Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
THERESA
The restaurant was exactly the sort of place Marco would have picked—elegant without being stuffy, intimate without feeling cramped.
Low lighting warmed the exposed brick, and the tables stood far enough apart for private conversations.
Through the tall windows, downtown San Jose glittered against the deepening twilight.
A hostess in a sleek black dress led us to a corner table with a view of the city. Patrick pulled out my chair, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder as I sat.
“This is lovely,” I said, grateful for something neutral to say.
“My real estate agent swore it was the best Italian in the South Bay. Though I suspect she tells all her clients that.” Patrick settled across from me, and in the dim light, those pale blue eyes were impossible to ignore.
A waiter appeared with menus and a wine list. Patrick glanced at me. “Wine? Or are you one of those people who needs to always keep a clear head?”
I caught the teasing note in his voice and relaxed slightly. “I think I can manage one glass without losing my faculties.”
“Just one? And here I thought you were the risk-taking type.”
We ordered wine—a Chianti that Patrick promised was excellent—and the waiter left us alone.
“So,” Patrick said, leaning back. “Tell me about CarideoTech. How did you and Marco get started?”
“We met in college. I was studying computer science; he was in biomedical engineering. We started dating, and somewhere between study sessions and too much coffee, we realized we both wanted to build something that mattered.”
“The glucose monitoring system?”
“Marco’s younger cousin had Type 1 diabetes.
He watched her prick her finger eight, ten times a day to check her blood sugar.
It seemed barbaric to him—all this technology in the world, and we couldn’t do better than that?
” I sipped the wine the waiter had just poured.
It was as good as Patrick had promised. “So we decided to do better.”
Patrick leaned forward. “That’s quite an ambition for two college students.”
“We were young and naive. We thought we could change the world.” The memory still made me smile. “Maxed out credit cards, lived on ramen noodles, drove our neighbors crazy with failed experiments.”
“But you succeeded.”
“Eventually. It took years longer than we expected, cost more than we planned, and nearly bankrupted us twice.” I paused as the waiter brought our appetizers—roasted beet salad for me, seared scallops for Patrick.
“But we got there. And now the company is on the verge of something that could actually help millions of people.” I speared a piece of beet, suddenly self-conscious.
“But you didn’t ask me to dinner to talk about work, did you? ”
“I wanted to know you. The work’s part of that, isn’t it? You can’t separate the woman from what she builds.” He said it simply, as if it was obvious. “I’m interested in all of it.”
He meant it. I could tell. “What about you? How did MIRI get started?”
“Family money, if I’m being honest.” He didn’t look embarrassed. “The McCrae’s have been in Scotland since the 1500s—old money, old name, old expectations. I was supposed to go into law or politics, something appropriately dignified.”
“But you chose research instead?”
“I chose to fund research. There’s a difference.” He took a sip of wine. “I’m not brilliant enough to do the science myself, but I’m decent at spotting the people who are—and making sure they have what they need to succeed.”
“That’s remarkably humble.”
“It’s practical,” he said. “I know what I’m good at. Identifying promising research, connecting people who should work together. I handle the business side so the scientists can focus on the work. I leave the actual breakthroughs to people far smarter than me.”
Our entrees arrived—osso buco for him, risotto with wild mushrooms for me.
The conversation flowed from topic to topic.
He told me about growing up in Scotland, about Eidheann Castle with its drafty halls and views of Loch Eidheann.
I shared stories about my childhood in California, about my parents’ messy divorce and how my brother Michael had practically raised me.
“You’re close with your brother,” Patrick said.
“He’s my best friend. Has been since we were kids.” I thought of Michael’s steady presence these past months, how he’d dropped everything to help. “I don’t know what I would have done without him after Marco died.”
Patrick’s expression softened. “It’s good you have that support. Family matters, especially when you’re raising young children alone.”
“Do you have family nearby?”
“My parents passed away several years ago. I have siblings back in Scotland, cousins scattered around.” He paused. “Shannon’s family is there as well. They’ve been helpful with the children, but the distance makes it difficult now.”
I nodded, my throat tight. Then: “How are your kids managing? With the move on top of everything else?”
“Mixed results.” His mouth quirked. “My oldest is furious about leaving Scotland. The middle boys are trying to be brave. The younger ones think it’s an adventure. And Maggie’s only one, so she’s happy as long as someone feeds her and changes her.”
I smiled. “Six. Whew. I still can’t quite wrap my mind around it.”
“Says the woman with four.” He grinned. “Though I’ll admit, six is a different beast. My housekeeper, Mrs. Kowalski, runs the household like a military operation. She has schedules for everything—meals, activities, even bathroom rotations.”
“Bathroom rotations?”
“Seven bathrooms in the house, and they still manage to create a queue every morning.” He shook his head. “Last month, back in Scotland, my son Eoin decided to ‘help’ with laundry while Mrs. Kowalski was out. Used an entire bottle of detergent. The utility room looked like a foam party.”
I laughed—genuinely laughed—and it felt wonderful. “That sounds like something Rome would do. He has a gift for creative destruction.”
“Ah, the wild child.”
“The wildest. I can’t even remember the last time we had an entire week without a Rome disaster.” I took another bite of risotto, savoring the earthy flavor. “My youngest, Aspen, is the opposite—quiet, careful, processes everything through art. She hasn’t spoken much since Marco passed.”
I’d said too much. The words hung there, exposing more than I’d meant to. But Patrick didn’t flinch.
“Children grieve differently than adults,” he said. “My middle son, Brody, started having nightmares after Shannon died. He wouldn’t sleep unless someone was in the room with him. Took months before he felt safe again.”
We sat with that for a moment—two parents doing their best to help their kids while barely keeping their own heads above water.
“Tell me something completely unrelated to grief or children or work,” Patrick said suddenly. “Something frivolous.”
I blinked. “Frivolous?”
“Your favorite movie, the last book you read for pleasure, whether you prefer coffee or tea. Anything that has nothing to do with responsibility.”
When was the last time anyone had asked what I liked, what I wanted, separate from everything else I had to be?
“I don’t know if I remember how to be frivolous,” I admitted. “So let’s start simple. Favorite movie?”
He considered. “The Princess Bride. I know, it’s ridiculous for a grown man—”
“It’s perfect,” I interrupted. “That’s one of my favorites too. ‘Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya—’”
“‘You killed my father. Prepare to die.’” Patrick grinned. “The boys love it. We watch it at least once a year.”
We traded more favorites—books (he loved historical fiction, I preferred mysteries), whether the beach or mountains were superior (we agreed both had their merits).
“What about travel?” Patrick asked as we shared a chocolate torte for dessert. “Where would you go if you could go anywhere tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I thought about it. “Honestly? Nowhere. I’d stay home with my kids and actually be present instead of worrying about the company or the board or whether I’m doing everything wrong.”
“That’s not very frivolous,” Patrick said.
“No, I suppose it’s not.” I took a bite of the torte—rich and decadent. “What about you?”
“I’d take the children somewhere they’ve never been.
Maybe Yosemite—let them see the giant sequoias, climb on rocks, get properly dirty without Mrs. Kowalski hovering with schedules and hand wipes.
” He smiled. “Or maybe just to the beach. Build sandcastles, chase waves, eat ice cream until they’re sick. Something completely unstructured.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” He paused. “But that’s not frivolous either, is it?”
“We’re terrible at this,” I said, but I was smiling.
“Completely hopeless.” He smiled back, and I felt something shift between us—dangerous territory I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
The waiter brought the check, and Patrick paid before I could even offer to split it. “My invitation, my treat,” he said when I protested.
Outside, the night air was cool and fresh. Patrick offered me his arm, and I took it.
The drive back to my house went quickly, and much too soon, he was pulling into my driveway. Through the living room window, I could see the blue glow of the television. Michael was still up, probably waiting to make sure I got home safely.
“Thank you for tonight,” I said, not moving to get out of the car. “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in... a long time.”
“Neither have I.” Patrick turned to face me, his face half-shadowed in the streetlight. “Theresa, I’d like to do this again. Soon, if you’re willing.”
My pulse jumped. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He reached over and took my hand, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. “I should walk you to your door.”
“You should,” I agreed.
But neither of us moved.
We sat there for a moment, hands joined. Then Patrick leaned closer, giving me every opportunity to pull away.
I didn’t want to pull away.