40. Pope
FORTY
Pope
The Holy City, that’s what the concierge called it. From my window, I see why. Church spires pierce the skyline, glowing against the night and dwarfing the shorter buildings scattered around.
My laptop screen shows spreadsheets I've been staring at for an hour without processing a single number. I reach for my phone instead.
Val answers on the second ring. "Well, if it isn't my favorite son."
"I'm your only son." The familiar banter loosens something in my chest.
"Details, details. How's Charleston? More importantly, how's Sloane?"
I lean back in the chair, rubbing my eyes. "Charleston is Charleston. Old buildings, good food, humidity that makes everything seem a little damp, even in the winter."
"You're stalling."
"I saw her. We walked through the park near her place."
"And?" The hope in Val's voice is almost painful.
"And nothing. She listened. She didn't slam the door in my face. But she made it pretty clear there's no 'us' in her future plans."
Val clicks her tongue. "You showed up out of nowhere after months of silence. What did you expect, a parade?"
"I expected exactly what I got." My reflection in the window looks tired. "At least she knows the truth now."
"Give her time. You're staying the weekend, right? Have you thought about what you'll do if she doesn't call?"
I haven't allowed myself to consider that possibility. "Work."
"Of course." Val sighs dramatically. "Heaven forbid Pope Carrigan acts like a tourist. Have you considered one of those horse-drawn carriage tours? Or the ghost walks?"
I laugh despite myself. "Can you picture me on a ghost tour?"
"That's exactly your problem. You need to loosen up."
"How's Lennon?" I change the subject before she lectures me further.
“He’s doing great. He's outside with Hart learning croquet. That boy has Hart wrapped around his little finger." Pride warms her voice. "And he's taught Bette to say 'bienvenido.' I don't know how he did it so fast, but that bird won't stop now."
"Put him on?"
There's rustling, distant calls, then Lennon's breathless voice. "Pope? Did you see the sharks yet? Our tracking at Seabreeze says there is a great white off the coast of Charleston.”
"No sharks yet, buddy. How's croquet?"
"Hart says I'm a natural! I beat her twice, and she wasn't even letting me win. Are you coming home tomorrow?"
Home. The word hits me differently now. "Sunday night. Be good for Val and Hart, okay?"
"I will. Goodnight, Pope."
"Goodnight, Lenny."
The line goes dead. I set my phone down, the warmth from hearing his voice fading too quickly.
My phone buzzes again. I grab it too quickly, hoping?—
But it's just an email notification, not her.
I stare at my phone, fingers hovering over the screen. If I unlock it one more time, I might as well admit I'm pathetic. I'm waiting for a call that isn't coming.
The device buzzes in my palm, startling me. Robert's name flashes across the screen.
"Carrigan."
"Hope I'm not interrupting your Friday evening." Caleb’s voice carries the familiar hum of our office in the background.
"No interruption. What's up?"
"Just wanted to give you the latest on Good Samaritan. Correction, on CHG. The transition is running ahead of schedule. Phase three of the concierge rollout is tracking well."
I move to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. "Staff morale?"
"Steady. Those retention bonuses are doing exactly what we designed them to do. The protests have all but died down."
"And the nurses who walked out?"
"Half already replaced with better talent. The others are sending feelers about returning."
I nod, even though he can't see me. His words are all business, but they ground me somehow. This part of my life, the work part, is back to making sense and working the way it should.
"Projections?" I ask.
"Within six months, we'll be fully concierge. The board's thrilled. Hopefully we will be in the green by this time next year."
A small satisfaction blooms.
"What about the Mt. Pleasant project in Charleston? The rehab facility across the bridge?"
"Underwriting is reviewing our projections now, but everything looks good for acquisition. We're solid, Pope."
"Good work. Keep me updated."
"Will do. Enjoy Charleston."
I end the call and set the phone on the desk. Everything's running smoothly without me there to micromanage. The hospital's transitioning and the new acquisition's on track.
And here I am, staring at my phone like a teenager, waiting for Sloane to call.
I close my laptop with a decisive click and lean back in the chair. The room is too quiet, the walls closing in with each minute I spend here alone.
Tomorrow, I need to get out. Even if it's just for a walk. Even if it's just to stop myself from showing up at her door again.
Maybe I'll get the driver to take me to see that facility in Mt. Pleasant.
Morning sunlight filters between historic buildings as I walk down King Street. The Charleston air is crisp against my face. It's cooler today than yesterday.
I've never been one for sightseeing, but Val's voice keeps echoing in my head. "You need to loosen up."
This is my version of loosening up. I'll walk for coffee instead of calling a car. Maybe I'll actually notice the surroundings instead of staring at my phone.
The buildings here tell stories. I love the ornate window boxes, the weathered brick facades that are older than my grandfather. Tourists cluster at corners, consulting maps and pointing excitedly at landmarks that probably seem ordinary to locals.
I spot a narrow alley between two storefronts, leading to a courtyard with a small sign: Indigo Coffee Co.
Perfect.
"Black coffee, please." I scan the nearly empty interior while the barista pours. No excessive chitchat, just efficient service.
I claim a wrought iron table outside, positioning my back to the wall. Old habits die hard. My laptop opens with a soft click, and I force myself to focus on the screen. Emails need answering. Projects need oversight.
Work always makes sense when nothing else does.
The coffee tastes better than the hotel room brew. It's earthy, almost smoky. I take another sip, grateful for the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.
Three emails in, and my mind drifts. Would Sloane like this place? She always appreciated hidden gems, places with character.
I redirect my attention to budget projections, determined to stay anchored in something concrete.
A young couple takes the table beside me, laughing about some private joke. The woman's laugh sounds nothing like Sloane's, yet it triggers the memory perfectly. I remember Sloane laughing on the beach, head thrown back, completely uninhibited.
I check my phone again. No messages.
This is pathetic. I'm Pope Carrigan. I don't sit in coffee shops pining after someone who clearly doesn't want what I'm offering.
And yet here I am.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but the words on screen blur together. The morning is strange, like I'm playing tourist in my own life.
A flicker of movement catches my eye from the sidewalk. I look up.
Then, a familiar figure comes into view on the sidewalk, and my breath catches. Sloane walks down King Street, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, her honey-brown hair loose around her face. She's not looking my way, so she doesn’t see me. Instead, she’s focused on something ahead.
Then, like magnets finding their poles, her eyes lock with mine. The surprise on her face mirrors what must be written across my own.
She freezes mid-step.
I immediately raise both hands in mock surrender, leaning back in my chair.
"I swear my PI had nothing to do with this," I call out, keeping my voice light. "Pure coincidence. Scout's honor."
A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. Not the full laugh I'd once known, but it breaks the tension crackling between us.
"Were you ever actually a Boy Scout?"
"No. Too busy working odd jobs after school." I close my laptop. "Would you join me? Or is that asking too much after last night?"
She shifts her weight, fingers tightening on her tote strap. The hesitation in her posture speaks volumes.
"I'll join you, but I'm getting my own coffee."
"Fair enough."
I watch her disappear into the café, my nerves buzzing beneath my skin like live wires. This could be significant. She's choosing to stay rather than walk away. I turn back to my laptop, opening an email I've already read three times.
The cursor blinks steadily while my leg bounces beneath the table.
When Sloane returns, she sits across from me, setting down a drink that smells of cinnamon and vanilla.
"How's the new job going?" I ask, keeping my tone casual.
"Good. The clinic has a great team. I'm working with some fascinating cases." She takes a sip. "What brings you to Charleston besides tracking me down?"
"I had meetings scheduled." It's not entirely a lie.
"That's nice."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Six weeks. It's a good change from Augusta. Walkable. Good food."
"Any recommendations?"
"Depends what you like." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "There's a place on East Bay Street with incredible shrimp and grits."
We continue like this. We keep it to surface conversation, careful questions, and gentle responses.
Neither of us mentions Palm Beach or Lennon or the photographs. It's like we've tacitly agreed to exist in this bubble where our past doesn't define us.
Thirty minutes pass in what seems like five. She glances at her watch.
"I should get going. I have a client at eleven."
"Of course."
"It was nice seeing you, Pope."
"You too, Sloane."
I watch her walk away, her figure growing smaller against the backdrop of historic buildings and morning light. My coffee sits untouched, cooling in front of me.
The hotel room is quiet when I return. I stare at my laptop screen where numbers blur into meaningless patterns. My half-eaten room service sits abandoned on the desk, the pasta gone cold hours ago.
It's after nine now. She's not going to reach out.
I slam the laptop closed and pace to the window. Charleston's historic district glitters below, tourists and locals mingling on the streets. Couples walking hand in hand. People with plans and purpose.
My phone buzzes against the desk.
My heart slams into my ribs as I lunge for it, nearly knocking over the water glass in my haste.
Sloane's name appears on the screen. I forget to breathe.
I'm glad you're staying in Charleston for the weekend. Maybe we'll run into each other again.
I read it once. Twice. Three times. The words don't change.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly. A dozen responses form and dissolve in my mind.
The pressure in my chest releases in a rush of air I didn't know I was holding. I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at those eleven words like they contain hidden meanings I need to decode.
She didn't have to text. She could have let me leave on Sunday without another word.
But she reached out.
A fragile thread of hope unspools inside me. Not forgiveness, not yet, but possibility. A door left slightly ajar instead of locked tight.
I set the phone down beside me on the bed, watching it like it might disappear if I look away. The blue-white glow of the screen casts a soft light across the comforter, a quiet promise in the darkness.
It's not everything. It's barely anything at all.
But it's something.