Chapter 8 #2
I knelt on the damp grass beside her plot, the cold seeping through my trousers. Good Scottish weather—misty, melancholy, appropriate for conversations with the dead.
“Hello, love.” The words came more easily now than they had in the early months. “It’s me again.”
The breeze rustled through the nearby trees, the only response I’d ever get.
“We’re leaving Scotland on Saturday. I told you about it last week, but I thought I should mention it again. In case you’d forgotten.” A pause. “Though I suppose you don’t forget things anymore. Either you know everything or nothing at all, and I’m damned if I know which would be worse.”
My fingers traced her name slowly, the ritual unchanged since the first time I came here.
“Alec’s taking it hard. He thinks I’m trying to make everyone forget you.” I let out a breath. “Maybe he’s right. Not about forgetting—I could never forget you, Shannon. But about moving on. Is that what I’m about? Is that why I’m really going to California?”
My Shannon had been gone for a year. One year, two months, and seventeen days, to be precise. Was that long enough? Was there even such a thing as “long enough” when it came to grief?
The breeze picked up, sending a shower of spring blossoms across the cemetery like confetti at a wedding. Or a funeral.
I thought of Shannon’s last moments—how even as the pulmonary embolism claimed her life, her last words had been of love. For me. For our bairns. She’d lived fully, loved fiercely, and faced death with a courage I still couldn’t comprehend.
She wouldn’t want me to stop living. She wouldn’t want our six raised by a ghost wearing their father’s face.
“I’m scared,” I admitted to the silent headstone. “Terrified, actually. What if I’m making a huge mistake? What if this ruins the bairns? What if I get there and not only does MIRI’s new West Coast division fail spectacularly, but the people there want nothing to do with me?”
The questions had been circling in my head for weeks, keeping me awake at night, following me through my days like persistent ravens.
“But I have to try,” I said. “For them. For me. And I think... I hope... you’d understand.”
I stayed there for several minutes more, my hand resting on her headstone. Then I stood, brushing grass from my trousers.
“I’ll bring the bairns before we go. Let them say goodbye properly.” I paused. “And Shannon... if you’re listening, wherever you are... I’m sorry. For surviving when you didn’t. For whatever comes next.”
As I walked back to my car, I felt lighter somehow. Not unburdened—I would carry Shannon’s loss with me always, wear it like a scar across my heart. But clearer. More certain that the path I’d chosen, however risky, was the right one.
Or at least the only one I could see from here.
Back at the castle, I found the answering machine blinking with a new message. I pressed play, and Duncan MacLeod’s voice filled the study—warm, familiar, with that Highland lilt that made even business sound like poetry.
“Patrick, it’s Duncan. Reviewed the preliminary specs you sent on that glucose monitoring technology. Very interested indeed. Give me a ring when you have a moment—we should discuss licensing possibilities. My daughter’s endocrinologist is quite excited about the applications.”
I smiled, rewinding the tape. This was the business justification I needed for my interest in Theresa’s company.
I could tell myself—tell anyone who asked—that I was following up on a partnership opportunity for MIRI.
The fact that it might also give me a legitimate reason to see Theresa again was just.. . serendipity.
Convenient serendipity.
The kind that a man could build an entire relocation around if he were so inclined.
The last days passed in a blur of packing and logistics.
By Saturday morning, we were ready. The private jet waited at Edinburgh Airport, our essential belongings loaded, the castle secured for our absence.
Mrs. Kowalski had rung the night before to confirm the house in California was fully prepared, the kitchen stocked, everything organized to her exact standards.
The flight was long, made longer by six tired souls and the seven-hour time difference.
The twins fought over movie selections—Carson wanted The Lion King, Cory insisted on Aladdin, and neither would budge.
Eoin asked, “Are we there yet?” approximately seventy-three times, possibly more.
Maggie had a meltdown somewhere over Greenland, her wails reverberating through the cabin despite my best efforts to soothe her.
Brody retreated into a book about marine biology, while Alec stared out the window, refusing to speak to anyone.
By the time we landed at San Jose International Airport, everyone was exhausted, jet-lagged, and thoroughly done with each other’s company.
The car service I’d arranged transported us to our new neighborhood, the wee ones falling asleep one by one in the gathering dusk. Even Alec’s eyes drooped, his anger temporarily suspended by sheer exhaustion.
Our rented house was in a quiet, gated community called Silver Creek Valley—a sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion that would have been ostentatious if it weren’t so necessary for our large family.
Six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a pool the bairns weren’t allowed near without supervision, and enough square footage to lose several of them at once if one wasn’t careful.
Mrs. Kowalski met us at the door, her stern face a welcome sight after the long journey.
“You’re late,” she said by way of greeting. “I’ve kept dinner warm. The wee ones should eat and go straight to bed. They look half-dead.”
“A pleasure to see you as well, Mrs. Kowalski,” I said, smiling despite my exhaustion. “How was your flight over?”
“Uneventful, which is how flights should be.” She stood aside to let us enter. “Wipe your feet. I’ve just cleaned the floors.”
Mrs. Kowalski had been with us since the twins were born, seven years of unflinching loyalty and brutal honesty. She’d moved to California two weeks ahead of us to prepare the house, a task she’d apparently tackled with her usual ruthless efficiency.
The house was immaculate, every room furnished and arranged as though we’d lived there for years.
The bairns were too tired to properly appreciate it, stumbling through dinner and the bedtime routine with half-closed eyes.
By nine o’clock, all six were asleep in their new beds, worn out from travel and the excitement of a new place.
I stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of Scotch, and trying to orient myself. This house, with its soaring ceilings and marble countertops, felt nothing like our cozy family quarters in the castle. It was beautiful, certainly, but sterile.
It felt like a stage set. A place we were visiting, not a place we belonged.
Mrs. Kowalski appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest in a way that meant she had opinions to share. “Everybody’s settled. Eoin might wander—he’s confused about where he is. And Alec’s liable to barricade himself in his room and refuse to come out.”
“Thank you.” I took another sip of Scotch, letting the smoky burn settle my nerves. “The house looks wonderful. You’ve done an outstanding job.”
She acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod. “It will do for a year.”
“Maybe two,” I said, testing the words aloud.
She quirked a single eyebrow. “Two years? You didn’t mention that possibility before.”
“It depends on how the West Coast expansion progresses. If MIRI establishes strong partnerships here, I might need to extend our stay. Ensure the foundation is solid before returning to Scotland.”
Mrs. Kowalski studied me with a penetrating gaze that seemed to peel back every layer of rationalization I’d built around this move. “This relocation isn’t just about business, is it, Mr. McCrae?”
I stiffened slightly, the Scotch suddenly too warm in my hand. “It’s entirely about business. San Jose is the strategic heart of the industry. The proximity to Stanford, the talent pool, the venture capital infrastructure... it’s the logical choice.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. She’d been with our family long enough to know when I was telling the truth and when I was telling myself comfortable lies. “There’s a woman.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I’m a grieving widower with six bairns and a transatlantic company to run. The last thing I have time for is romantic entanglements.”
She held my gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she gave a single, small nod, as if filing the information away for future reference. “Of course. I’ll be retiring for the night. Breakfast is at seven o’clock sharp. I trust you remember where your room is?”
“I believe I can manage to find it, aye.”
She turned and left me alone in the sterile silence of the kitchen.
I let out a breath. She could read me better than anyone, possibly better than I could read myself.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the business card, its edges worn soft from a month of constant handling.
Theresa Carideo, CEO, CarideoTech.
Her name. The San Jose address. The phone number I’d memorized weeks ago but hadn’t yet had the courage to dial.
I looked at the unfamiliar kitchen around me, at the house that didn’t feel like home, at the life I’d uprooted my entire family to pursue. All of it—the relocation, the expansion, the business justifications—all of it led back to this moment.
To this decision.
To her.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered into the quiet room, the words both promise and prayer. “I’ll ring her tomorrow.”
I finished my Scotch, rinsed the glass, and headed upstairs to check on the bairns one last time before bed. They were all sleeping soundly—even Alec, his face peaceful in sleep in a way it never was during waking hours.
I stood in the hallway between their rooms, listening to the quiet sounds of their breathing, and wondered if I’d just made the best decision of my life or the worst mistake I’d ever committed.
Only time would tell.
But tomorrow, I would ring Theresa Carideo.
And whatever came next... we’d face it when it arrived.