“Thanks,” he replied automatically. Her voice was as intriguing as the rest of her, deep and kind of husky for a woman, especially one her size. Which, even wearing sensible heels, was a good six inches shy of Chance’s six-one.

“I know you’re anxious to meet your niece and nephew,” she continued, “but it would be helpful if you and I could have a moment to speak in private first about your brother and sister-in-law’s wishes.”

“Okay,” he said. Truth be told, he didn’t mind stalling for a little while longer. He was still kind of, oh, terrified about the prospect of becoming a guardian.

“If you’ll follow me?”

She was turning around before she finished to head down a hallway opposite the one from which she’d come. Because it was a Sunday, the offices were empty. Lionel had probably only come in to unlock the place for Ms. Digby.

She led Chance to a room that was plain and functional, a run-of-the-mill meeting room as opposed to someone’s office. A long table bisected the space with a dozen chairs surrounding it. She took a seat near the head, gestured at the one across from her for Chance, then slung her briefcase up on the table.

He sat down, and as she withdrew some documents from her bag and began to sort through them, he looked out the bank of windows behind her. The Old Town part of Endicott, where the law office was located, sat on a hill that looked out over the Ohio and an especially green part of Kentucky on the other side. It was a gorgeous day, the sky blue and clear, a soft breeze rippling the trees. Between the law office and the river, the town descended into tidy homes along tree-lined streets, then to a good-sized marina where all manner of watercraft bobbed and tugged at their moorings. Even more boats dotted the river beyond. On any other Sunday like this, Chance would have been right out there with them in the vintage runabout he’d rebuilt from near scratch. There was nothing he loved more than being on the water.

“Now then, Mr. Foley—”

“Call me Chance,” he interrupted gently. He was never comfortable when people called him Mr. Foley more than once.

Ms. Digby—Poppy, he corrected himself, since he didn’t like using honorifics for other people, either—looked like she wanted to call him Mr. Foley even more emphatically.

“How much do you know about your brother’s situation?” she asked.

“Only what I was told by the cops who showed up at my door a few days ago to tell me about the accident and what you told me in your emails after that.”

She nodded. “And you mentioned you didn’t even know he was married with children.”