36. Pope
THIRTY-SIX
Pope
The streetlights of Savannah blur past the tinted windows, dancing across the leather interior in streaks of amber and white. I loosen my tie a fraction, my reflection ghostly in the glass.
"...and the pipeline partnership with the university has generated significant goodwill.
Local press coverage has been positive, especially the scholarship component.
" Lenoir's voice cuts through the SUV's cabin with her usual precision.
"These are the key points the Savannah investors will want to hear tonight. "
I tap my finger against my knee. "What about the accreditation review?"
"Passed with flying colors. The DOH inspector actually complimented the improvements. First time that's happened in Good Samaritan's history."
A win. Another win in a long line of professional victories that slide off me like rain. I wish I could find the desire to bask in them.
"And Lennon?" My voice drops lower without my permission.
"Val says he's doing well with his reading lessons. He asked if you'd be home for his science fair on Thursday."
The pressure in my chest tightens. "I'll text her."
"Don't forget the jet is leaving early tomorrow morning to head back to Palm Beach."
"I won't. I'm ready to get back. What do I have next week?"
"You've got a full schedule, but no travel. The Memphis meeting will be virtual."
The SUV slows as we approach the restaurant, a renovated warehouse with soft lighting spilling onto the sidewalk. Outside, couples and groups cluster near the entrance, laughing, moving, alive.
"We're pulling into Felix’s now. I'll touch base after dinner via email so you know how it went."
"Pope." Lenoir pauses, her voice losing its professional edge for a moment. "The board is impressed. Everything's stabilizing exactly as you projected with Palm Beach. I think we're through the worst of it."
"Thanks, Lenoir. It wasn't an easy road. Hopefully, soon, I can enjoy the calm."
I end the call and slide my phone into my jacket pocket. The driver navigates toward the entrance, brake lights from departing cars reflecting red against the windshield.
A light-colored RAV4 pulls out from a parking space. The headlights slice across my lap before swinging toward the exit.
My throat tightens before I can stop it. That damn car. Every time I see one, it’s the same drop of my heart, like an irrational thought that it could be her. It's a reflex I still can’t shake, even after all this time.
I force the ache down, exhaling hard through my nose
I've spent weeks deliberately not looking her up, not asking Angela how she's doing when I see her at Seabreeze, not calling in favors to track her down.
The photos destroyed her career as thoroughly as Chris was hoping they would destroy mine.
The board doesn't care about my personal life as long as the balance sheets are trending green.
The driver stops at the entrance. "Enjoy your dinner, sir."
I nod, gathering my briefcase with its folder of projections and proposals. Twenty minutes to review them again before the investors arrive.
Twenty minutes to remember why any of this matters.
I step into the kitchen, the low hum of the fridge a welcome greeting after the silence of my early morning flight. The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, stronger than I usually make it.
Light pours through the windows, catching dust motes swirling in lazy patterns.
Hart sits at the kitchen island, iPad propped against the fruit bowl, reading glasses perched on her nose. She looks up and offers a small nod.
"Morning, Pope. Early flight,” she says as a comment, not a question. “There's coffee if you want some."
"Thanks." I grab a mug from the cabinet. "When did you make this?"
"About twenty minutes ago. Val's still asleep upstairs. Late night with the parrot rescue fundraising call."
I laugh to myself and pour the hot, dark liquid, letting the warmth seep into my palms. "Appreciate you both staying with Lennon."
"No trouble." Hart swipes at her screen, then takes another sip. "We're heading out around ten. Val's friend is opening that gallery in Delray Beach, and we promised to make an appearance."
Footsteps creak overhead. They're soft and measured. I recognize them immediately as Lennon's morning shuffle. It sounds like he got up for the bathroom and went back to bed.
"How's he been?"
Hart looks up, his expression careful. "Quiet yesterday. Didn't want to do much. Margaret dropped him off here after Seabreeze, and we let her go early. I know I always appreciated an early Friday."
My chest tightens. "Thanks for that. I know he loved hanging out with you guys."
"You know it means so much to your mom. I'm glad you asked us to come instead of asking the nanny to stay."
I nod, swallowing against the knot forming in my throat. This is my family, as crazy and mismatched as we are.
Hart sets her iPad down. "He asked about you before bed. Wanted to know exactly when you'd be back."
"I told him I'd be back this morning."
"I can tell he misses you when you're gone." Hart's gaze is steady, neither accusatory nor particularly sympathetic. "You're his hero, you know."
I drain half my coffee in one go, ignoring the burn.
"I should grab a shower before everyone gets up.."
Hart nods, returning to her iPad. "Take your time. Val made a casserole and left instructions on the fridge."
I gesture with my mug in acknowledgment and head for the stairs, the weight of the quiet house settling over me like a too-heavy blanket.
I walk beside Lennon on the damp sand, my shoes dangling from one hand while he darts ahead, scanning the shoreline. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the beach, turning the waves to liquid gold at their crests. He's been collecting shells for nearly an hour, his concentration absolute.
"Look at this one!" Lennon drops to his knees, carefully extracting what looks like a broken sand dollar. "It's perfect."
"It's missing half," I point out.
He turns it over in his small palm. "That's why it's special. You can see all the parts inside."
I sit down beside him as he begins arranging his treasures in a line. The wind carries the scent of salt and sunscreen, and for a moment, everything feels right. Simple.
Lennon sorts the shells by some system only he understands, not size or color, but something uniquely his.
"The orange ones go here because they're happy shells," he explains, pointing to a cluster. "And these gray ones are the thinking shells."
"What about that one?" I tap a purple-tinged spiral.
His brow furrows in serious consideration. "That's a maybe shell. I haven't decided yet."
I lean back on my elbows, watching him work. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Caleb, but I ignore it. This moment is too fragile to break.
"When Tía Camila gets her house, can I take these with me?" Lennon asks without looking up.
The question hits like a wave breaking unexpectedly. "Of course you can."
I flash back to her call yesterday, telling me she needs more time, still. I'm starting to wonder if she will ever get her shit together.
"When is she getting it?"
I swallow hard. "I'm not sure exactly. She's still figuring things out."
Lennon pushes a shell deeper into the sand. "She said soon last time. And before that, too."
"I know, buddy."
"Is soon like tomorrow? Or, like next year?"
My chest tightens. How do I explain what I barely understand myself? Camila's calls have grown shorter, her visits less frequent. Last week, she mentioned saving for a down payment "might take another year."
"It's complicated, Lennon. But she's working very hard to make it happen."
He abandons his sorting to look directly at me. "Do you want me to go?"
The question knocks the air from my lungs. "What?"
"Do you want me to live with you? Or do you want me to go with Tía Camila?"
His eyes, so much like my own, search my face with an intensity that makes my throat close up. The truth I've been avoiding crashes over me: I don't want him to go anywhere.
The thought of this house without his shoes by the door and his books scattered across the coffee table is impossible to imagine now.
"I want you to be happy," I finally manage, the coward's answer.
"Don't you want me?"
Lennon's question cuts through the sound of the waves, his voice small but unflinching. The shells he's been sorting sit forgotten between us.
My lungs freeze mid-breath. The wind is suddenly cold against my skin.
I reach for him without thinking, pulling his thin frame against my chest. His body is stiff in my arms, waiting for an answer he's afraid to hear.
"Yes," I whisper into his hair. Then louder, more certain: "Yes, Lennon. I want you here. More than anything."
His small hands grip the back of my shirt, his breath warm against my neck.
I pull back just enough to look at his face. His eyes are wet, fear swimming behind them like shadows in dark water. How long has he been carrying this question? How many nights has he lain awake, wondering if he's just another burden passed from person to person?
My throat tightens.
"It's just..." I search for words that won't hurt him more. "My job is very busy. I won't be in Palm Beach forever. I travel a lot and…"
The excuses are pathetic even to my own ears. A child doesn't care about shareholder value or market positioning.
Lennon's eyes don't waver. "Then why can't you take me with you?"
The question hangs between us, impossibly simple and devastatingly complex.
I have no answer that makes sense. No clean, elegant solution like the ones I craft for failing hospitals. I can restructure entire healthcare systems, but I can't explain to this boy why the people who should love him keep setting conditions on their care.
I pull him close again, tighter this time, as if I could somehow press certainty into his bones.
"I don't know," I whisper. The truth spills out before I can stop it. "I don't know yet."
The waves lap at the sand a few feet away. A gull cries overhead. Lennon's breathing slows against my chest.
I close my eyes and savor the weight of him, so light and yet so heavy with trust and need. His question echoes in my mind: Why can't you take me with you?
Not "Would you?" but "Why can't you?" It's as if he's already convinced himself the answer is no, that there must be some insurmountable reason he can't stay with me.
I stroke his hair, searching for words that won't become another broken promise. Every reassurance is hollow if I don't follow it with action that matters.
He's heard them all before from Camila, from Maria, maybe even from Chris.
In the hospital, we have protocols for everything. Procedures for every crisis. Here, holding this boy who believes he's unwanted, I have nothing but my own racing heart and the terrible knowledge that I'm as afraid as he is.
His small hand finds mine in the sand, fingers gripping with surprising strength.
We sit like this, the question hanging unanswered between us, the shells scattered forgotten around our feet. I want to fill the silence with promises, but I've seen too many broken ones in his eyes already.
So I just hold him close, both of us facing the ocean, neither ready to move.