The request caught me off guard. Most people avoided mentioning Marco around me, as if speaking his name might shatter me. But Patrick asked with simple directness, without the awkward hesitation I’d grown accustomed to.
“Marco was...” I paused, searching for words that could possibly capture the man I’d loved for nearly a decade. “He was brilliant. Not just intellectually, though he was that too. He had this emotional intelligence, this ability to connect with people and make them believe in his vision. He could walk into a room full of strangers and leave with a dozen new friends.”
Patrick smiled, a genuine warmth reaching his eyes. “The charismatic type, then.”
“Very. But not in a superficial way. He genuinely cared about people, about making a difference in their lives. That’s why we started CarideoTech.”
I told Patrick about Marco’s passion for our company, his unwavering optimism. I told him about Marco’s love for our family, how he’d read to the kids every night no matter how exhausted he was. How he’d been teaching Austin to play chess, how he’d built a treehouse for Rome, how he’d dance with Paris in the kitchen while making Sunday pancakes.
And finally, I told him about the avalanche. About waking up to find Marco gone, about the note promising he’d be back for breakfast, about the hotel manager and ski patrol officers at my door. About the surreal days that followed—arranging for him to be flown home, planning a funeral while still in shock.
“The hardest part,” I said, my voice barely audible over the café’s ambient noise, “was telling the kids. Austin understood immediately—he’s so much like Marco, so analytical. But Rome threw himself on the floor, screaming that I was lying. Paris just kept asking when Daddy was coming home, over and over, as if repetition might change the answer. And Aspen... she stopped talking altogether.”
Patrick reached across the table, covering my hand with his. The touch was warm, solid, grounding. “There’s no proper way to tell bairns their father is gone. No words can soften that blow.”
“How did you tell your family?” I asked, suddenly realizing I knew almost nothing about his family beyond the fact that he’d lost his wife.
His expression shifted, pain shadowing those blue eyes for just a moment before he steadied himself. “My oldest, Alec, was eight when Shannon died. He was there at the hospital—they all were. The doctors had tried everything, but the pulmonary embolism... it happened that quickly.”
I turned my hand under his, squeezing his fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was just over a year ago now,” he said, his voice level though I could hear the control it took to keep it that way. “Shannon had just given birth to Maggie, our sixth. Everything seemed fine at first, but then she developed chest pain, shortness of breath. By the time they realized what was happening...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “The little ones were in the waiting room with Shannon’s parents. I had to go tell them their mother was gone.”
“Six kids,” I repeated, the number finally registering. “You have six kids?”
A small smile touched his lips, genuine warmth breaking through the grief. “Aye. Alec’s nine now, Brody’s seven, the twins Carson and Cory are six, Eoin’s four, and wee Maggie’s one. It’s a proper circus most days.”
I stared at him, trying to reconcile this information with the composed, professional man sitting across from me. “And you’re raising them alone?”
“With help, mind you,” he clarified. “Mrs. Kowalski, our nanny, of course, and Shannon’s parents would visit when they could. And we had a small army of tutors, housekeepers, and childcare providers that kept the wheels from coming off entirely.” He paused, his accent thickening slightly. “Of course, that was in Scotland, and now with this move a lot will change. But I reckon we needed something new anyway.”
I nodded, still processing. Six kids. All going through the same grief my four were experiencing. All being raised by a single father who was simultaneously running a major research institute.
“Is that why you moved to San Jose?” I asked. “For a fresh start?”
A hint of hesitation touched his features. “Partly,” he admitted. “MIRI is expanding its West Coast operations, and San Jose was the right fit. It’s close to research facilities, good schools, or so I’ve heard, and I figured it’d offer a good quality of life for the bairns.”
There was something he wasn’t saying. I could see it in the way his gaze shifted slightly, in the careful neutrality of his tone. But I didn’t push.
“That makes sense,” I said instead. “Well, yes, San Jose is the heart of the industry.” I took a sip of my coffee, purposefully redirecting both our thoughts. “And speaking of the industry, my board has given me a very short window to turn this opportunity into a contract. We should discuss the MacLeod partnership.”
“Of course.” Patrick accepted the shift to safer territory with grace, though something flickered in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps. “Duncan’s company produces quite a range of medical devices, mostly for the European market.”
For the next hour, we discussed partnership details—regulations, money, and how much cash would flow back to CarideoTech. Details about MacLeod’s operation and how Europeans actually do business.
I scribbled notes on my pad, firing questions about tactics while we hammered out the plan. This was my comfort zone—concrete business strategy, clear objectives, measurable outcomes.
Patrick checked his watch as we wrapped up. “I should get back. I’ve monopolized your schedule long enough.”
“Worth every minute,” I said, collecting my papers. “Thank you so much, Patrick.”
Patrick hesitated, his fingers drumming once against the table—the only sign of nervousness I’d seen from him. When he spoke, his voice was careful, formal. “I wonder if you might be free Saturday evening? I’d very much like to take you to dinner.”
The invitation caught me off guard, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. There had been an undercurrent throughout our entire conversation—a connection that went beyond business.
“Patrick,” I began, “I’m not sure if I’m ready for?—”
“It’s just dinner,” he said quickly, though his formality had slipped slightly. “No pressure, no expectations. Just two people who understand each other’s situations sharing a meal and conversation.”
