Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
PATRICK
The front door clicked shut behind me, and I stood in the hallway of my rented house, still smelling like Theresa’s perfume.
Sunday morning sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust in the air.
Everything looked the same as when I’d left yesterday afternoon, but I felt completely different.
“Daddy!” Maggie’s squeal broke through my thoughts. She toddled toward me, arms outstretched, and I scooped her up, breathing in baby shampoo and whatever sticky substance had found its way into her curls at breakfast.
“There’s my girl.” I held her tighter than necessary.
Kitchen sounds drifted down the hall—silverware clinking, chairs scraping, Eoin’s high-pitched giggle followed by one of the twins telling him to stop. Normal Sunday morning chaos.
“You didn’t come home last night.”
Alec stood in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed, trying to look imposing despite being only nine years old. His eyes held an accusation I wasn’t prepared for.
“I—” My throat went dry. “Work meeting ran late. Stayed at a hotel in the city.”
“On a Saturday night?” His tone could have frozen Loch Eidheann.
Brody appeared behind his brother, his face brightening when he saw me. “Dad! You’re back! Mrs. K made pancakes, but they’re not as good as Mum’s, and Carson put syrup in Cory’s hair and—”
“That’s enough, Brody.” Mrs. Kowalski’s voice cut through his rambling as she emerged from the kitchen. Her expression was perfectly neutral, which somehow made it worse. “Children, go finish your breakfast. Your father needs to clean up.”
The younger boys scattered back to the kitchen, but Alec stayed put, still watching me with those knowing eyes.
Mrs. Kowalski waited until they were out of earshot. “I hope your business meeting was productive, Mr. McCrae.”
The emphasis on ‘business meeting’ wasn’t subtle.
“It was,” I said, setting Maggie down when she squirmed. She toddled off toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Kowalski’s lips pursed slightly—her equivalent of calling me a bloody fool. “The youngsters were well-behaved. Mostly. Though Eoin found a filthy stray cat at the back door and decided to ‘clean it up.’”
A prickle of dread slid down my spine. “Clean it up how?”
“He gave it a bath. In the toilet,” she said flatly.
“Christ.” I ran a hand through my hair, which probably still smelled like Theresa. “Was there damage?”
“Only to the cat’s dignity.” She folded the dishtowel in quick movements.
“You have several messages on your office phone. They sounded urgent.”
My stomach dropped. “Thank you, Mrs. Kowalski. I’ll check them now.”
Before I could even reach my study, the phone rang. Mrs. Kowalski gave me a pointed look as I hurried down the hall.
I grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring. “Patrick McCrae.”
“Patrick, thank God.” Sir Malcolm Hendricks’s voice was clipped, angry. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”
My stomach sank. Malcolm was one of MIRI’s founding investors—old money Edinburgh, been backing research since forever. More importantly, he controlled a consortium of Scottish investors who together held nearly thirty percent of MIRI’s funding.
“Malcolm, I apologize. I was—”
“I don’t care where you were. What I care about is that the Glasgow facility’s grant application to the Scottish Medical Research Council was denied on Friday, and I had to hear about it from James bloody Morrison at the club instead of from you.”
I closed my study door, my mind racing. The SMRC grant was supposed to fund MIRI’s expansion into autoimmune research—a project Malcolm had personally championed. “I wasn’t aware—”
“Of course you weren’t aware. You’re in California playing at empire-building while the flagship facility falls apart.
” His voice dripped with disdain. “I vouched for you, Patrick. Convinced the consortium that MIRI could maintain its Scottish roots while expanding internationally. But you’re not in Scotland, are you?
You’re too busy setting up shop in America to notice when your own backyard catches fire. ”
“Malcolm, the grant application—we can appeal. I’ll have the team prepare—”
“The team isn’t the problem. The problem is that the SMRC wants assurances that MIRI isn’t abandoning Scotland.
They want to see commitment from leadership, not absence.
The consortium is meeting all week, and they want you here.
In person.” He took a long breath. “Your father would be disappointed, lad. MIRI was supposed to be Scotland’s answer to American research dominance, not the other way around. ”
The mention of my father hit harder than it should have. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“You’d better be. And Patrick? Come prepared.”
The line went dead.
I sat staring at the phone, Malcolm’s words echoing in my head. Your father would be disappointed. Christ, maybe he would be.
The fax machine on the credenza hummed to life, spitting out page after page. I walked over to collect them—a detailed breakdown of the consortium’s concerns, the SMRC’s rejection letter, a list of questions I’d need to answer.
The phone rang again. I grabbed it on the first ring.
“Patrick?” Theresa’s voice was warm, a little breathless. “I just got home. I wanted to thank you again for last night. I can’t wait for the beach day on Saturday.”
The timing couldn’t have been worse. “I’m glad you called,” I said, though the words felt heavy. “Listen, Theresa, something’s come up.”
The warmth cooled. “Oh?”
“One of MIRI’s major investors—he’s threatening to pull funding unless I come back to Scotland immediately for meetings. I’ll be gone the entire week, I’m afraid.”
Silence. Then: “I see.”
“The beach day—we’ll have to push it. I’m sorry, I know we just—”
“It’s fine, Patrick.” Her voice was neutral. “Work comes first. I understand that better than anyone.”
“Theresa—”
“Really, it’s fine. Rome has a soccer game on Saturday anyway, so this works better.”
She was lying. I could hear it in the subtle shift in her voice, the way she was already building walls. After everything we’d shared last night, I was pulling away, choosing work over her.
“I don’t want to go,” I said, the words tumbling out. “But Malcolm Hendricks—he’s one of our founding investors. If the consortium pulls funding, MIRI Scotland could collapse entirely. There are fifty researchers depending on that facility, clinical trials in progress—”
“You don’t have to explain.” Her tone softened. “I know what it’s like to have responsibilities pulling you in different directions. Just... be safe, okay?”
“I will. And Theresa? This doesn’t change anything. What we talked about this morning, what we want—”
“I know,” she said. “Go take care of your company business, Patrick. We’ll be here when you get back.”
After we hung up, I slumped in my chair.
Six months ago, my life had been simple.
Devastating, but simple. I had my grief, my work, my children, all contained in the stone walls of Eidheann Castle.
Now I was spread across an ocean, trying to build something new while maintaining everything old, and failing at both.