Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
PATRICK
The castle was in disarray. Boxes stood stacked in formidable towers, movers shouted instructions in the grand hall, and the sharp screech of packing tape being ripped from its roll bounced off the ancient stone.
I stood in the doorway of my office, watching two men in matching blue uniforms wrap the massive oak desk that had been in my family for three generations.
“That stays,” I said, startling them both. “Most of the furniture remains. This isn’t a permanent relocation.”
“Aye, Mr. McCrae,” the older of the two said, setting down his roll of plastic wrap with obvious relief.
Just a year. A temporary move to establish MIRI’s new West Coast division. Twelve months in California.
Twelve months in San Jose.
Twelve months near… her.
The board had approved the expansion months ago—long before I’d ever heard Theresa Carideo’s name.
The business case was solid: American biotech was exploding, and we needed a physical presence to capitalize on partnerships with institutions like Stanford, UC Berkeley, and the nexus of venture capital on Sand Hill Road.
The data had supported several locations.
Palo Alto put us at Stanford’s doorstep.
Berkeley offered its own world-class research facilities.
But San Jose was the strategic center—the heart of Silicon Valley, a hub for top-tier engineering talent, and home to some of the best private schools in the state.
The relocation agency had found a six-bedroom house in a quiet, gated community, ideal for a family that needed stability and privacy.
“Da.”
I turned to find Brody standing in the doorway, his seven-year-old face solemn as always.
“What is it, lad?”
“Mrs. Kowalski rang from California. She says the house is nearly ready.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “She wants to know whether we’re still departing on Saturday.”
“Aye, that’s the plan.” I ruffled his hair, and he immediately smoothed it back down. “Are ya excited?”
Brody considered this before he spoke. “I’ve made a schedule for when we arrive.”
Of course he had. The boy had been organizing things since before he could walk properly. When Shannon died, he’d made himself a schedule for crying—specific times during the day when he was permitted to be sad, everything else rigidly controlled. His therapist said it was how he managed the grief.
“That’s brilliant,” I told him, meaning it. “Perhaps you can help your brothers with their packing?”
“I tried.” His wee face screwed up in frustration. “Alec told me to bugger off. And the twins are just throwing everything everywhere.”
I bit back a smile at hearing my own words coming from his mouth. “I’ll have a word with them. Where’s Alec now?”
“In his room. He’s angry again.”
Again. It was my eldest son’s default state these days. Nine years old and carrying rage like a grown man. He’d taken Shannon’s death the hardest, and the announcement of our move to California had only made things worse.
“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll sort it.”
Brody nodded and disappeared down the hallway. I braced myself and went in search of Alec.
The castle had been in my family for generations, its stone walls holding centuries of McCrae history.
I’d grown up here, and after Shannon and I married, we’d renovated the east wing into our family quarters.
Six bedrooms, a playroom for the bairns, a family kitchen separate from the main kitchen that served events and guests. It was home.
And now we were leaving it.
I found Alec in his room, angrily shoving clothes into a suitcase with no regard for folding or order.
At nine, he was already showing signs of the man he’d become—tall for his age, with Shannon’s dark hair and my blue eyes, a combination that would be devastating to the lasses when he was older.
If he ever stopped scowling long enough for them to notice.
“Need a hand there?” I asked from the doorway.
He didn’t look up. “No.”
I stepped into the room anyway, noting the books still on his shelves, the framed photos still on his wall—Shannon laughing on the moors, her hair whipped by the wind, the whole family at Christmas, moments frozen in time before everything went to hell.
“You ken we’re leaving in three days, aye? Might want to pick up the pace a bit.”
“I know how to pack,” he muttered.
I sat on the edge of his bed, watching him. The anger radiated off him in waves—grief turned outward because he didn’t know what else to do with it. “Brody says you told him to bugger off.”
“Brody’s annoying.” He threw a pair of jeans into the suitcase with enough force that it bounced out again. “He wants to schedule everything.”
“He’s trying to help. In his way.”
Alec finally looked at me, his eyes blazing with an anger that was really fear, really pain, really a nine-year-old boy who’d lost his mother and didn’t understand why the world kept taking things from him. “I don’t want his help. I don’t want to go to stupid California. I don’t want any of this!”
“Alec—”
“Why are you doing this to us?” His voice rose, raw with emotion he couldn’t contain. “Why are you making me leave Mum’s grave? Leave my friends? Miss the end of term? It’s not fair!”
The accusation landed hard, as it was meant to. Of course he’d frame it that way—that I was making him leave Shannon behind. As if that wasn’t exactly what I was terrified of too.
“This move is about work,” I said, falling back on the explanation I’d been giving everyone—the board, Mrs. Kowalski, myself in the mirror each morning.
“MIRI is expanding to the West Coast. It’s a significant opportunity, not just for the company but for all of us.
The schools in San Jose are some of the best in California.
You’ll have opportunities there you wouldn’t have here. ”
“I don’t care about opportunities,” Alec said, his voice cracking in that way that happens when boys are trying not to cry. “I care about Mum. Her headstone is here. Her memory is here. You’re trying to make us forget her!”
“That’s not true.” I reached for him, but he jerked away like I’d struck him. “Alec, I would never—”
“You never talk about her anymore!” The words burst out of him like they’d been building pressure for months. “It’s like she never existed. Like you’re just... forgetting her. Moving on.”
He was wrong. That wasn’t what I was doing. Moving on. Forgetting Shannon.
Was it?
“Your mother will always be a part of this family,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, authoritative—the voice of a father who knows what he’s doing, not a man who’s barely holding himself together. “Moving to California doesn’t change that.”
“Then why?” Alec’s eyes narrowed with suspicion beyond his years. “Why California? Why now?” His gaze sharpened, too perceptive for comfort.
“I told you,” I said, perhaps too quickly. “It’s for work. For your futures. Think of it as an adventure.”
“It’s not an adventure. It’s running away.” He turned back to his packing, shoulders rigid with accusation. “You just want to forget about Mum. Well, I won’t. I’ll never forget her.”
“Alec—”
“Just leave me alone.”
I stood, recognizing a mission impossible when I saw it. Some battles couldn’t be won with words, only with time and consistent presence. “All right, son,” I said. “We’re leaving on Saturday. I know you’re not happy about it, but I need you to be ready, aye?”
He didn’t respond. I left his room, closing the door quietly behind me, and leaned against the wall in the hallway, eyes closed.
Am I making a terrible mistake?
The truth was complicated, as truth usually was.
I pushed off from the wall and headed downstairs.
Still tons to get done before Saturday. The movers needed directions.
The twins were probably destroying their room instead of packing it.
Eoin would try to “help” in ways that would inevitably create more work.
And Maggie—God, Maggie was still so young, not even two yet.
She’d never remember Scotland, and would grow up thinking of California as home.
Only if we stayed for more than a year, of course.
But the thought gave me pause at the foot of the grand staircase.
Home. What did that even mean anymore?
Home had been this castle, yes, but more than that, home had been Shannon. Her laugh bouncing off these stone walls. Her hand in mine as we walked the grounds. Her body next to mine in our bed, her breath on my shoulder in the dark.
Without her, this place was just... a building. Beautiful, historic, full of McCrae legacy stretching back to the 1500s. But hollow at its core.
Maybe that was why leaving didn’t feel as wrong as it should. Maybe part of me recognized that I’d already lost home when I lost her.
“Mr. McCrae?” One of the movers approached, clipboard in hand. “We need your signature on these inventory forms.”
“Of course.” I took the clipboard and looked over the list of items being shipped to California.
Business materials mostly—research documents, specialized equipment, my personal library of medical texts.
The bulk of our household items would be purchased new in California.
Mrs. Kowalski had already furnished the house we’d be renting in San Jose—but with my brood, would a six-bedroom mansion really be enough?
I handed back the clipboard and checked my watch. Nearly four. If I wanted to visit Shannon’s burial site before dinner, I needed to go now.
“I’ll be back within the hour,” I told the mover. “The office is yours until then.”
The cemetery was a fifteen-minute drive from the castle, a peaceful plot of land overlooking the loch.
I parked near the iron gates and walked the path to her resting place. The headstone was simple, elegant gray marble with her name and dates. Shannon Allen McCrae. Beloved wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend.