Chapter 27 #2
“Dad and I were building this,” he said, his voice soft. “He said we’d launch it when it was done. It’s a Saturn V replica.”
“It’s excellent craftsmanship,” I said, examining the fuselage. “Detailed. We’ll need to double-check the fin alignment before we paint it.”
Austin’s smile was small but genuine, and for the first time, it reached his eyes. “I knew you’d notice the fins.”
I stood, patting the pocket where the engagement ring sat heavy and warm.
“Actually, we might need the entire team for the next part. Mrs. Kowalski has prepared a feast at my house. She says it’s a ‘practice run’ for blending the families, which usually means she’s cooked enough food for a small battalion. ”
Austin’s eyes widened slightly. “At your house?”
“Aye. We’ll need to take both cars to fit everyone.” I winked at him. “Think you can help me round up the troops?”
“I’m on it.” Austin slid out of the chair, clutching his rocket.
The drive to Silver Creek was a loud affair.
I took the older boys—Austin, Alec, Blaze, and Brody—while Theresa wrangled the younger set in her minivan.
My Land Rover was filled with questions about Scotland, debates about whether the Loch Ness Monster could beat Godzilla, and Austin explaining the physics of tire friction to a skeptical Blaze.
When we pulled into my driveway, the house looked welcoming, lights glowing in the windows. But unlike Theresa’s home, which vibrated with lived-in energy, mine still had that slightly sterile, organized feel Mrs. Kowalski maintained with iron discipline.
“Everybody, wash up!” I called out as we spilled through the front door. “Mrs. Kowalski will have our heads if we track mud into the dining room.”
While the thundering herd moved toward the downstairs bathroom, creating a bottleneck of elbows and laughter, I caught Alec’s eye. He was hanging back, watching with a guarded expression.
“Alec, hold on a moment,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder before he could follow the others. “Walk with me?”
He hesitated, glancing at the bathroom door where Rome was currently trying to explain the concept of a 'soap fight' to Eoin, then nodded.
We walked through the kitchen and out the back door into the quiet of the garden. The air was cool, smelling of cut grass and jasmine.
“Everything okay?” Alec asked, kicking at a loose stone on the patio. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture defensive.
“Everything is good,” I said. “But I wanted to talk to you. Just us.”
Alec looked at me sideways. “Is this about the school trip? Because I told you, I don’t want to go.”
“It’s not about school.” I leaned against the railing, watching him. He looked so much like his mother in this light it made my chest ache. “I talked to Austin earlier. About something important.”
Alec stopped kicking the stone. He went very still. “About Theresa?”
I nodded. “About asking her to marry me.”
Alec didn’t say anything. He walked over to the tire swing I’d hung last week, and sat on it, but didn’t push off. He just sat there, staring at the ground, his face unreadable. I waited, giving him the space I knew he needed.
“For real?” he asked finally, his voice quiet. “Like... forever?”
“For real,” I confirmed. “Marriage. All of us becoming one family. Living together.”
Alec looked up then, and his eyes were fierce. “Does that mean we stay here? In California? We’re not going back to Scotland?”
This was the hurdle I’d been dreading. The final break from the life he’d known.
“It does,” I said gently. “We might need a bigger house—this one is too small for ten of us—but we’d stay here. We’re building a life here, Alec.”
I braced myself for the anger. For the accusations about forgetting his mother, about abandoning our home.
But Alec just let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping about three inches.
“Okay,” he said.
I blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” He pushed the swing slightly, rocking back and forth. “I mean... I miss home. I miss my friends. But...” He looked toward the house, where the sound of laughter was drifting out the open window. “It’s better here.”
“Better how?”
Alec struggled for the words. “It’s not so.
.. quiet. At the castle, it was just us and the ghosts.
And Mrs. Kowalski making sure everything was perfect so we wouldn’t be sad.
But here...” He gestured toward the house.
“Theresa isn’t like that. Her house is messy.
And loud. And nobody gets mad if you spill juice. ”
He looked me in the eye, his expression earnest. “And you’re happier, Da. You haven’t yelled about a schedule in weeks. You laugh more. Like you did before Mum...”
He trailed off, but he didn’t look away.
“I feel happier,” I admitted, my throat tight. “She brings the light back in.”
Alec nodded, as if this confirmed his own data. “Then yeah. Do it. Marry her.”
Relief washed over me, profound and dizzying. I walked over to the swing and put a hand on the rope above his head. “What about your mum? You know this doesn’t mean we forget her. Ever.”
“I know,” Alec said, looking down at his sneakers. “But Mum wouldn’t want us to be sad forever in a quiet house, would she? She liked noise. She would have liked Rome tackling people.”
I laughed, a wet, choked sound. “Aye, son. She absolutely would have.”
Alec jumped off the swing, suddenly energized. “Can I go inside now? Rome brought his Sega Genesis games, and he said he’d teach me how to play Sonic if I help him eat the garlic bread.”
“Go ahead,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Just save some bread for the rest of us.”
“No promises!” he called, already sprinting toward the back door.
I watched him run, light and fast, the heavy weight of the last year finally gone from his shoulders. He wasn’t just accepting the future; he was running toward it.
The house quieted as evening fell. Theresa and I had managed to get everybody fed, bathed, and into beds or sleeping bags scattered throughout the bedrooms. The task had been exhausting but deeply satisfying—a glimpse of what our life ahead would be.
Theresa had gone upstairs to read bedtime stories to the youngest ones, leaving me to finish cleaning up the dinner mess. I loaded the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, marveling at how quickly our families had blended.
I wiped down the counters, smiling at the handprints in spilled juice that no amount of cleaning ever seemed to fully remove. This house—so sterile when we’d first moved in—now felt properly lived in. Like a home.
The sound of Mrs. Kowalski’s footsteps pulled me from my thoughts. She entered the kitchen with her usual efficiency, carrying a notepad and pen. Her gray hair was pulled back in its customary tight bun, her expression inscrutable as always.
“The schedules for tomorrow, Mr. McCrae,” she said, placing the notepad on the counter. “I’ve adjusted for having all the youngsters here for breakfast. We’ll need to start the first round of pancakes by seven if everyone is to eat by eight-thirty.”
I glanced at the detailed timetable she’d prepared, noting how she’d allocated bathroom time in increments to accommodate everyone.
Her thoroughness both impressed and slightly depressed me.
Was this really how we lived? By schedules and timetables, as if the kids were troops to be deployed rather than young humans to be enjoyed?
“Thank you, Mrs. Kowalski,” I said, setting the notepad aside. “Actually, I wanted to speak with you about something.”
She straightened, folding her hands before her. “Yes, Mr. McCrae?”
I took a deep breath, suddenly nervous. Mrs. Kowalski’s opinion mattered to me more than I’d realized until this moment.
“I’m going to ask Theresa to marry me,” I said, watching her face. “Officially, that is. With a ring and everything.”
Mrs. Kowalski’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“I see,” she said, her Scottish brogue more pronounced than usual. “And when will this be happening?”
“Tonight,” I replied.
Mrs. Kowalski set down her pen deliberately. Her pale blue eyes, usually warm despite her stern demeanor, had cooled to ice.
“You’re making a mistake, Mr. McCrae.”
The words shocked me. I stared at her, momentarily speechless. Of all the reactions I’d anticipated, this hadn’t been one of them.
“I beg your pardon?” I managed finally.
“You’re making a mistake,” she repeated, her voice calm. “It’s too soon. You haven’t properly processed Mrs. McCrae’s death.”
I felt a flash of anger. “It’s been over a year, Mrs. Kowalski.”
“A year is nothing,” she countered. “Especially for the little ones. They’re only just beginning to adjust to life here in America. And now you want to upend everything again?”
I leaned back against the counter, trying to understand her resistance. “The children adore Theresa. They get along wonderfully with her family. Surely, you’ve seen that.”
“What I’ve seen,” Mrs. Kowalski said, her tone sharpening slightly, “is a man rushing into a relationship because he’s lonely and overwhelmed by single fatherhood.
And a woman who is still deeply wounded by her husband’s death, with a traumatized family of her own.
” She shook her head. “Bringing two families in mourning together won’t lead to recovery, Mr. McCrae. It will only bring disorder.”
Her words stung with uncomfortable truths. Had I rushed into this? Was I using Theresa as a bandage for my own grief? But no—what I felt for Theresa went far beyond convenience or desperation. It was real and solid and true.
“You need someone stable,” Mrs. Kowalski continued, her voice softening slightly. “Someone who understands your life, your background. Someone who can help you manage what you already have, not someone who brings more crises into this house.”
And suddenly, I understood what lay beneath her words—a possessive protectiveness that went beyond professional concern. Mrs. Kowalski had been the woman of this household for over a year. She’d created order, managed everything I couldn’t handle.
Now Theresa threatened that entire world.
“Mrs. Kowalski,” I said gently, “I value your opinion more than you know. You’ve been a rock for this family through the darkest times imaginable. But I love Theresa. I need her.”
Her expression remained closed.
“I will always be grateful for everything you’ve done for us,” I continued. “But Theresa is my future. I hope you can accept that.”
Mrs. Kowalski’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She picked up her pen, clicked it once with finality. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” she said, her voice cool and professional once more. She returned to her notepad, adding something to tomorrow’s schedule. “Will that be all, Mr. McCrae?”
I hesitated, wanting to bridge this sudden chasm between us but unsure how. “Yes,” I said finally. “That’s all. Thank you, Mrs. Kowalski.”
She nodded once, not looking up from her writing.
I left the kitchen, troubled by the exchange.
I’d expected joy from everyone at the news—or at least understanding.
I hadn’t anticipated this resistance, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mrs. Kowalski’s opposition might prove more significant than I wanted to admit.