“That’s Mrs. Kowalski’s doing?”
“The towels are already clean and folded. The sand is gone. Those beach bags are hanging in the mudroom like they’re part of some museum exhibit.” He let out a laugh. “She’s good—too good. I just can’t decide if we’ve swapped normal family mess for this... sterile perfection. Like we’re living in a catalog instead of a home.”
I thought about my disaster of a kitchen, the sandy footprints still visible on the floor, wet swimsuits draped over the shower rods. “There’s got to be some halfway point between total disaster zone and drill sergeant perfection.”
“I sure hope so.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate. “Watching your kids today—the way they just... existed. No schedules, no rigid structure. Rome building that insane sandcastle with no architectural plan. Paris bossing everyone around without a clipboard. It was messy and loud and?—”
“Exhausting?”
“Beautiful,” he finished. “It was beautiful, Theresa. The joy of it. The freedom.”
My throat tightened. Through the window, I could see the lights of San Jose spread out below, other families in their houses living their complicated lives.
“Thank you for today,” Patrick continued. “For giving us a chance. For showing me that maybe... maybe I’ve been holding on too tight.”
“Same time next week?” I asked.
Patrick’s laugh came through the line, rich and genuine. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Though I might tell Mrs. Kowalski not to clean up so efficiently next time. Keep the mess around a little longer. It proves we’re actually living.”
“Careful. You might start enjoying it.”
“I’m counting on it.”
We stayed on the phone for another moment, neither quite ready to hang up. I could hear his breathing on the other end.
“Goodnight, Patrick.”
“Goodnight, lass.”
Chapter
Twenty-One
PATRICK
The candidate sittingacross from me had a doctorate from MIT, seven years at Genentech, and two patents in immunotherapy delivery systems. On paper, she was exactly what MIRI needed. In reality, I couldn’t focus on a single word she was saying.
Eight days. Theresa had eight days before that board meeting, and I was sitting here pretending to care about polymer-based drug carriers when I should be helping her.
“Mr. McCrae?”
I snapped back to attention. Dr. Elizabeth Hartley was watching me with polite confusion, her portfolio open on her lap.
“My apologies.” I straightened in my chair, forcing myself back into the role of CEO. “You were explaining the bioavailability challenges?”
She resumed her explanation. I nodded at intervals, asked a few questions that probably sounded intelligent, and got through the rest of the interview without completely embarrassing myself.
“I think you’d be an excellent addition to the team,” I said as we wrapped up. “Let me discuss it with my board, and we’ll be in touch within the week.”
The moment Rita closed the door behind Dr. Hartley, I pulled out my Rolodex and flipped to the M’s.
MacKenzie, Callum.
My cousin. The family’s resident problem-solver. The one who always knew which strings to pull and who owed whom favors.
Growing up, Callum had been the charming troublemaker—the cousin who could talk his way out of anything, who always had a scheme, who somehow made money appear when the estate taxes came due. He’d gone to Oxford instead of staying in Scotland, worked in London for a few years doing something vague in “corporate consulting,” and now split his time between New York and San Francisco.
The family didn’t ask many questions about what Callum actually did. We just knew that when you needed information, connections, or a problem to quietly disappear, Callum was the one you called.
