“No. He continued to work until the health issues forced him to retire. Said it was cathartic for him to stay busy. He also redecorated the house.” The lawyer shrugged. “It was home to him.”
Home. Cannon nodded in understanding. His mother had felt the same, refusing to budge from her house, the neighborhood, even after they’d lost his dad to extortionists.
Her insistence on staying put was Cannon’s number one reason for learning to fight. He’d lost his dad, so he had been determined to protect his mother and sister. And he had—until his mother had passed away with cancer. Now it was just him and his sister, and...whatever it was Tipton had embroiled him in.
More than a little intrigued, Cannon asked, “So now what?”
“You sign a few papers and take ownership alongside Ms. Sweeny. Fifty-fifty. The two of you can decide to stay put, sell or one can buy out the other.”
Cannon shook his head. “Have you seen Yvette?” He couldn’t imagine her wanting the house, but even if she did, where would she get the funds? She’d be...twenty-three now. Still young for such responsibilities.
But finally old enough...for him.
“She was in yesterday.”
Had Yvette expected him to be there, as well? Looked forward to it?
Or maybe dreaded it?
He hated the thought that seeing him might dredge up a past better forgotten.
Whitaker turned the papers, placed an ink pen on top and pushed them toward Cannon. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
He wasn’t about to sign anything until he’d read it all and figured it out.
The lawyer sighed, pushed back his chair and stood. “Read Tipton’s letter. I’m sure it’ll all make sense then.”
“You know what’s in it?”
Whitaker looked away. “No, of course I don’t. Tipton gave it to me sealed.”
Suspicions rose.
Clearing his throat, the lawyer met his gaze. “I know...knew Tipton. He had a strong mind right up to the end. He knew what he was doing, what he wanted.”
And he wanted something from Cannon.
Coming around his desk, the lawyer clasped his shoulder. “I’ll give you a few minutes.” And with that he stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him.
Walking over to a window, Cannon leaned a shoulder on the wall and studied the envelope. It was sealed, all right, closed with tape wrapped completely around it. He tore off one end of the envelope. With a sense of foreboding, he pulled out two neatly typed, folded papers. Opening them, he skimmed over the type to see Tipton’s signature at the bottom.
Going back to the first page, he began to read. Each word made his heart beat heavier with trepidation—and anticipation.
Yes, Tipton knew what he wanted. He’d spelled it all out in great detail. One particular paragraph really got to Cannon.
This is her home, Cannon. No matter what, she should be here. She always trusted you and you were always there, such a good boy.
Despite the enormity of what Tipton wanted, a touch of humor curved Cannon’s mouth. Being that he was twenty-six, only a grandpa would call him a boy.
I know it’s a lot to ask, especially after you already risked your life for us. But she’s too cautious now, too guarded. If you’ll agree, I know you can free her from the nightmares so she can be her carefree, happy self again.
Did Tipton mean literal nightmares? Or just the nasty memories of being attacked, threatened with the worst a woman could suffer?
No, he didn’t want to think about that now; it still enraged him, the helplessness, the fear he’d felt while being an unwilling spectator to the cruelty.
What a grandfather considered guarded could just be maturity. Just how free did he want Yvette to be?
The lawyer walked back in. Cannon ignored him as he finished reading.
If it’s necessary, if your life is now too busy or if she won’t agree, go ahead and sell both places with a clear conscience. But selling will require emptying the house—and that will bring about different problems for her.
What did that mean? What type of problems came with finalizing a sale?
In my heart, I know she’ll be happier here in Ohio, in Warfield, than she could ever be in California.
Whatever you decide, Cannon, please don’t tell her about this letter. Not yet. And please know, regardless, you will always have my deepest gratitude.
Sincerely,
Tipton Sweeny
Familiar feelings stirred up, feelings he’d long ago tamped down and then forgotten. Or tried to forget. God knew he’d done his best to demolish them, to sweat them out in the gym, fight them out in the ring.
Screw them away with willing women.
But, damn it all, every sensation Yvette inspired was still there, rooted deep.
Taut with anticipation, he asked, “Where’s Yvette now?”
“I’m not sure,” the lawyer said. He stood behind his desk, but didn’t take his seat. “She took a set of keys, so perhaps she’s at the house.”
Disquiet kicked Cannon in the gut, adding to the aches and pains left over from his recent fight. Would Yvette go there alone? He shrugged off the urge to race to her rescue.
Again.
He’d done that once—and then she’d walked away.
Moved away.
Across the country to California.
He tugged at his ear, uncomfortable with the latent resentment. Yvette was not the one that got away. She wasn’t a missed opportunity. She was only a girl he’d gotten to know better under extreme, dire circumstances. A girl he’d wanted, but had been too noble to touch...much.