I know Wallace won’t talk first because he considers it a token of respect, waiting for his father to begin a conversation. The uncomfortable silence stretches out for another agonizing minute until Alastair leans forward abruptly.
“What life do you want, son?”
Wallace frowns, “I don’t understand.”
Alastair chuckles slightly. “They say that when you nearly meet death, there should be some sort of profound revelation, something that transforms you.” He eyes us both with amusement.
“I didn’t get that. What Ididhave, lying there in that rather uncomfortable hospital bed, was a long look back through my life. I looked at what I’d accomplished. The empire I’d grown. Our family. And I was proud. Happy with the life I’ve built with your mother.”
He kisses Sorcha’s hand.
“When you’re my age and looking back, Wallace, I want you to feel the same way.”
There’s a cautious hope swirling behind my heart.
“So,” Alastair repeats patiently, "I'll ask you again.What life do you want?”
“Sir,” Wallace shakes his head and I remember Mala’s comments about the infuriating devotion todutythese MacTavish men have. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Sorcha interrupts. “Your father was shot and almost died. Now, he has a second chance at life. So we’re not going to take yours. This is your chance to be honest. Tell us, what life do you want?”
Wallace, my husband who always seems to know exactly what to say or do, just sits there, mouth slightly open.
Nudging him, I whisper,“Tellthem.”
“Alec and I are merging our companies,” Alastair says. “Over eighty percent of our operations are already legitimate, though…” He gives us a swashbuckling sort of grin that I’ve seen on Wallace’s face many times. “Though we aren’t willing to completely withdraw from the left-hand path. Life would be too boring.”
Sorcha rolls her eyes, hiding a smile.
“If that’s what’s keeping you from telling me what life you want to lead, set it aside. The Taylor-Davies Corporation is a behemoth. No one man could run it, anyway.” Alastair braces his elbows on his thighs. I can tell it hurts him but he’s not backing down.
Putting my hand on Wallace’s thick thigh, I can feel his leg shift and the muscles flex as I squeeze it.
“The stone house in Tweed Valley,” Wallace says, almost too low to hear. “My wife. I dinnae want to wear a suit. I want the path we were on, Scarlett and I.”
“Then do it,” Alastair says, clapping his hands together once. The sound is sharp in the quiet room and I jump a little. “Just don’t run away from us again. You canneverdisappoint me if you’re doing what you’re good at. Rather brilliant, actually. Your role in the MacTavish and the Taylor families will always be vital.”
Wallace’s tan skin is pale; he looks genuinely shocked.
“We know why ye kept away for so long,” Sorcha says. “Not wanting to disappoint us, but not wanting to be chained to a CEO’s office. Still feeling, though, that you owed it to us.”
“I’ll always come, if you need me,” Wallace says, the same cautious hope I’m feeling is beginning to show on his face.
“We know,” Alastair says gently. “I’m rather looking forward to sending you out on a job every now and then. You have a certain skill set I do enjoy seeing in action.”
“Just come to London more,” Sorcha says, “knowing that you can always go home with a clear conscience.”
Wallace pulls me to him, half on his lap and kisses me fiercely. “Do ye want to go home, lass?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, “but we should probably wait to celebrate until we’re out of your parent’s drawing room.”
The Left Hand Path - The path not often taken, the Scottish and Irish term for the crime world.
Chapter Forty-Four
In which there is celebration, drinking, MacTavishes, and bonfires. Of course, there is.
Scarlett…
