Chapter 20 #2
“The day’s young,” I replied, but I was smiling.
He reached for the sunscreen in my bag, his hand brushing mine. The contact sent electricity up my arm, and from the way his eyes darkened, he felt it too.
“We’ve got this,” he whispered, low enough that only I could hear.
His confidence steadied me, the same way it had in every phone call, every stolen moment. I reached up and dabbed a bit of the sunscreen onto Maggie’s cheeks while Patrick held her against his hip.
I looked up at him, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “Let’s go build some sandcastles,” I said.
Then I looked down at my daughter and took her tiny hand. “Come on, sweetheart.”
The beach was wonderful—wide expanses of pale sand, gentle waves, and tide pools glittering in the morning sun. The kids had already begun staking out territory, and I watched as natural alliances formed.
Paris had appointed herself leader of the decorating committee, which comprised the twins, Blaze and Fury. She stood in the center, hands on her hips, issuing orders.
“Carson, you find shells. Cory, you find pretty rocks. Blaze and Fury, you’re in charge of seaweed. We’re making the most beautiful castle on the whole beach.”
They all scattered to follow her commands without question. Paris had that effect on people.
Eoin was attempting to help everyone at once, his enthusiasm outpacing his coordination. He’d already knocked over two bucket towers and gotten sand in his hair.
And Maggie sat in the sand near Patrick’s feet, contentedly filling and dumping a small bucket, over and over, fascinated by the simple act.
“They’re doing okay,” I said.
“Better than okay.”
Paris appeared at my elbow. “Mom, we need shells for decorating. Can you and Patrick help us find some?”
It wasn’t really a request. Paris had inherited Marco’s ability to make suggestions sound like directives.
“I’d love to, sweetheart,” I said, glancing at Aspen and Patrick’s little one playing in the sand. “But we can’t leave these two by themselves.”
Patrick straightened. “Hold on.” He lifted a hand and called across the sand. “Alec! Laddie, can you watch the wee ones for a minute?”
Alec jogged over, dropping into the sand beside the toddlers with a patient grin.
“All right then,” Patrick said, brushing off his hands as he stood.
“Lead the way,” I told Paris.
We walked along the waterline, Paris running ahead to examine every shell and stone. Patrick fell into step beside me, close enough that our hands occasionally brushed.
“Scotland was hard,” he said, picking up a conversation we hadn’t had time to finish. “The trial, the crisis, being away from the kids. But the hardest part was not being able to talk to you.”
My chest tightened. “We agreed it was better to focus on our separate crises.”
“I know. It doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you constantly.” He stopped walking, turning to face me. “I’d be in the office at two in the morning, and I’d wonder what you were doing. If you were sleeping. If you were thinking about me too.”
“I was,” I admitted. The confession felt dangerous, standing here in broad daylight with our kids nearby.
“Mom! Patrick! Look what I found!”
Paris came running back, her bucket full of shells and sea glass. The moment broke, but Patrick’s hand lingered in mine for just a second longer before we let go.
We turned our attention to Paris, who was already dumping her treasures onto the sand for inspection.
“These are beautiful,” I said, kneeling beside her. “You have a good eye.”
“I know.” She picked through the shells with the confidence of someone who’d never doubted her own judgment. “Patrick, which ones do you think are prettiest?”
He crouched down, studying her collection with genuine consideration. “The ones with the ridges. They catch the light.”
Paris nodded approvingly, as if he’d passed some critical test. “Okay. You can help decorate.”
I watched them walk back toward the sandcastle, Paris chattering about her vision for the final product, Patrick listening like she was the most important person in the world. The sight of it—this man and my daughter, building something—made my throat tight.
The house was silent when I finally sank into a kitchen chair at 9:47 PM.
Every child was bathed, fed, and tucked into bed, though sand still lingered in various corners of the minivan and probably would for weeks.
Austin had fallen asleep clutching his collection of sea glass.
Rome had crashed mid-sentence while telling me about the crab he’d almost caught.
Even Paris had gone down without her usual negotiation tactics, exhausted by a day of issuing orders.
I’d pulled on an old Stanford sweatshirt after my shower, the fabric soft and worn. My skin still felt warm from too much sun despite the sunscreen I’d reapplied every hour. My shoulders ached pleasantly from carrying Aspen and chasing Rome away from the edge of the rocks.
The kitchen was a mess—sandy beach bags dumped by the door, wet towels draped over chairs, half-empty juice boxes lined up on the counter. I should clean it. I should start a load of laundry. I should prep the kids’ lunches for tomorrow.
Instead, I just sat there, replaying the day.
The landline rang, sharp and sudden in the quiet house. I jumped, nearly knocking over my water glass.
I crossed to the phone mounted on the wall, my heart already knowing who it would be.
“Hello?”
“I was hoping you were still awake.”
Patrick’s voice was deep and warm, burning straight through my chest. I wondered which room in his house he was calling from—maybe his home office, maybe leaning back in some big leather chair he used for late-night work.
I found myself wondering what his house looked like…
and why the thought of him there, talking to me, made my pulse skip.
“Just got the last one down,” I said, leaning against the wall. “You?”
“Mine were bathed and in bed by eight-thirty. Mrs. Kowalski had them marching like little soldiers—shower, pajamas, teeth, bed. No negotiation.”
I smiled. “Rome fell asleep mid-sentence, still covered in sand. I’ll probably find it in his sheets for a week. Austin was clutching sea glass like treasure. Paris kept asking if we could do it again next weekend.”
“So did Eoin. And the twins. Even Alec said it was ‘fine,’ which from him is practically a rave review.” Patrick’s voice softened with something like wonder. “Your house is so... alive. Here it’s silent. Perfectly ordered. Like nothing happened today at all.”
“That’s Mrs. Kowalski’s doing?”
“The towels are already clean and folded. The sand is gone. Those beach bags are hanging in the mudroom like they’re part of some museum exhibit.
” He let out a laugh. “She’s good—too good.
I just can’t decide if we’ve swapped normal family mess for this.
.. sterile perfection. Like we’re living in a catalog instead of a home. ”
I thought about my disaster of a kitchen, the sandy footprints still visible on the floor, wet swimsuits draped over the shower rods. “There’s got to be some halfway point between total disaster zone and drill sergeant perfection.”
“I sure hope so.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate. “Watching your kids today—the way they just... existed. No schedules, no rigid structure. Rome building that insane sandcastle with no architectural plan. Paris bossing everyone around without a clipboard. It was messy and loud and—”
“Exhausting?”
“Beautiful,” he finished. “It was beautiful, Theresa. The joy of it. The freedom.”
My throat tightened. Through the window, I could see the lights of San Jose spread out below, other families in their houses living their complicated lives.
“Thank you for today,” Patrick continued. “For giving us a chance. For showing me that maybe... maybe I’ve been holding on too tight.”
“Same time next week?” I asked.
Patrick’s laugh came through the line, rich and genuine. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Though I might tell Mrs. Kowalski not to clean up so efficiently next time. Keep the mess around a little longer. It proves we’re actually living.”
“Careful. You might start enjoying it.”
“I’m counting on it.”
We stayed on the phone for another moment, neither quite ready to hang up. I could hear his breathing on the other end.
“Goodnight, Patrick.”
“Goodnight, lass.”