32. Pope
THIRTY-TWO
Pope
The café hums with low conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine cutting through it now and then. I keep tapping my finger against the mug, watching ripples fan across the black coffee I haven’t touched.
Across from me, Camila pulls apart her croissant into smaller and smaller bits. She’s not eating, just dismantling.
“So that’s where we are.” She pushes the plate away. “Every time we get close to settling, my ex files another motion. This time about retirement accounts.”
My stomach knots. “And housing? Last time you said you needed an extra week or two. It’s looking longer?”
Her mouth twists. “The house I found failed inspection. Black mold. I’m back to square one.” She presses her fingertips into her temple like she can hold the stress in place.
I set the mug down too hard. Coffee sloshes over the rim. “So what are we really talking about here, Camila?”
Her eyes meet mine without flinching. “At least another month before I can even file the adoption petition. Maybe longer. I can’t promise you a date.”
The words hit like a punch. Another month. Maybe longer. Meanwhile, Chris circles, sniffing for weakness.
“What about temporary custody?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “Even as a stopgap?—”
She shakes her head. “No judge would give me custody in a one-bedroom with my own kids bouncing between households. I need time, Pope. I know it’s asking a lot. But I am trying.”
I drag a hand through my hair, frustration prickling under my skin. Not at her, but at this whole mess. At Chris. At myself for ever thinking this would be clean.
“Let me help. I’ll buy the house. Put it in your name?—”
Her gaze softens, but her answer is firm. “If I can’t stand on my own, they’ll say I’m not really providing for Lennon. I need to do this on my own, Pope, but thank you for that generous offer.”
I lean back, swallowing my retort. She’s right, but it doesn’t make it easier.
She changes the subject. “How was Jacksonville? You never told me how the second emergency hearing went.”
The café noise swells between us while I collect my thoughts. I’m still digesting what she just told me. I finally answer. “For the second time, we shut him down.”
Relief flickers in her eyes. “So…a win?”
“On paper,” I say, jaw tight.
She waits.
“On paper, anyway.” I don't tell her that Chris knew exactly where to hit me. I may have kept Lennon from him, but he made sure I lost her.
Camila leans forward.
“What do you mean?”
“Chris showed up with that Tampa attorney, all about ‘biological rights.’ He tried to slip in the PI photos.”
Her breath catches. “The ones of you and Sloane?”
I nod once. “Warren shut it down. He had my affidavit ready. Sloane doesn’t live there anymore, nor is she Lennon’s nanny anymore. The judge sealed the photos, called them prejudicial. He limited everything to Lennon’s day-to-day.”
Camila exhales, shoulders sinking. “That’s how it should be.”
“Yeah. Chris couldn’t answer basic questions. He didn’t have a clue about his allergies, his bedtime. The judge reaffirmed my guardianship and set the next hearing for sixty days. I thought Lennon would be with you by then…” My voice trails off. “Guess that’s not happening.”
“It still could.” She says it quickly, almost too quickly.
I rub at the tension blooming in my forehead. Sixty days suddenly doesn't even matter. Hell, I could do this for another six months. Lennon and I are in a groove. I like him there. More than I ever thought I would.
It’s the fact that I had to give up Sloane to make it happen. While I would do it again to keep him safe, I can’t square that it came down to a choice at all. Him or her.
She reaches across the table, fingers brushing mine. “You’re protecting him, Pope. That’s all Maria wanted. That’s all I want. He’s not with Chris, and that is everything.”
I want to believe her. I want to take comfort in it. Instead, all I can think of is what I’ve had to give up to get here.
The café bustles around us, silverware clinking, people laughing.
Normal Tuesday lives, while mine hangs in limbo.
My mother sweeps through the front door without knocking. She’s a whirlwind of silver hair and jangling bracelets.
Hart follows behind, carrying a covered cake dish, a bottle of wine, and a large duffel bag on her shoulder. Her calm presence tempers Val's energy.
"There's my boy!" Val kisses both my cheeks before I can dodge. "You look terrible."
"Always with the compliments." I step back, already feeling cornered.
Hart sets the cake on the counter and crosses to me, squeezing my arm. "She means you look tired. The cake's coconut. Figured you could use something sweet."
Val circles the living room, running her finger along shelves, stopping to adjust a framed photo of Lennon. "Where is my precious grandson anyway?"
"He's not your grandson, Val. He's your ex-husband's child. He's with Camila at the water park."
"Semantics." She waves dismissively. "He's family."
The sun shifts, casting the room in amber light. I notice fingerprints on the windows that the cleaners missed when cleaning. Every imperfection in my house, in my life, is suddenly magnified.
"So." Val plops herself on my couch, patting the cushion beside her. "Tell us about this nanny situation."
My stomach tightens. "I gave the weekend nanny the weekend off since Camila and you guys were coming. I figured between the four of us, we could cover it."
"No," she says firmly. "Not that nanny."
“Why are you bringing this up again? I already told you. Christ. You need to find a soap opera to watch instead of digging around in mine."
"You said on the phone you had to let her go. Because of Chris."
Hart moves to the kitchen, filling the kettle. The familiar clink of metal on porcelain grates on my nerves.
She isn’t going to stop. I may as well give her something, enough to keep her from pressing harder.
“Yeah. So you know everything. The custody case got complicated, that’s all." My voice is steady, practiced.
Val narrows her eyes. "That’s not all, and we both know it."
"Val," Hart warns gently from the kitchen.
"What? He's my son. I know when he's holding back."
I cross to the window, needing distance. "I made a mistake getting involved with her. I fixed it. There’s nothing else to say.”
“You fixed it by firing her?" Val's tone sharpens. "Pope, you were raised better than that."
The kettle whistles, a welcome interruption. Hart brings three mugs to the coffee table, steam rising between us like a barrier.
"What does Lennon think about the new nanny?" Hart asks quietly, gracefully changing the subject without changing the subject.
The question lands like a punch. I swallow hard, thinking of Lennon's tears when Margaret picked him up yesterday. "He's adjusting."
"Children need consistency," Val says, stirring her tea. "Especially after trauma."
"You think I don't know that?" My control slips. "You think I wanted any of this?"
Hart catches my eye, her gaze steady. "We know you're doing your best in a difficult situation."
The kindness in her voice almost breaks me. I turn away, fixing my gaze on the ocean beyond the windows.
"I have a board meeting at the hospital at six," I say, checking my watch. "I should prepare. You two make yourselves at home, or take a walk on the beach. I think Camila will be gone for a few more hours, so get settled."
Val sighs, but Hart stands, collecting their untouched tea. "Don't you worry about us. We will be just fine."
I stand at the head of the polished mahogany table, laser pointer tracking across profit projections glowing on the screen. Twenty pairs of eyes follow every movement.
The boardroom's air conditioning hums beneath my words, a constant white noise that matches the static in my brain.
"Phase one implementation begins next month with the executive health program." My voice echoes in the cavernous room. "Full concierge rollout follows in quarter two, but, and this is crucial, we maintain all existing charity care commitments."
Dr. Reisner, silver-haired and perpetually skeptical, leans forward. "These retention bonuses seem excessive, Mr. Carrigan. Three million dollars to keep staff who might leave anyway?"
I resist the urge to sigh. Focus and control. This is what I'm good at.
"Replacing them would cost five million minimum, not counting lost institutional knowledge and patient relationships.
" I click to the next slide showing turnover costs.
"The nurses' walkout has already cost us eight hundred thousand in temporary staffing.
I won't make that mistake twice. Spend the money on the front end to keep everything together until the dust settles.”
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everyone in a sickly pallor. The back of my neck at the base of my skull throbs with the beginnings of a headache, but I push forward.
"The training pipeline partnership with Atlantic University creates our own talent pool while generating community goodwill." I gesture to the proposed budget breakdown. "It's an investment."
A suit from Accounting adjusts his glasses. "The timeline seems aggressive."
"It has to be." I plant both hands on the table, leaning in. "We're hemorrhaging money with the current model. Every month we delay costs us two point eight million in potential revenue."
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Probably Val with a nonsensical question. Or Warren with more legal bullshit from Chris. I ignore it.
"Questions about the phased implementation?" I scan the room, daring anyone to challenge me.
No one does. I've done this a hundred times. The numbers don't lie, and I know how to make them dance. It's the only thing that makes sense anymore.
Someone mentions insurance negotiations. I respond automatically, the words flowing without conscious thought.
Meanwhile, my mind wanders to Lennon's face when he saw Camila. The kid has been slingshotting all over the place. He probably doesn't know what to expect from one day to the next.
"...wouldn't you agree, Mr. Carrigan?"
I snap back to the present. "Absolutely. The data supports it completely."
The meeting wraps up with handshakes and calendar invites. On the surface, I'm composed, victorious, even. The board is convinced. The plan moves forward.
But inside, I'm coming apart at the seams.
I close the door to my house and lean against it for a few seconds, grateful for the empty house. Seven-thirty. Finally alone.
The skyline glows orange and purple beyond my window as dusk falls over Palm Beach, lights beginning to wink on across the city. My phone hasn't buzzed in twelve minutes. It must be some kind of record today.
I can see Val, Hart, and Camila standing by the fire in the fire pit. Lennon and Camila's kids are running around the yard. I could join them, but I don't want to.
I cross to the minibar and fill a tumbler with soda water, twisting lime over the rim. The fizz dies quickly.
The leather chair creaks under me as I sit and swivel toward the window. On paper, the last two days look clean. The board signed off on my plan, Warren kept Chris at bay, the staff walkout cooled, and Camila’s finally inching forward.
It should feel like winning. But it doesn’t.
The clock ticks steadily on the wall. Each sound drives home the silence. My chest stays tight, not with panic, not even anger, just a heavy pull I can’t shake.
I saved Lennon from Chris. Protected what’s his, created a bubble that is steady and safe, at least for now.
So why does it feel like I traded everything else to get here?
I shut my eyes, breathing through the ache, then force them open again. No time for sentiment. I don’t have the time or energy for it.
Success used to be enough. Tonight, it sits hollow.