8. Pope
EIGHT
Pope
Camila kneels in front of Lennon, her hands gently cupping his shoulders. The morning light creates a halo around them both, making this goodbye feel more ceremonial than I expected.
"I'll call you tonight, okay? And in two weeks, I'm bringing Luis and Sofia to visit." Her voice remains steady while her eyes betray her. "We can all swim and play on the beach."
Lennon's small fingers twist the hem of his t-shirt, his face a careful mask. He nods once, almost imperceptibly.
"The guest house is yours whenever you want it," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "Any time, no notice needed."
Camila looks up at me, something like relief crossing her face. "Thank you, Pope."
She presses a kiss to Lennon's cheek, whispering something in Spanish that makes his lips twitch almost into a smile. When she rises, Lennon's hand catches hers, holding on for three extra seconds before releasing.
My chest tightens watching him track her movement across the room like a compass finding north.
Ms. Black had flown home yesterday, her work finished once she’d inspected the house and the room Lennon would be staying in. Camila stayed the night so he wouldn’t feel abandoned, but this morning she had to leave for her own family.
The nanny doesn’t start until tomorrow—some mix-up with agency paperwork, apparently—which leaves me holding the bag for a full day. I already canceled two meetings to clear my calendar. Business I can handle. A seven-year-old boy? Not a chance in hell.
The front door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow echoes through the entire house. The driver waits outside to take her to the airport.
Suddenly, my sprawling beachfront property is too large, too empty, and far too quiet.
How does a seven-year-old boy take up so little physical space but fill a room with his silence?
I've closed billion-dollar deals, faced down boardrooms of hostile investors, and navigated my way out of poverty through sheer force of will. But standing here, watching my half-brother's shoulders hunch forward as he stares at the closed door, I'm completely lost.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Lennon's brown eyes, so like mine but softer, flicker up to my face then away again. His small chest rises with a careful breath.
I clear my throat. "Are you hungry?"
He shakes his head no.
"Thirsty?"
Another head shake.
This is going to be a long nine weeks if neither of us can string together actual sentences.
I clear my throat and gesture toward the back of the house. "Want to play on the swing set outside? Or, go swimming in the pool?”
I’d had a crew here before I moved in, turning the place into something that didn’t scream single guy with no kids . They swapped in age-appropriate bedding, filled shelves with books and toys, and built that swing set in the yard like it was nothing.
Luckily, the pool was already here.
Lennon looks at me, his expression guarded but curious. After a moment's consideration, he gives a small nod.
“Swing.”
I exhale. Progress. An affirmative nod is better than nothing.
He walks ahead of me through the kitchen, his small sneakers barely making a sound on the wood floors. I trail behind, watching as he gravitates naturally toward the sliding glass doors that lead to the back patio. The ocean breeze drifts in, carrying the scent of salt and sunshine.
"Do you like the beach?" I ask, following him outside.
He shrugs, his eyes already fixed on the elaborate wooden play structure in the corner of the yard, situated in front of the guest house. It cost more than my first car, a rush-ordered marvel of cedar and rope.
"The swing set has a rock wall on the side," I point out. "And there's a basketball hoop over there if you're into that."
"Yeah," he says quietly. Two words in a matter of minutes constitue the entire words he’s spoken directly to me since arriving.
I sit on the wooden patio chair set up around a fire pit, not wanting to crowd him. He approaches the swing set with cautious interest, testing the plastic seat with one hand before climbing on. His feet dangle several inches above the ground.
What do I know about seven-year-olds? Nothing. What do I know about grieving seven-year-olds? Even less.
My phone buzzes against my chest in my shirt pocket. I glance at him, torn between checking it and staying present. Lennon doesn't seem to notice, focused on figuring out how to pump his legs to gain momentum.
I pull it out, keeping Lennon in full view as I click on the text bubble. It's from Lenoir Chelkowski, my assistant.
Don't forget your 4:30 call with Mercy West. The licensing committee needs those signatures TODAY.
Shit. The urgent regulatory approvals for the surgical center. I'd completely forgotten in the whirlwind of guardianship paperwork and home preparations.
I type back quickly.
Can you reschedule that? I've been caught up the last few days, and I completely forgot that it was today. Resend me what you need my signature on. I'll make sure to get them back to you today.
Lennon’s moving now, swinging in a shallow arc, his face tipped toward the sky. Something about the sight tightens my chest. The call starts in twenty minutes, and I don’t have the wherewithal to deal with it, especially not while figuring out what to do with him.
My phone buzzes again with a new text from Lenoir.
I can reschedule for tomorrow morning, but I don't think we can push off for much longer. Will resend those docs now. Everything ok?
Thanks. Yeah, all good.
Three missed calls from Val light up my notifications. Of course she's already checking in.
I glance at Lennon, still swinging in the same shallow arc, his face unreadable. Might as well get this over with.
I tap her name and bring the phone to my ear.
"Pope! How did the meeting go?" Val's voice bursts through the speaker, loud enough that I pull the phone back slightly.
Jesus, she doesn't stop.
"As well as could be expected. We're fine, though. Lennon just got settled in. His third cousin, or whatever she is, Camila, just left for the airport about twenty minutes ago. It's just Lennon and me."
"How is it going? Does Lennon like the place?"
I keep my eyes fixed on the swing set. "Hard to tell. He hasn't said much. He and Camila kept to themselves last night and let me get some work done. And the three of us had breakfast together, but he didn’t say a single word.”
"Give him time. The ocean view alone would have had me singing."
"He's on the swing set now." I rub my temple with my free hand. "Listen, Val?—"
"You sound like you're chewing nails. What's wrong?"
I exhale, glancing around to make sure Lennon can't hear me. He's still swinging, gaze fixed on the clouds.
"Not sure I can do this. I actually know the nanny, as it turns out. I met her when I first got here, and I never expected to see her again. I'm not sure I can do this with her living down the hall."
"I'm not sure what you're saying here, but if I'm reading between the lines correctly, you two have at least some history." Val makes a surprised humming sound.
"That's not important." Heat creeps up my neck. "The point is, this is already awkward enough without?—"
"Without what? An attractive woman helping you not completely screw up caring for a child?"
I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose. "It's unprofessional."
"But you've got to decide fast if she's a fit. Nine weeks is a long time to white-knuckle it."
The wind picks up, rustling the palm fronds overhead. Lennon kicks his feet higher, gaining momentum.
"I'm considering calling the agency and seeing if there are any alternatives."
"Then do it if you must. But don't throw it out just because it's uncomfortable right now. Let it breathe a little before you make a mess of it."
Something about the phrase, let it breathe , irritates me. I don't have time to let anything breathe. Between the hospital acquisition, temporary guardianship, and now this complication with Sloane, I'm drowning in responsibilities.
"I'll see."
"Nothing worth doing is ever easy, Pope." Her voice softens. "You'll figure it out, you always do."
I end the call and slide the phone back into my pocket, watching Lennon drift back and forth on the swing. His small hands grip the chains, knuckles white with tension.
What the hell am I supposed to do with him for the rest of the day? For the next nine weeks? I haven't planned past getting him here safely.
"Can I watch TV, Mr. Pope?”
"You don't have to call me Mister. And yes, you sure can. What would you like?"
"Do you have Bluey?"
"Well, there's only one way to find out. Come on."
This is the most he's talked since we met. I'd give him anything he asked for right now.
We pull up Netflix and find something he likes. I couldn't tell you what it is, but it pleases him. It's rated G and looks age-appropriate, so I turn it on and leave him on the sofa to make some calls.
I settle at the kitchen island, pulling up the nanny agency's number on my phone.
The agency picks up on the second ring.
"Elite Care Childcare, this is Jennifer. How may I help you?"
I turn away from the den, keeping my voice low. "This is Pope Carrigan. I'd like to speak with Vanessa about the placement she set up for me.”
"One moment, please."
While waiting, I drum my fingers against the marble countertop. The ocean stretches beyond the patio, a perfect blue-green canvas that costs me a fortune in property taxes.
"Mr. Carrigan, I'm afraid Vanessa is in interviews. Is there something I can help you with?"
"Yes. I'd like you to keep looking. The candidate you sent isn't a fit."
"Oh." Her voice shifts from perky to concerned. "May I ask what the issue is? Ms. Brennan's credentials are exceptional."
"It's not about her credentials." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "It's a personal matter."
"I see." The sound of typing fills the pause. "I should let you know that candidates with a master's in behavioral therapy are quite rare in our system. And given your timeframe..."
"Surely there's someone else."
"I'm checking now, but no one else with those qualifications is currently available on short notice. It could be weeks before another suitable applicant surfaces. If the timing doesn’t bother you, we can work through that for you.”
My jaw tightens. I don’t have weeks. In the other room, Lennon giggles at something on the television.
“It will be fine.” The word comes out sharper than intended.
"Would you like me to?—"
"No. Thank you." I hang up and drop my phone on the counter.
I pour a glass of Perrier, the cold bottle sweating in my grip. I stare at Lennon through the glass, his small shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Shit. Nine weeks with Sloane. After that night, after the way she looked at me in the interview, we’re going to have to figure out a way to make this work.
She’s exactly what he needs. Someone who understands trauma. Someone who isn’t me. This isn’t about me, it’s about what’s best for that little boy who just lost his entire world.
I drop onto the sofa, leaving ample space between us. On screen, cartoon dogs with Australian accents chase each other around a backyard.
Lennon's eyes are fixed on the TV, but I can tell he's aware of my presence from the slight stiffening of his shoulders.
How the hell do you talk to a seven-year-old? Let alone one who's lost his mother and been shipped off to live with a half-brother he's never met.
My phone buzzes again. Three emails from the regulatory board, a text from Caleb about staffing projections, and another from Lenoir about those damn signatures.
I should be at my desk, not sitting here watching animated dogs play some game called "Keepy Uppy."
But I can't bring myself to leave him alone, not yet.
"So, you like this show?" I sound like an idiot, even to myself.
Lennon bobs his head up and down but doesn't speak. His eyes never leave the screen.
Brilliant conversation, Pope. Really connecting here.
I study his profile. The straight nose, the stubborn set of his jaw, subtle echoes of features I see in the mirror. The resemblance is there if you know how to look for it.
Abruptly, he sets the remote down and stands. "Can I go back outside?"
"Sure." I pocket my phone, relieved at the prospect of movement. "Lead the way."
The sliding glass door opens with a whoosh, and the salt air hits us immediately. Lennon heads straight for the swing set, but this time he struggles to climb onto the seat.
"Is it too high?" I step closer, uncertain if I should help.
He shakes his head, determined. "I can do it."
After two more attempts, he manages to scramble up, his sneakers barely brushing the ground.
I respect his tenacity.
"Want me to push you?"
Another head shake. Instead, he twists the chains until they're wound tight, then lifts his feet and spins himself dizzy.
The rhythmic creak of metal fills the silence between us.
"We can walk down to the beach later if you want. The water's warm enough to swim."
"Maybe." He twists the chains again, face hidden from me.
I stand there feeling utterly useless. I’m completely stymied by this small human who shares my blood.
The wind lifts his dark hair, revealing eyes that hold far too much wariness for someone so young. He catches me looking and quickly turns away.
I've negotiated my way through billion-dollar deals with less tension than this.
The swing creaks. A seagull cries overhead. Lennon keeps his gaze fixed on his twisting shoes.
This is only day one, and it already feels like the longest day of my life.