“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 astorm 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.
