Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
PATRICK
But I was home. Or what passed for home these days—the giant six-bedroom rental in San Jose.
I’d gotten enough sleep on the plane to function thanks to the lay-flat seats in first class, and the consortium meeting had gone well enough that adrenaline was doing the rest.
Malcolm Hendricks had grilled me for three hours about abandoning Scotland for “American ventures,” his words dripping with disdain.
But in the end, the consortium agreed to maintain funding—provided I showed up for quarterly reviews in Edinburgh and kept the Glasgow facility fully staffed.
I could live with that, even if it meant more transatlantic flights than I’d planned.
The car’s tires crunched on the gravel driveway. “The ride’s already on your account, Mr. McCrae,” the driver said.
I nodded, reaching into my wallet and slipped the man a tip. “Thanks for the ride.”
The driver’s shoulders eased, grateful. “Any time, sir.”
Mrs. Kowalski’s sensible Honda sat parked to the left, and beyond it was Martina’s beat-up Volvo. Martina—our new housekeeper, a cheerful Argentinian woman in her forties.
The house glowed from within; every window lit like we were hosting a party instead of attempting something resembling normal family life.
Inside, perfect order greeted me. The twins hunched over the dining table, pencils moving across homework sheets under Mrs. Kowalski’s supervision.
Brody sat cross-legged on the stairs, arranging colored pencils by shade—some organizational system only he understood.
From somewhere in the kitchen, Eoin’s voice recited multiplication tables in a sing-song rhythm that suggested bribery had been involved.
Everything ran like clockwork. Mrs. Kowalski saw to that.
And there, at the top of the stairs, stood Alec, already mastering the art of disappointed silence. He looked down at me with the same cool stare he’d given me when I’d left for Scotland.
“You’re back.” An observation delivered with all the enthusiasm of someone noting a parking ticket.
“I am.” I tried to inject some warmth into my voice. “The trip went well. The consortium—”
“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged one shoulder, dismissive. “You’ll leave again.”
Then he turned and disappeared down the hall, his bedroom door clicking shut in that careful way of his.
Every professional victory from the past week deflated in an instant. I’d saved jobs, secured MIRI’s future, convinced a room full of stubborn Scots that expanding to California wasn’t the enemy.
But I couldn’t get through to my son.
Mrs. Kowalski appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her sharp eyes taking in my slumped shoulders. “Welcome back, Mr. McCrae. There’s roast chicken in the oven if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you. I need to make a quick call first.”
She nodded, communicating volumes of judgment with that single gesture.
I left my suitcase at the foot of the stairs and escaped to my study, shutting the door behind me.
The room looked exactly as I’d left it—desk buried under papers, books stacked on the floor in a system that made sense only to me, Shannon’s photo still facing the window where the morning light would hit it.
Martina had clearly been under strict orders not to tidy in here.
I dropped into the leather chair and reached for the phone. I’d memorized Theresa’s number after our second call.
Three rings. Four.
“Carideo residence.” A man’s voice. Michael, her brother.
“Michael, it’s Patrick McCrae. Is Theresa available?”
“Hold on.”
Muffled voices. The phone changing hands.
“Patrick.”
Her voice. Finally. But something was wrong—it sounded hollow, scraped clean of energy.
“I’m back,” I said, unable to suppress the smile. “The trip was a success. We kept the consortium funding. Malcolm Hendricks was about as pleasant as a wet cat, but he came around in the end.”
“That’s wonderful.”
Two words that landed like stones. Flat. Distant.
“Theresa? What happened? Are you okay?”
A pause that stretched too long.
“I’ve been better.”
My spine straightened, jet lag forgotten. “Is it the board? Arthur?”
“Yes. It’s... I can’t talk about it over the phone.”
My stomach dropped. “Tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”
“Not now with everyone around. Can we meet somewhere?”
I glanced at my watch. Nearly 7:30. I’d been home for exactly ten minutes, and Mrs. Kowalski would roast me alive if I left again. But Theresa’s voice...
“Name the place.”
“There’s a bar in Palo Alto. The Lounge. It’s out of the way, not much foot traffic. It’ll be a good place to talk.”
“I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.” Her voice cracked slightly, and my concern deepened into something closer to alarm.
“Theresa, whatever happened—”
“When I see you. Drive safe.”
The line went dead.
I sat staring at the receiver for a moment, then hauled myself out of the chair. The Lounge. Out of the way. None of that suggested good news.
Mrs. Kowalski was checking something in the oven when I found her.
“I need to go back out,” I said, the words tumbling over each other. “It’s important.”
She turned, one eyebrow climbing toward her hairline. “You just arrived.”
“I know. It’s a work emergency.”
The lie tasted bitter, but I was already halfway to the door.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Tell them we’ll do something this weekend. All of us.”
“I’ll tell them.” Her tone made it clear she was humoring me, nothing more. “Your dinner will be in the refrigerator.”
I was almost out the door when small faces appeared around the dining room doorway. Carson and Cory, the twins.
“Da?” Carson’s voice wobbled. “Are you leaving again?”
I went to them, knelt down, forcing a smile. “Just for a bit. I’ll be back tonight, and we’ll have the entire weekend. I promise.”
“You always promise.” Cory’s eyes were far too serious for a six-year-old.
“And I always come back, don’t I?”
He nodded, not quite convinced.
I ruffled his hair and stood before either of them could ask more questions I couldn’t answer.
The Lounge looked like the kind of place where deals were being made, and everyone pretended not to notice each other. Dark wood paneling, dim lighting, booths arranged for privacy rather than socializing.
I spotted Theresa. She sat in the back corner booth, shoulders curved inward like she was trying to take up less space. Even from across the room, I could see how exhausted she looked.
She saw me approach, and my chest ached.
“Patrick.”
Just my name, but it carried everything.
I slid into the booth across from her, resisting the urge to move to her side and pull her against me. “Tell me.”
She took a breath and laid it out in precise terms. The CFIUS rejection. Arthur’s deliberate sabotage. Military research notes from five years ago, included without context to make the deal look like a national security risk.
“He did it so the deal would look suspicious. And it worked,” she said, her fingers white-knuckled around her wine glass.
My anger mounted with every word. This was personal for me too—Duncan MacLeod was my contact, my introduction, my professional reputation on the line.
“Have you talked to Duncan?”
“He’s nervous, but willing to give me a chance to fix it before he walks.”
“And the board meeting?”
“Two weeks from yesterday.” Her laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “Hardly enough time.”
“Bloody bastard. He won’t get away with this.” I signaled the waitress and ordered a Scotch. “There’s got to be a way to get the deal approved.”
“Oh, I can get the decision reversed. What I don’t have is time. An appeal would take months. Duncan will walk long before then, and the board will move to someone else.” Her voice dropped to barely audible. “How are we even supposed to do this, Patrick? Run two companies, raise kids... it’s...”
She trailed off, but I heard the unspoken word. Impossible.
I reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were freezing.
“I know it’s a lot,” I said. “But Christ, I missed you. Even with everything falling apart in Edinburgh, there wasn’t an hour I didn’t think of you.”
Her eyes filled, the first crack in her armor. “I thought about you too. Constantly. And then I’d feel guilty because I should have been focused on the company, on—”
“Stop.” I squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to justify feeling something good in the middle of all this.”
A tear escaped, and she wiped it away impatiently. “It’s too much. The company, the kids, Arthur’s betrayal, trying to make this—us—work... I don’t see how we manage it.”
I understood her doubt. I felt it too in those quiet moments between crisis and action. The sheer impossibility of our situation, the logistics of blending our families while fighting corporate wars on multiple fronts.
“I don’t know how,” I admitted. “But I know why.”
She looked up, questioning.
“Because this—us—is the only thing that makes sense. In all the craziness of it all, finding you is the one thing that feels right.” I leaned forward. “I’m not giving up on this, Theresa. And I won’t let you fight alone.”
Something shifted in her expression. The doubt receded, replaced by a determination that matched my own. She turned her hand in mine, our fingers interlacing.
“Okay,” she breathed. “We stay steady. No matter what.”
“Aye. One step at a time,” I agreed.
The night air bit through my jacket as we stood in the parking lot between our cars. The bar’s neon sign bathed Theresa’s face in red light, carving shadows beneath her cheekbones and highlighting the stubborn set of her jaw.
“I really want to take you to a hotel and forget any of this exists,” I told her, finally admitting what had been consuming me since I’d walked into the bar.
She looked at me, wanting the same thing, knowing we couldn’t.
I pulled her into me and kissed her—not slow, not cautious, but with all the pent-up heat of every hour I’d spent missing her.
Her hands fisted in my jacket lapels, holding on like I might disappear if she let go. I understood the feeling completely. In the months since we’d met, she’d become the one thing I couldn’t imagine losing.
We broke apart reluctantly, foreheads touching as we breathed into the cold air between us.
“How about Sunday?” I asked, my voice rough. “The beach trip we talked about. The weather’s supposed to be good.”
She pulled back slightly, uncertainty crossing her face. “Patrick, I don’t know. Shouldn’t we wait until after this crisis is over?”
“It’s the weekend. Everything’s closed. Arthur can’t make his next move until Monday.” I cupped her face in my hands. “And I think it’s time our children meet each other, Theresa.”
She studied me, and I could tell she was running through every reason this was a terrible idea, every logical argument for pumping the brakes.
“Okay,” she said finally, a small smile breaking through. “Sunday. Half Moon Bay.”
“Sunday,” I confirmed, stealing one more quick kiss.
We got into our separate cars, and I watched her taillights disappear before starting my engine. The drive home passed in a blur, my mind already spinning with strategies, analyzing angles, looking for ways to counter Arthur’s sabotage.
The house was dark and quiet when I returned. The little ones were asleep, Mrs. Kowalski had retired to her quarters. My dinner sat in the refrigerator as promised, but I wasn’t hungry. Jet lag had caught up with me, a bone-deep exhaustion that made even the stairs look like a challenge.
But as I passed Alec’s room, I paused. Light spilled from beneath his door—still awake, probably reading.
I raised my hand to knock, then lowered it. What would I say? That I was sorry for leaving again? That I understood his anger? That I was trying to build something new, something that might eventually heal what grief had broken?
All true. None of it enough.
But tonight had proven something important: what I had with Theresa was real. Worth fighting for. Worth building a future around.
I just had to convince my son of that.