Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
THERESA
I walked down the stairs enjoying the sound of a dozen people breathing and dreaming under one roof.
I pushed open the kitchen door and stopped.
The counters gleamed. The leaning tower of dirty plates was gone. Patrick stood by the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a duvet and only narrowly won—shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, hair sticking up on the left side—but he looked satisfied.
He looked up as I entered, tossing the towel onto the counter.
“They’re down,” I said, exhaling a long breath. “All of them. Even the twins, though I had to promise Carson we’d all go fishing next weekend if he stopped asking questions about salmon migration.”
He let out a soft laugh, leaning against the counter. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“So are you,” I said. “You cleaned.”
“Nervous energy,” he admitted. “But I can’t take all the credit. Mrs. Kowalski helped, of course.”
“Speaking of... where is the General?”
“Pantry,” Patrick said, nodding toward the closed door where I could hear the faint clink of jars being rearranged. “Doing a final inventory. She can’t go to bed until the soup cans are perfectly aligned.”
I crossed the room to him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He felt solid and warm, smelling of soap and fatigue. “I spent twenty minutes negotiating with Paris about her nightlight. Apparently, if the shadow looks like a wolf, she can’t sleep. It has to look like a bunny.”
“A bunny,” Patrick repeated, a smile tugging at his mouth. He hooked his fingers through my belt loops, pulling me closer. “She’s a tough negotiator. Reminds me of her mother.”
I rested my head on his chest. “Is that a complaint, Mr. McCrae?”
“Never.” He kissed the top of my head. “Just an observation. You’re both formidable women.”
“I’m tired,” I admitted into his shirt. “The good kind. The kind where your bones ache but your heart is full.”
“I know.” His hands slid down to rest on my lower back. “Theresa?”
“Mm?”
“Come outside with me.”
I pulled back to look at him. His blue eyes were dark, serious in a way that made my stomach flip. “Now? It’s late.”
“Mrs. Kowalski is handling the lockdown. She’ll keep an ear out.”
“Is she okay?” I asked, glancing at the pantry door. “She been… out there for some time now.”
Patrick’s jaw tightened just a fraction. “She’s adjusting. It’s a lot of noise for someone who prizes order above all else. She’s used to running a tight ship, and we’ve essentially introduced a fleet of pirates.”
“I hope she doesn’t feel pushed out.”
“She’ll be fine,” Patrick assured me, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Come on. Five minutes. I need fresh air, and I need you.”
“Well, when you put it like that...”
He took my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine, and led me toward the back door. The night air hit us as we stepped out—cool and crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and jasmine.
The garden was dark, save for the soft, golden glow of string lights wrapped around the wooden gazebo in the far corner. It looked magical, a little island of light.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed.
“I wanted to get you alone,” Patrick said, his voice dropping. “Which is becoming a logistical nightmare with a headcount of twelve.”
We walked down the stone path, our footsteps quiet on the pavers. When we reached the gazebo, Patrick gestured for me to sit on the cushioned bench. I settled in, tucking my legs under me, but he didn’t join me.
He stood in the center of the small structure, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He rocked back on his heels, then forward. Then he took two steps to the left. Then two back to the right.
“You’re moving around a lot,” I observed, amused.
“I am not,” he said. “I am... surveying the structural integrity of the gazebo.”
“Patrick.” I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “You’re shaking. What is going on?”
He stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair again, making the mess even worse. He looked at me, and the humor faded from his face, replaced by a look so open it stole the breath from my lungs.
“I had a plan,” he said, his voice rough. “A speech. I was going to wait for the right moment, maybe with champagne, maybe when we weren’t both smelling like marinara sauce and exhaustion, but—”
CRASH.
The sound exploded from the house—sharp, violent, shattering the quiet night.
We both froze.
“The kitchen,” Patrick said.
We didn’t hesitate. We were running before the second crash—the heavy, dull clang of metal hitting tile—even registered.
My heart hammered against my ribs. One of the kids. Did someone fall?
I burst through the back door first, breathless.
Mrs. Kowalski stood in the center of the gleaming kitchen she had just helped perfect.
But now, at her feet, lay a sea of jagged white ceramic.
A large serving platter—one I’d seen her hand-washing earlier—lay in pieces near her sensible shoes.
A stack of metal mixing bowls she must have been moving had been knocked off the island and lay scattered across the floor.
Her hands were gripped tightly at her sides, balled into fists. Her face, usually so pale and composed, was flushed a deep, blotchy red. She was staring at the mess with an expression of utter horror.
“Mrs. Kowalski?” Patrick stepped around me, moving toward her slowly. “Are you hurt?”
She flinched violently. “I... I’m sorry,” she stammered, the words brittle. “I was just... putting the platter away. I tried to reach the shelf... It slipped. My hand, it just... slipped.”
It was a lie. I knew it instantly. You don’t drop a heavy platter and then knock over a stack of bowls because you slipped. You drop them because your hands are shaking so hard you can’t hold onto anything anymore. You drop them because the weight of what you’re carrying is finally too much.
“It’s fine,” Patrick said gently, reaching for her arm. “Leave it, Mrs. Kowalski. We’ll clean it up.”
“No!” She jerked away from him, shrinking back against the counter.
Then she seemed to realize what she’d done, and her hand flew to her mouth.
She took a shallow, ragged breath, smoothing her apron with trembling fingers.
“I will handle it, Mr. McCrae. Please. Go back outside. This is... this is inexcusable.”
The strain in the room was thick. Patrick looked helpless, caught between his concern for her and his confusion. He looked at me, his eyes wide and pleading. Help me.
I stepped forward. I picked up the broom from the corner, feeling the smooth wood handle against my palm. But I didn’t start sweeping. I walked over to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair.
“Sit down, Mrs. Kowalski,” I said.
“Mrs. Carideo, I really must—”
“Sit.” It wasn’t a request. It was the voice I used when Rome was about to jump off the roof or Austin was spiraling over a B-minus. Firm. Unyielding. Maternal.
She sat. She collapsed into the hard wooden chair as if her strings had been cut.
I handed the broom to Patrick. “Give us a minute?”
He hesitated, looking from me to the woman who had raised his children when he couldn’t. He looked torn.
“Patrick,” I said. “Please.”
He nodded once, taking the broom. He stepped back into the hallway, giving us the illusion of privacy, though I knew he wouldn’t go far.
I sat in the chair opposite her, and I just waited, letting the silence stretch between us.
“I broke it,” she whispered finally, staring at a sharp shard of white ceramic near her foot. “His mother’s serving platter. I brought it from Scotland myself.”
“I know,” I said. “I smashed a vase two weeks after Marco died. Threw it right at the fireplace. It broke into about a thousand pieces. It felt... necessary.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine, shocked. “This was an accident.”
“Was it?” I asked gently.
She held my gaze for a second, her chin trembling, before looking away. “He wants to marry you.”
The words hung in the air, stark and unadorned.
“I know,” I said.
“He told me tonight. Before you came down.” Her hands twisted in her lap, knobby knuckles white. “I told him it was a mistake.”
I felt a flash of hurt—sharp like a paper cut. But I pushed it down. This wasn’t about me. Not really.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because look at this!” Her voice rose, cracking with emotion.
She gestured wildly at the kitchen. “It’s madness!
Ten children running wild, schedules ignored, dinner at all hours.
He... he isn’t himself. He’s forgotten everything we built to keep them safe.
To keep them stable after Shannon...” She choked on the name, her eyes squeezing shut.
“You think he’s forgetting her,” I said.
“I think he’s trying to fill a hole,” she whispered fiercely. “And you... you are a lovely woman, Mrs. Carideo. But you bring a storm with you. Those children need a harbor. They need peace. Not... this.”
I looked around the room. The energy of the day still hung in the air. The noise, the movement, the sheer volume of life. She was right. It was a storm.
“You’re scared,” I said.
“I am not—”
“You’re terrified that if he lets go of the order you created, everything will fall apart again. That if he stops grieving the way you think he should, he’ll leave Shannon behind. And maybe... maybe you’re afraid he’ll leave you behind too.”
Mrs. Kowalski went very still. The fight seemed to drain out of her, leaving her small and frail in the kitchen light.
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. “Mrs. Kowalski, look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her head.
“I’m not Shannon,” I said firmly. “I never will be. And Patrick isn’t Marco. We are two people who got handed the worst hand imaginable, and we’re trying to play it the best we can. Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s loud. But you should have seen Alec today.”
She blinked, confused by the shift. “Alec?”