Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
THERESA
I stood in my kitchen at six in the morning, staring down at the growing mountain of supplies spilling out of my beach bag.
Various sunscreen lotions for everyone, because Patrick’s Scottish children had no idea how fast their fair skin could burn in the California sun.
Towels—enough for everyone, which felt like packing for an army.
Snacks—granola bars for the big kids, graham crackers, and applesauce pouches for the toddlers.
A first-aid kit, because Rome attracted injuries like a magnet.
I pulled out the cooler next, filling it with water bottles and juice boxes. I paused, frowning. String cheese. I forgot the string cheese.
I opened the fridge, grabbed a handful of individually wrapped cheese sticks, and tossed them into the cooler. Then I shut the lid…only to open it again with a sigh. What was I doing thinking four cheese sticks would cut it? I went back to the fridge and grabbed the whole package.
And underneath it all, wrapped in a spare towel so the kids wouldn’t see, was the new swimsuit I’d bought three days ago.
Navy blue with white piping. One-piece, conservative by most standards, but it showed more skin than I’d revealed in public for a long time.
I caught my reflection in the kitchen window, the pre-dawn darkness turning the glass into a mirror. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, face bare of makeup. Nervous.
Guilty.
The guilt never left. Only five months. Marco had been dead for five months, and here I was, packing a beach bag to spend the day with another man. A man whose hand I wanted to hold. Whose mouth I wanted to kiss. Whose body I’d been thinking about far too much since our night at the Ritz-Carlton.
“You’re acting like a teenager before prom.”
I jumped, spinning around to find Michael leaning against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand. He was already dressed in jeans and a faded Stanford t-shirt, his standard weekend uniform.
“I’m just packing,” I said, too quickly.
“You’ve reorganized that bag three times in the last ten minutes.” He crossed to the coffeemaker and refilled his mug. “You know the kids are going to dump sand in everything anyway, right?”
I zipped the bag shut with more force than necessary. “I want to be prepared.”
“You want to make a good impression.” He said it gently, without judgment, but I felt defensive anyway.
“Is that so wrong?”
“Not at all.” He took a sip of coffee, studying me over the rim. “But Theresa? He already likes you. You don’t need to prove anything.”
“It’s not about him.” The words came out before I could stop them. “It’s about his kids. What if they hate me? What if they think I’m trying to replace their mother?”
Michael set down his mug and crossed to me, placing both hands on my shoulders.
“Then you’ll deal with it. Same way you’ve dealt with everything else.
” He squeezed gently. “Besides, you’re not the only one who should be nervous.
Patrick’s bringing six kids to meet your four.
That’s ten children. On a beach. With sand and waves and probably some kind of impromptu warfare. If anyone should be worried, it’s him.”
I managed a small smile. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise. You just never listen.”
A small voice from the doorway interrupted us. “Mom?”
I turned to find Austin standing there, already dressed in his swim trunks and a t-shirt with a periodic table on it.
“Good morning, sweetheart. You’re up early.”
“I wanted to review the tide charts.” He held up a piece of paper covered in his neat handwriting. “Low tide is at 10:47 AM. That’s the best time for tide pool exploration. We should plan our activities accordingly.”
“That’s very thorough,” I said, crouching down to Austin’s level. “Did you make a schedule for the whole day?”
He nodded, handing me the paper. I scanned it quickly—arrival time, sandcastle construction window, lunch break, water activities, departure. Everything organized down to fifteen-minute increments.
He’s trying to control the uncontrollable, I thought. Just like I am.
“This is great,” I told him, folding the paper and tucking it into my pocket. “But remember, sometimes the best part of the beach is the things we don’t plan.”
Austin frowned. “But what if things get messed up?”
“Sometimes messed up is fun.” I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Trust me?”
He thought about it, serious as always. “Will Patrick’s kids follow the schedule?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”
“Hmm.” Austin’s frown deepened. “I should probably make a backup plan. Just in case.”
Before I could respond, thundering feet announced the arrival of my other three kids.
Rome burst into the kitchen first, his dark hair sticking up in every direction, already talking at full volume.
“Is it time to go? Are we leaving now? Can I bring my binoculars? What if we see whales? Do you think there’ll be crabs?
I want to catch a crab. A big one. Can we—”
“Rome, breathe,” I said.
I crossed to the broom closet, pulled out a big plastic tote bag, and pressed it into his hands. “Here—take this. All of you. Go out to the garage and find the beach toys. Shovels, buckets, anything inflatable that isn’t leaking. If it holds air, it goes in the bag.”
The boys grabbed it like I’d handed them a treasure map and tore off toward the garage, chattering over each other about who would find what.
“Alright,” Michael said, looking a little deflated. “I guess I’ll make pancakes when they get back?”
The drive to Half Moon Bay took forty-five minutes, and I spent most of it listening to Rome’s running commentary on everything we passed while Austin periodically announced our estimated arrival time. Paris sang to herself in the back seat, and Aspen dozed against her car seat.
I’d chosen this beach deliberately—far enough from San Jose that we wouldn’t run into neighbors or colleagues, but close enough that we could leave quickly if things went badly. The beach was wide and relatively uncrowded, with tide pools at the north end and plenty of space.
If things went badly.
My stomach twisted. What if Patrick’s family hated me? What if my kids resented him? What if this whole thing was a terrible mistake?
Then I remembered Patrick outside The Lounge, how he’d looked at me and said “I’m not letting this go” with such conviction it made my knees weak. The memory of his hand holding mine—solid, warm, exactly what I needed.
It felt right. It felt real.
We pulled into the beach parking lot at exactly 9:30 AM, and my heart jumped when I spotted the Land Rover already there.
Patrick stood beside it, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, his ginger curls catching the morning sun.
The older children spilled out around him in various states of readiness as Patrick stood next to Maggie, still in her car seat.
He looked up when I parked. Smiled. And just like that, the nervousness settled.
I parked next to his car and took a deep breath before opening my door. The sounds of the beach rushed in—waves, seagulls, the distant laughter of other families. My kids tumbled out, suddenly shy in the presence of strangers.
Patrick’s kids had gone equally quiet as he lifted Maggie out of her car seat. Six pairs of eyes on my four.
“Everyone,” Patrick said, his Scottish accent somehow more pronounced in the open air, “this is Mrs. Carideo and her family.”
“Just Theresa is fine,” I said quickly, taking Aspen by the hand and moving to stand beside him. The proximity felt natural, our shoulders nearly touching. “And this is Austin, Rome, Paris, and Aspen.”
I pointed to each child. Austin hung back a bit, eyeing Patrick’s kids with that look he got when he was trying to figure something out.
Rome had no such reservations. He bounded forward. “You really have six kids? That’s so many! Do they fight a lot? We fight sometimes, but Mom says it’s normal.”
“Rome,” I said, trying not to laugh.
Patrick grinned. “Yeah, they fight. Especially these two.” He ruffled the hair of the identical twins, who immediately smacked his hands away. “Carson and Cory. Good luck telling them apart.”
“I’m Carson,” one declared.
“No, I’m Carson,” the other said, and they both dissolved into giggles.
“They swap their shoelaces,” Patrick said. “Can’t trust either of them.”
“Cool!” Rome’s eyes lit up. “Austin and I could do that, but we don’t look the same. Can you teach us stuff to trick people?”
Paris pushed forward, hands on her hips. “I’m Paris and I’m five. Do you have any girls? Because all I have are stupid brothers.”
“Hey!” Rome protested.
“This is my only girl, she’s my baby,” Patrick said, shifting Maggie a little higher in his arms. He glanced down at her with a soft, proud smile. “Her name is Maggie. And this is Alec and Brody.” He pointed to each one. “And that shy one hiding behind Alec is Eoin. He just likes to stay close.”
“I’m not shy,” Eoin announced, stepping out. “I’m four.”
Austin finally stepped closer, looking up at Alec.
“You’re Alec?” Austin asked.
The boy nodded.
“Your dad said you guys moved from Scotland. Do you like it here?”
Alec’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Awkward silence.
“Oh.” Austin processed this. “Yeah, I didn’t like it when my uncle moved in either. But he makes good pancakes, so it’s okay now.”
“Hi. I’m Brody. I’m seven. Do you like to draw? I brought colored pencils.”
Rome brightened. “I like to draw! Well, I’m not good at it, but it’s fun. You wanna see the tide pools? There might be crabs!”
“Wanna see who can build the biggest sandcastle?” Eoin called out, already heading toward the beach with a bucket in hand he’d been holding the entire car ride.
Paris followed, and suddenly the spell was broken. Rome took off after them, and the twins followed. Even Alec’s rigid posture relaxed slightly as the group moved toward the sand.
Patrick and I stood in the parking lot, surrounded by beach bags and coolers.
“Well,” he said, “that went better than I expected.”