But all I could see was Rome’s face at the window. All I could hear was his voice:You’re not supposed to kiss other people when Dad’s dead.
He was right. I wasn’t supposed to. I was supposed to grieve properly, to mourn for an acceptable period, to put my children first and my own feelings last.
But Patrick had looked at me like I mattered. Like I was more than just Marco’s widow or the kids’ mother. Like I was a woman worth pursuing.
And God help me, I’d wanted that.
I pushed off the wall and went downstairs. Michael was still in the living room, a late-night talk show playing at low volume. He looked up when I entered.
“Good dinner?” he asked.
“Yeah.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Really good.”
He studied my face. “You okay?”
“Ask me tomorrow.”
I went to my room before he could ask anything else, before I had to explain the kiss or Rome’s tears or any of the impossible complexity of trying to move forward while everything in me screamed to stay still.
I changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. My wedding ring caught the moonlight from the window, a circle of gold that bound me to a man who was gone.
But my lips still remembered Patrick’s kiss.
And I had no idea what to do with any of it.
Chapter
Twelve
PATRICK
Mrs. Kowalski stoodin the entryway with her sensible overnight bag, a folded piece of paper, and an expression that suggested I was about to be court-martialed.
“Right then, Mr. McCrae.” She adjusted her glasses. “Maggie’s bottles are in the refrigerator. Warm them properly—not in the microwave like some heathen—in hot water. Test on your wrist first.”
“I’m well aware of how to feed my daughter, Mrs. Kowalski.”
She peered at me over her spectacles. “Are you now? And when was the last time you actually did so without me standing three feet away reminding you which end of the bottle goes in her wee mouth?”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Point to Kowalski.
“That’s what I thought.” She returned to her list. “The twins have football at two o’clock.Soccer, as the Americans insist on calling it. Carson’s boots are by the back door, Cory’s are in his closet.They’ll argue about whose are whose. Carson’s have the blue laces, though I suspect by now they’ve swapped them just to vex me.”
“Blue laces. Got it.”
“Alec willna give you trouble—he’ll barricade himself in his room with a book and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Rather like his father at that age, I’ve heard.” The pointed look she gave me suggested this was not a compliment. “Do make him come out occasionally. Fresh air. Sunlight. Basic human interaction. The sorts of things people need to remain functional members of society.”
My chest tightened. “I’m aware he’s been struggling.”
“Struggling?” Mrs. Kowalski’s eyebrows rose. “Mr. McCrae, the boy hasn’t smiled since we arrived in this country. He speaks in grunts. He’s not struggling—he’s gone numb. And you’re so busy building your American empire you’ve barely noticed.”
The words landed like a slap. “That’s hardly fair?—”
“Fair? Ha.” She pulled another paper from her coat pocket and thrust it at me. “The schedule. Meals, naps, bedtimes, emergency numbers. Dr. Morrison for medical emergencies, though the children are healthy as horses. Unlike their father, who looks like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks.”
“I sleep fine.”
“You look like death warmed over, sir. A well-dressed corpse, I’ll grant you, but a corpse nonetheless.” She picked up her bag. “Two days, Mr. McCrae. Surely you can manage not to burn down the house or lose any children for two days?”
