The Cannon (Swift Book 3)

by Leslie Pike

  She looks up at me and takes it all in. My words, expression, how sincere she thinks I am.

  “We haven’t known each other long, but I’m telling you what I say I mean. Making a home for a child and being happy in that home is my dream,” I say. “It’s not how it happens but that it happens.”

  “You’re too good to be true,” she says cracking the tiniest of smiles.

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  I hold firm with my statement. It wouldn’t matter to me if Bristol gives birth or we go to a building and choose a child. The important thing would be we would be becoming mother and father, prepared to love and be loved by our children.

  “Well, it’s really a moot point. We practically just met,” she says.

  But there’s no conviction behind her words. I think she wants to hear my reaction.

  “What’s this heart-beating, soul-craving feeling then? Why do I lose my breath when you’re near? And why is it you feel the same?”

  I stand and take her hand.

  “Come on, Scarlett. Quit fighting the inevitable and give Rhett a dance.”

  Chapter 12

  Bristol

  These last few weeks have passed as quickly as a Tennessee breeze floating by. July has moved to August. Sawyer and I. The sentence has passed my lips a hundred times since the night under the stars.

  It was a new experience for me all around.

  Dancing on the flatbed of an old truck while listening to country music was sexy and deeply, sweetly, romantic. I never appreciated the genre before and didn’t know what I was missing. My new playlist is heavy with Blake Shelton and Luke Bryan. Every day Sawyer sends me a new song to listen to. They’re always ones he loves.

  Hearing Sawyer talk about the constellations and their positions in the night sky was beautiful. He said one of his foster fathers had a telescope and would let each child take a turn. The fact he was the only one interested meant he had the bulk of the dad’s attention.

  It’s obvious he absorbed the best his foster families had to offer and pushed the rest to the back of his mind. It kills me to think the boy Sawyer was ever ignored or marginalized.

  Who knew I’d fall for a romantic man? Even more surprising is how much I like it. Obviously I misunderstood the concept. It always looked and felt cheesy to me. Disingenuous. I know now it was because I had never known love. But Sawyer is the real thing. I’d be surprised to know he ever says or acts anyway other than how he’s authentically feeling.

  When I think about the effect it’s had on my family, it’s almost comical. They’re so happy for me it makes me think they must have thought I was a lost cause in that department.

  As expected, they’ve welcomed him into their homes and hearts. He’s blossomed with the experience. I want to hold back, in an effort to protect him, in case our relationship falls apart. But when I consider the truth of the matter and how good it is for him to be part of a family, hesitation falls away.

  Even if we fail, my family will still be friends with Sawyer. That’s just who they are. And it’s who I am too.

  “Dr. Swift,” my office manager says, knocking on my open door.

  I look up from my patient notes, which I was pretending to read.

  “Come in, Paula.”

  The tiny five-foot blonde package comes in and sits on the corner of my desk. These final moments in our workday happen on a regular basis.

  “I’m taking off. Is there anything you need?”

  “No. Thank you though. Oh, wait! Did Fremont School schedule inoculations yet for the next school year?”

  “Not yet. I’ll follow up on Monday.”

  “That’s fine. My schedule is getting full. Have a good weekend.”

  She hesitates as she saunters to the door, picking an imaginary paint chip from the frame. “Are you going to the game tonight?”

  I chuckle at her smooth way to get me talking about Sawyer. “No. We’re going out afterwards and I just don’t have the time to fit in everything I have to do.”

  “Do you think he’s ever going to visit you here at the office?”

  Her eyes widen just a bit with the question.

  “Paula, are you hitting on my boyfriend?” I laugh when I say it, but she takes me seriously for a moment.

  “What? As if! No, Dr. Swift, I just…”

  Holding up my palms, I stop her indignant explanation. “I’m kidding!”

  A relieved smile lifts the corners of her mouth and her body relaxes. “Oh! Good.”

  “But I don’t see why he couldn’t come for a short visit,” I say.

  To say the information is well received is understatement at its finest. Now her face takes on a completely new look. Excitement, anticipation, shock.

  “Quit burying the lead, doctor! Really? Don’t tease a girl.”

  As I get up to gather my belongings, I formulate an idea.

  “Maybe we could have a few of the patients here on a day he’s free. I’m certain there’s some who would like to meet the new player. There’s a handful I’d love to give a lift to. They’re going through some pretty heavy things.”

  “That would be so cool, doctor.”

  “Tell you what. Make a list of maybe five, six boys and girls. I’ll call their parents and ask if they’d even be interested. Of course it’s predicated on Sawyer agreeing in the first place.”

  “He will. He’s one of the good guys.”

  I chuckle at her schooling me on my man.

  “I’m so excited, doctor! I’ll start thinking about it this weekend.”

  “Just don’t go into cardiac arrhythmia while you do it.”

  Hope my plans will be well received. Not every man enjoys the theater. Shit. I may be about to bore his pants off. Wait. Okay, that would be a win win.

  Driving up to the curb I see him standing, waiting. Holy mother of all things sacred. The man can wear the hell out of a tuxedo. I adjust the shoulder of my Grecian-style gown and smooth the skirt. This pale green makes my eyes look bluer.

  Our eyes meet. He smiles and I’m completely swept up and away. Walking to the car, he opens the passenger side door and leans in.

  “Want me to drive?” he says.

  “No. I’m taking you on the date tonight. Get in.”

  Sliding into the seat he leans over and I get a kiss followed by an appreciative look. “You’re going to be the prettiest girl there. A goddess. All the actresses will be jealous.”

  “See that right there, what you just said, it’s adorable,” I say pulling away from the curb. “By the way, I’ve never seen a man wear a tuxedo quite like you do,” I add.

  “I hope that’s a compliment.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  Heading for South Main Street, I sense he’s a little nervous.

  “So, is this your first play?”

  “Yeah. That sounds a little pathetic but it’s true.”

  “Not pathetic. You just weren’t exposed to it like I was. My grandparents have been giving me season tickets ever since they took me to see The Wiz when I was nine.”

  “You go to every play?”

  “Not all of them. But most. Sometimes I gift my tickets to one of my patients and their mothers. You know just to give them a great night.”

  “That’s compassionate. So, are you going to tell me what we’re seeing?”

  I make a turn towards downtown.

  “It’s a musical. I think you’re going to love it. Chicago. It’s about gangsters in the nineteen twenties and sexy women who murdered their husbands. It’s awesome.”

  His head turns to me and he chuckles.

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  “The music is great. It’s by an American playwright and I guarantee we’ll be singing the songs when we walk out.”

  “Cool.”

  The Orpheum Theater dazzles all who enter. I’ve been enamored since Grandma Birdie and Grandpa Davis introduced her to me. Tonight she wears a special sparkle. Maybe because I get to introduce Sawyer
to something he’s not known before. And once you experience a play that moves you, theater becomes part of your life.

  Walking under the marquee and into the red and gold lobby, he takes my hand. Theater goers are gathered having a cocktail or talking in small groups. Sawyer looks dazzled.

  “What a beautiful room. Wow,” he says eyes scanning the ceiling.

  “It’s from the nineteen twenties. Aren’t those chandeliers fabulous?”

  “They’re huge.”

  “Shall we have a drink?” I ask.

  “Definitely.”

  He guides me, hand on my back, to the long bar against the wall. Four bartenders tend to the thirsty crowd. We find a spot and Sawyer raises a finger.

  Immediately I know the man recognizes my Memphis Maverick. There’s no waiting to give our order. The guy practically sprints to us.

  “Hey, man! You’re Sawyer Tom, right?” he says a little too loudly.

  “Yeah. Hi. How you doin’?”

  This light exchange makes the guy happy as all hell. I’ve seen it a million times. Atticus garners the same attention. And handles it just as graciously as Sawyer. They know if it weren’t for the fans, they’d have none of the perks of celebrity.

  “What can I make you?”

  Sawyer looks to me.

  “I’ll have a champagne.”

  “Make it two.”

  The bartender gets to his job and Sawyer slips an arm around my waist. He leans in, and his breath in my ear sends chills down my spine.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?” I say looking into his eyes.

  “For this,” he answers, scanning the elegant and ornate room.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. And the best is yet to come.”

  Behind his soulful hazel eyes, I see a spark of recognition for the deeper meaning.

  “I know, Bristol.”

  Sigh.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the performance will begin in ten minutes. Please take your seats.”

  Our champagne arrives a little too late to enjoy leisurely.

  “No charge!” the apologetic bartender says, holding up two palms.

  Sawyer takes a sip of the golden liquid, then places two twenty-dollar bills under his flute.

  “Appreciate it. Thanks, man.”

  I return my glass to the bar and take Sawyer’s arm.

  “Here’s the tickets,” I say handing them off.

  The crowd is pooling at the open doors to the theater, so we wait our turn to enter.

  “After the play we’ve got reservations at a place my best friend told me about. Supposedly it’s got oodles of ambience and great food. Think you’ll be hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  It’s the wink that says the most.

  Le Petite Paris is just as the name implies. Kara didn’t steer us wrong. It’s a hidden gem outside of downtown Memphis, and one I hadn’t heard about before. Intimate. Sexy. Romantic. The small restaurant/piano bar doesn’t try too hard to win you over with high-end décor or art.

  The scrumptious food and sexy music do the talking. Sawyer and I are comfortably wrapped in a corner booth. The timeworn maroon leather making a cocoon. Lighting is low, both on the tables and the walls. The pianist tickles the ivories so effortlessly it seems he’s in another world. Le Vie En Rose sets a beautiful mood.

  “Let’s have another,” Sawyer says pouring the Chateau la fete Rothschild 2017.

  The sommelier said that was an excellent year.

  “Ummm. Yes.”

  His eyes lift to mine.

  “I like that sound you make. Do it again.”

  I giggle a little. “Ummm.”

  He holds a hand to his heart.

  “There’s one oyster left. I want you to have it,” he says spearing then lifting it to me.

  A shake of my head and he pops it in his mouth. To savor has never been so eloquently acted out. His lips are wet with the garlicky butter that bathed the delicious mollusk.

  “Aren’t you happy you gave them a try?”

  He lifts a finger to tell me he hasn’t finished enjoying the bite. I’m highly entertained by the level of pleasure. He dramatically swallows.

  “Oh god. That’s my new favorite food.”

  “Don’t tell Birdie that. She thinks you’re her biggest fan.”

  His hand reaches for mine.

  “It’s our secret.”

  “I suppose being exposed to the arts or other culture’s food was low on the list of priorities for your foster families.”

  “For all but one. The third family I was with were in community theater. But I was so young I was never really a part of that. And most of the time it’s hard enough to feed and clothe another child.”

  “That’s understandable. It would be cool to organize some kind of event or maybe even just a day where we take some foster children to see a play. Wouldn’t it?”

  Sawyer’s eyes light up with the suggestion.

  “Yeah. Hell yeah. Maybe once a month or every other month we could plan a matinee or how about a meal at a restaurant? Why didn’t I think of this before? I could, we could, bring a little sunshine to them. I’m getting excited just thinking about it,” he says.

  “And you’d have a great chance at getting the parents to agree. Use your celebrity.”

  He squeezes my hand in a new way. It’s almost as if he’s thanking me for something so much more than just a suggestion. It hit home.

  Chapter 13

  Sawyer

  Florida sucked. Glad we’re back in Memphis for three whole days. Away games have started to sour for me. The time crawled.

  I know how fortunate I was to be discovered. No doubt the greatest thing that’s ever happened in my life. But being away from Bristol is boring as shit.

  What an asshole I am to even entertain the thought. Brick would shit a brick. And Boone would wonder how I ever ended up with a seven-million-dollar three-year guaranteed contract. I’m wondering myself if I can be so easily distracted.

  Meanwhile, I’ve discovered another passion. What I can do to brighten some young lives that are facing challenges.

  Three weeks ago I went to Bristol’s practice and met a handful of her young patients. Children battling one deadly disease or another. Those kids are well enough to stay in their homes and have doctor visits, but too sick to spend a day at the ballpark. So I came to them, with hats and signed balls, video messages from their favorite players. I brought along Atticus and Sammy, the first baseman.

  She had set up the waiting room as if we were at a party. The theme baseball. Three boys and a girl accompanied by their siblings and parents attended. Fuck. It made them all happy just to share an afternoon and a meal with a few Memphis Mavericks.

  I’m learning how little it takes to make an impact on a sick child’s burden. To say it’s eye opening is an understatement. For me it’s been life changing. Since that day my focus has widened. And now I have three passions. Bristol, children and baseball. In that exact order.

  We looked at my schedule and added once every other month hospital visits to the pediatric floor of Bristol’s hospital. This week she’s talking with the parents of a hospice patient. I want to do it all while I have the celebrity. Who knows how long fame will last?

  Then there’s the foster children. My heart. Bristol had a stroke of genius that night when she came up with the idea. Finally, today’s the day. The first five will spend the afternoon and early evening with us.

  She came up with the suggestion of seeing a play the kids would connect with, The AddamsFamily.

  Memphis Children’s Theater is a good introduction into this new world. It was my choice for the restaurant. Thinking back to my own foster days I knew nothing too fancy was the way to go. The familiar is safer to begin with.

  I’m late to pick up Bristol at January’s baby shower. The one good thing about it is I don’t have to make an appearance now. There’s not a man I know who enjoys looking at breast pumps a
nd diaper purses. Whatever the hell they’re called. The women seem to get off on the event.

  “Just pull up in front. I’m going to text her,” I say to the driver.

  The bald head and powerlifter body makes me think of The Rock.

  He pulls the van into a space that looked a foot too small. Good job, man.

  Sawyer: I’m in front of the restaurant

  I wait for her response which comes quicker than expected.

  Bristol: Okay. Give me a minute to say my goodbyes

  I know what that means. I swivel the seat and stretch my legs out. This is going to take longer than a minute.

  “Hey. How close are we to that first address I gave you?”

  “The church?” he says looking into the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah.”

  He looks at his GPS. “Five, ten minutes.”

  I spot Brick. He’s walking away from the entry to the restaurant, carrying gifts to his car. “Blow the horn,” I say.

  The sound gets Brick’s attention as I bring my window down. “Over here!”

  Looks like he’s trying to carry three gifts too many. Walking up, he leans in adjusting the packages.

  “Hey, George,” he says nodding to the familiar Mavericks teamster.

  “Brick. How you doin, man?”

  “Good. What are you two up to?” he says directing the question to me.

  “Your sister and I are taking a few kids to a play and dinner. I think she and your wife talked about it on the phone last night.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Listen, if it goes well we should talk about maybe taking it to the next step.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You want to pick a cause you connect with. Early on in your career,” he nods his head. “We can talk about it next week.”

  I roll the idea around for just a few beats. “Great. Let’s do it.”

  But my real interest lies in who’s walking up to the car. She pulled my attention as soon as she walked out the door.

  Bristol always looks good. Cut offs or scrubs. Today’s choice is stellar. Think she told me it’s called a pencil skirt. Yeah, that’s it. Navy blue and clinging to her curves. White blouse, collar popped. The red heels. Good God girl. You’re waking up the rocket.