“I chose to fund research. There’s a difference.” He took a sip of wine. “I’m not brilliant enough to do the science myself, but I’m decent at spotting the people who are—and making sure they have what they need to succeed.”
“That’s remarkably humble.”
“It’s practical,” he said. “I know what I’m good at. Identifying promising research, connecting people who should work together. I handle the business side so the scientists can focus onthe work. I leave the actual breakthroughs to people far smarter than me.”
Our entrees arrived—osso buco for him, risotto with wild mushrooms for me. The conversation flowed from topic to topic. He told me about growing up in Scotland, about Eidheann Castle with its drafty halls and views of Loch Eidheann. I shared stories about my childhood in California, about my parents’ messy divorce and how my brother Michael had practically raised me.
“You’re close with your brother,” Patrick said.
“He’s my best friend. Has been since we were kids.” I thought of Michael’s steady presence these past months, how he’d dropped everything to help. “I don’t know what I would have done without him after Marco died.”
Patrick’s expression softened. “It’s good you have that support. Family matters, especially when you’re raising young children alone.”
“Do you have family nearby?”
“My parents passed away several years ago. I have siblings back in Scotland, cousins scattered around.” He paused. “Shannon’s family is there as well. They’ve been helpful with the children, but the distance makes it difficult now.”
I nodded, my throat tight. Then: “How are your kids managing? With the move on top of everything else?”
“Mixed results.” His mouth quirked. “My oldest is furious about leaving Scotland. The middle boys are trying to be brave. The younger ones think it’s an adventure. And Maggie’s only one, so she’s happy as long as someone feeds her and changes her.”
I smiled. “Six. Whew. I still can’t quite wrap my mind around it.”
“Says the woman with four.” He grinned. “Though I’ll admit, six is a different beast. My housekeeper, Mrs. Kowalski, runs the household like a military operation. She has schedules for everything—meals, activities, even bathroom rotations.”
“Bathroom rotations?”
“Seven bathrooms in the house, and they still manage to create a queue every morning.” He shook his head. “Last month, back in Scotland, my son Eoin decided to ‘help’ with laundry while Mrs. Kowalski was out. Used an entire bottle of detergent. The utility room looked like a foam party.”
I laughed—genuinely laughed—and it felt wonderful. “That sounds like something Rome would do. He has a gift for creative destruction.”
“Ah, the wild child.”
“The wildest. I can’t even remember the last time we had an entire week without a Rome disaster.” I took another bite of risotto, savoring the earthy flavor. “My youngest, Aspen, is the opposite—quiet, careful, processes everything through art. She hasn’t spoken much since Marco passed.”
I’d said too much. The words hung there, exposing more than I’d meant to. But Patrick didn’t flinch.
“Children grieve differently than adults,” he said. “My middle son, Brody, started having nightmares after Shannon died. He wouldn’t sleep unless someone was in the room with him. Took months before he felt safe again.”
We sat with that for a moment—two parents doing their best to help their kids while barely keeping their own heads above water.
“Tell me something completely unrelated to grief or children or work,” Patrick said suddenly. “Something frivolous.”
I blinked. “Frivolous?”
“Your favorite movie, the last book you read for pleasure, whether you prefer coffee or tea. Anything that has nothing to do with responsibility.”
When was the last time anyone had asked what I liked, what I wanted, separate from everything else I had to be?
“I don’t know if I remember how to be frivolous,” I admitted. “So let’s start simple. Favorite movie?”
He considered. “The Princess Bride. I know, it’s ridiculous for a grown man?—”
“It’s perfect,” I interrupted. “That’s one of my favorites too. ‘Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya?—’”
“‘You killed my father. Prepare to die.’” Patrick grinned. “The boys love it. We watch it at least once a year.”
We traded more favorites—books (he loved historical fiction, I preferred mysteries), whether the beach or mountains were superior (we agreed both had their merits).
