“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 tosit 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.”
