By the time we landed at San Jose International Airport, everyone was exhausted, jet-lagged, and thoroughly done with each other’s company.
The car service I’d arranged transported us to our new neighborhood, the wee ones falling asleep one by one in the gathering dusk. Even Alec’s eyes drooped, his anger temporarily suspended by sheer exhaustion.
Our rented house was in a quiet, gated community called Silver Creek Valley—a sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion that would have been ostentatious if it weren’t so necessary for our large family. Six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a pool the bairns weren’t allowed near without supervision, and enough square footage to lose several of them at once if one wasn’t careful.
Mrs. Kowalski met us at the door, her stern face a welcome sight after the long journey.
“You’re late,” she said by way of greeting. “I’ve kept dinner warm. The wee ones should eat and go straight to bed. They look half-dead.”
“A pleasure to see you as well, Mrs. Kowalski,” I said, smiling despite my exhaustion. “How was your flight over?”
“Uneventful, which is how flights should be.” She stood aside to let us enter. “Wipe your feet. I’ve just cleaned the floors.”
Mrs. Kowalski had been with us since the twins were born, seven years of unflinching loyalty and brutal honesty. She’d moved to California two weeks ahead of us to prepare the house, a task she’d apparently tackled with her usual ruthless efficiency.
The house was immaculate, every room furnished and arranged as though we’d lived there for years. The bairns were too tired to properly appreciate it, stumbling through dinner and the bedtime routine with half-closed eyes. By nine o’clock, all six were asleep in their new beds, worn out from travel and the excitement of a new place.
I stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of Scotch, and trying to orient myself. This house, with its soaring ceilings and marble countertops, felt nothing like our cozy family quarters in the castle. It was beautiful, certainly, but sterile.
It felt like a stage set. A place we were visiting, not a place we belonged.
Mrs. Kowalski appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest in a way that meant she had opinions to share. “Everybody’s settled. Eoin might wander—he’s confused about where he is. And Alec’s liable to barricade himself in his room and refuse to come out.”
“Thank you.” I took another sip of Scotch, letting the smoky burn settle my nerves. “The house looks wonderful. You’ve done an outstanding job.”
She acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod. “It will do for a year.”
“Maybe two,” I said, testing the words aloud.
She quirked a single eyebrow. “Two years? You didn’t mention that possibility before.”
“It depends on how the West Coast expansion progresses. If MIRI establishes strong partnerships here, I might need to extend our stay. Ensure the foundation is solid before returning to Scotland.”
Mrs. Kowalski studied me with a penetrating gaze that seemed to peel back every layer of rationalization I’d built around this move. “This relocation isn’t just about business, is it, Mr. McCrae?”
I stiffened slightly, the Scotch suddenly too warm in my hand. “It’s entirely about business. San Jose is the strategic heart of the industry. The proximity to Stanford, the talent pool, the venture capital infrastructure... it’s the logical choice.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. She’d been with our family long enough to know when I was telling the truth and when I was telling myself comfortable lies. “There’s a woman.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I’m a grieving widower with six bairns and a transatlantic company to run. The last thing I have time for is romantic entanglements.”
She held my gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she gave a single, small nod, as if filing the informationaway for future reference. “Of course. I’ll be retiring for the night. Breakfast is at seven o’clock sharp. I trust you remember where your room is?”
“I believe I can manage to find it, aye.”
She turned and left me alone in the sterile silence of the kitchen.
I let out a breath. She could read me better than anyone, possibly better than I could read myself.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the business card, its edges worn soft from a month of constant handling.
Theresa Carideo, CEO, CarideoTech.
Her name. The San Jose address. The phone number I’d memorized weeks ago but hadn’t yet had the courage to dial.
I looked at the unfamiliar kitchen around me, at the house that didn’t feel like home, at the life I’d uprooted my entire family to pursue. All of it—the relocation, the expansion, the business justifications—all of it led back to this moment.
To this decision.
