was showing up. It was listening. It was believing that the people you loved were worthy of your time and attention and wonder.
Not because of what they achieved, but because of who they were.