Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
THERESA
The phone call with Duncan MacLeod happened at eight in the morning—which meant it was four in the afternoon in Scotland, late enough that his engineering team would have reviewed our technical specifications.
I sat in Marco’s office with my notes spread across the desk, my Palm Pilot charged and ready, and a cup of coffee I’d already reheated twice. My hands shook slightly as I dialed the international number Lisa had provided.
“Duncan MacLeod.”
The voice was gruff, Scottish, utterly no-nonsense.
“Mr. MacLeod, this is Theresa Carideo from CarideoTech. I hope I’m not disturbing.”
“Mrs. Carideo. Good timing—we just finished our preliminary assessment of your technical specs.” There was a pause. “I have to say, my team here were even more impressed than I was. Your adaptive algorithm is genuinely innovative.”
I gripped the edge of the desk. “That’s wonderful to hear. We’ve spent three years refining the system.”
“It shows. My head engineer, who’s been doing this work for twenty-five years, said your glucose monitoring system is the most elegant solution he’s seen. That’s high praise from a man who thinks most innovations are ‘over-engineered rubbish.’”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I’d love to meet him someday.”
“You will. I’d like to move this from a letter of intent to actual contract negotiations.
” All business now. “My solicitor is drafting a formal licensing agreement for the European market. But I’ll need the complete technical package from you—full manufacturing requirements, quality control protocols, your FDA approval timeline, all of it. How quickly can you get that together?”
My heart hammered. This was it—the real deal, not just preliminary interest. “End of this week. I can have everything to you by Friday.”
“That works. My team will review over the weekend, and we can discuss the terms early next week.” He paused.
“Mrs. Carideo, I want to be clear about something. This isn’t just an excellent business opportunity for me—though it certainly is that.
My youngest daughter has Type 1 diabetes.
She’s fourteen, and she hates the constant finger pricks, hates feeling like her disease defines her.
Your system could give her freedom she’s never had. ”
The personal disclosure hit me hard. This wasn’t just about market share or profits—it was about real people. Real children.
“That’s exactly why my husband and I built it,” I said. “Marco had family as well with Type 1 diabetes. He wanted patients to be able to live their lives without constant interruption.”
“Then let’s make sure this reaches the people who need it.
” Duncan’s voice softened slightly. “Patrick told me you lost your husband recently. I’m very sorry.
But I want you to know—I’m partnering with you because your technology is brilliant, not as some kind of charity. You’ve earned this on merit.”
“Thank you. That means more than you know.”
After we hung up, I sat at Marco’s desk, staring at my notes. Duncan MacLeod wanted to move forward. The deal that would save CarideoTech, prove I could lead the company, shut down Arthur’s hostile takeover attempt—it was real.
My hand went to the phone automatically. I needed to tell someone, needed to share this before I exploded. Lisa was at home. The board members would hear about it on Monday. But Patrick—
I dialed before I could second-guess myself.
He answered on the second ring. “Patrick McCrae.”
“He wants to move forward.” The words tumbled out. “Duncan. He loves the technology, wants full specs by the end of the week, his lawyers are drafting preliminary agreements—Patrick, it’s actually happening.”
“Theresa.” The warmth in his voice made my chest ache. “That’s brilliant.”
“You were right. About all of it.” I was standing now, pacing Marco’s office with energy I hadn’t felt in months. “He asked incredible questions, really understood the clinical applications, and he thinks we could dominate the European market within two years.”
“You could. Your technology is years ahead of the competition.” He paused. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrified. Exhilarated. Like maybe I can really do this.” I stopped at the window, looking out at the backyard where the kids’ toys were scattered across the lawn. “Like maybe I’m not completely insane for thinking I can run a company and raise four kids and not fall apart completely.”
“You’re not insane. You’re remarkable.” His voice dropped lower. “I’m proud of you, Theresa.”
“Thank you. For the introduction, for the support, for—” For making me feel alive again. For understanding. For the kiss that I still thought about every night. “For everything.”
“You did the work. I just made a phone call.”
“Yes, but you also reminded me I’m still a person. Not just a widow or a CEO or a mother. Just... a person.”
“You’re considerably more than just a person, Theresa Carideo. But I understand what you mean.” His voice softened. “Call me if you need anything. Day or night.”
After we hung up, I stood there holding the phone, my heart doing complicated things I wasn’t ready to examine too closely.
Michael appeared in the doorway around five o’clock, leaning against the doorframe with that expression that meant he was about to ask for something.
“So,” he said. “Shelly and I were thinking about going out tonight. Like, actually out. To a restaurant. With tablecloths.”
I looked up from my computer, where I’d been cataloging technical documents. “You should. You two deserve a night out. You’ve been living here for months.”
“Right, but that means—”
“I’ll watch the kids. All six of them.” I shut down the computer. “Michael, you’ve been taking care of my kids long enough. It’s my turn. Go have dinner with your beautiful wife.”
He studied me for a long moment. “You seem different today.”
“Different how?”
“Lighter. Like maybe you’re not drowning anymore.” He paused. “Good phone call with Scotland?”
The smile that broke across my face was involuntary. “Really good phone call. Duncan wants to move forward with the licensing deal.”
Michael crossed the room and pulled me into a hug. “Tess. That’s incredible.”
“I know. I’m trying not to jinx it by being too excited, but—” I couldn’t help it. “It’s happening, Michael. I’m actually going to pull this off.”
“Of course you are. You’re brilliant, and anyone who doubted you is an idiot.”
“Arthur’s going to lose his mind when I present the signed agreements to the board.”
“Good. Let him.” Michael released me, his expression turning more serious. “But are you sure about tonight? Six kids is a lot, even on a good day.”
“I’ve got this. You and Shelly go have your date night. Give her flowers. Be romantic. Pretend you’re twenty-three again and not exhausted parents living in your sister’s mayhem.”
He grinned. “All right. But Tess? Call if you need backup. We can be home in twenty minutes.”
“I won’t need backup. It’s just dinner and bedtime. How hard can it be?”
Famous last words.
Dinner with all the kids went exactly as I should have expected.
I’d made spaghetti—simple, kid-friendly, hard to screw up. But I’d forgotten to account for Rome’s enthusiasm or Fury’s “helping.”
“I can stir!” Rome announced, climbing onto a chair before I could stop him.
“Me too!” Fury scrambled up beside him.
“Hey, let Aunt Theresa—” Blaze started, already in Michael-mode.
But it was too late. Rome grabbed the wooden spoon with both hands and stirred with such vigor that sauce splattered across the stovetop. Fury reached for the pasta pot—
“No!” I caught his hand just in time. “That’s hot, buddy. Very hot.”
“I was just gonna help,” Fury said, his lower lip trembling.
“I know, sweetheart. But the best way to help right now is to set the table. Can you and Rome do that?”
They scrambled down and attacked the silverware drawer with alarming enthusiasm. Within thirty seconds, forks and spoons were distributed with no regard for placement or logic.
“The fork goes on the left,” Blaze said, already rearranging them.
“Why?” Fury asked.
“Because that’s where it goes. That’s the rule.”
“But why is it the rule?”
Paris appeared at my elbow. “The spaghetti is going to burn if you don’t stir it.”
She was right. I grabbed the spoon and stirred, water splattering my shirt in the process.
Austin set down his book and came to help without being asked, draining the pasta with the careful precision he applied to everything. “The garlic bread’s ready too.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
We got everyone seated eventually, though the table looked like a before picture in a parenting magazine. Plates of spaghetti in front of each child. Garlic bread piled in the middle. Cups of milk that would inevitably get spilled.
“Can we say grace?” Blaze asked.
The question caught me off guard. Shelly’s family always said grace. Mine hadn’t. Marco’s hadn’t. It was one of those small differences that had always been there but never felt important.
“Of course,” I said.
Blaze folded his hands and closed his eyes. “God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for our food. Amen.”
“Amen,” the other kids repeated with varying levels of enthusiasm.
For a few minutes, there was relative peace. The sound of forks on plates. Rome slurping his spaghetti in a way that would have made Marco laugh. Paris eating with a surprising delicacy for a five-year-old.
Then Fury knocked over his milk.
“It’s everywhere!” Rome shouted, even though it was maybe four ounces.
“I got it!” Blaze was already up, grabbing paper towels.
Aspen watched the white puddle spread across the table with fascinated attention, like it was a science experiment rather than a mess.
“It’s okay,” I said, helping Blaze mop it up. “Accidents happen.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Theresa,” Fury said, his eyes welling up.
“Hey.” I crouched beside his chair. “It’s just milk. We have more milk. No big deal.”
“Dad says I need to be more careful.”
“Your dad also knows that six-year-olds and milk cups are a dangerous combination.” I ruffled his hair. “You’re fine, buddy.”
By the time we finished eating, there was sauce on the table, on at least three shirts, and somehow on the wall behind Rome’s chair. But everyone was fed. Nobody was crying. I was calling it a victory.
“Can we play now?” Rome asked, already bouncing in his chair.
I looked at the disaster of a kitchen—plates everywhere, pots in the sink, sauce splattered across surfaces I’d need to deep-clean later.
“Let me just—”
“Mom.” Austin was loading plates into the dishwasher without being asked. “I can clean up. You should play with them.”
“Are you sure?”
My oldest son nodded, already scraping plates.
“What do you want to play, Rome?”
What followed was two hours of impromptu theater.
Paris declared herself director, casting Rome as a dragon, Fury as a knight, and Blaze as a reluctant wizard.
We raided the linen closet for capes and makeshift costumes, turning the living room into a stage.
I was assigned the role of "Townsperson Number One," tasked with screaming dramatically whenever the dragon roared.
Aspen watched from her highchair, clapping her hands every time Rome bellowed, while I found myself engaged, laughing until my sides hurt as Fury tried to duel Rome with a spatula.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, the tight knot in my chest loosened slightly. I could breathe.
Eventually, bedtime called. Getting six kids bathed, teeth brushed, pajamas on, and into beds was its own kind of marathon. Rome fell asleep mid-protest. Blaze settled with quiet efficiency. Paris required three trips for water. Aspen drifted off mid-story.
Austin was last. I found him in bed with his book, his reading lamp casting a warm glow.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.” I kissed his forehead.
“Night, Mom.” He paused. “Today was good.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It was.”