Chapter 15
TARA
The bass pounds through the Range Rover's speakers as Chloe cranks up a French rapper. It's all rapid-fire lyrics and synthesized beats. Chloe's taste in music seems completely at odds with her pressed white blouse and perfectly braided hair.
“Rap. Seriously?" I laugh, buckling my seatbelt. "This is what the refined French governess listens to?"
"Don't judge. Sometimes you need music that matches how you really feel inside."
I study her classic profile as she backs out of the mansion's driveway and navigates the tree-lined roads. There's more to Chloe than the polished exterior she presents to her employers.
And I'm glad I have her as my new friend. After that nightmare with Mr. Johnson, I need someone here on the island who understands and supports me.
"OMG," I say, scrolling through social media on my phone. "Last night after dinner, Jason went to some yacht party in the harbor. Posted naughty photos with a gaggle of debutante-looking types."
"That man has stamina."
"He moves fast," I mutter, studying more photos. Jason's arm is draped around a brunette in a sexy dress in one photo, champagne flute raised toward the camera.
“I can’t believe all these comments from women. 'So handsome!' 'Call me!' God, if they only knew."
"Knew what?" Chloe asks, turning down the music.
I hesitate, then figure if I can't tell my only friend on this island, who can I tell? "He played footsie with me under the dinner table last night."
Chloe's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Seriously?"
"The whole time. His shoe kept sliding against my sandal, totally deliberate. I kept moving my feet away, but he'd find them again."
The memory fills me with anger. In twenty-four hours, two men felt it was their right to violate me.
"It was like he was testing me, seeing if I'd say something in front of the Swains."
"That's exactly what he was doing," Chloe says. "Jason gets off on making girls working here for the summer season uncomfortable. It's a power thing."
We pull into the supermarket car park—gleaming Bentleys, and other luxury cars lined up like trophies.
"The worst part is that everyone thinks he's so charismatic," I say, climbing out of the car. "Did you see how Miss Swain was practically glowing when he helped her to her car?"
"Charm the authority figures, intimidate the vulnerable ones," Chloe says.
The supermarket's automatic doors whoosh open, revealing marble floors polished to mirror brightness. And price tags that would even make a Manhattan bodega owner blush.
I follow Chloe through aisles lined with truffle-infused everything.
Suddenly, a horrific shriek cuts through the store's cathedral quiet.
We round the corner and freeze. There on the spotless floor beside a tower of cereal boxes sits a small blonde girl in a navy pinafore. She clutches a box of Honey Nut Cheerios like a life preserver. Her face is red and streaked with tears.
Posey.
Standing over her are Cameron Crow and a thin, severe-looking woman in her sixties. Cameron's wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt that shows off his physique. But he appears completely out of his depth. The older woman keeps glancing around nervously as other shoppers stare.
"Posey," I say softly, approaching the sobbing child. "Remember me from the café? What's wrong?"
The moment she sees me, relief flickers in her tear-filled eyes. She must remember me as the server who gave her crayons and butterfly pancakes.
Cameron's gaze snaps to mine. I smile. Finally, all my wishes last night in the guest bed have come true.
But something's wrong. He's not smiling back. Instead, he glares at me, his eyes cold and accusatory.
"Get away from her," Cameron says, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"What?" I blink, confused by the hostility radiating from him.
"You heard me. Stay away from my daughter."
"What's wrong with you?" I stand slowly, genuinely bewildered. Two days ago at the café, he'd been almost flirtatious.
"Look at the tabloids near the checkout station," Cameron snarls, walking over and snatching a copy of the New York Herald. "You'll have your answer."
I follow his gaze and freeze. There on the front page of some celebrity rag is a photo of Cameron and Posey outside the Patriot Café, with a headline screaming "Rockstar's Secret Love Child."
"You think I—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"'According to waitress Tara Thompson,'" Cameron quotes with vicious precision as he reads the tabloid aloud. "'The famous singer ordered butterfly waffles for his daughter during their touching café reunion.' Sound familiar?"
My blood turns to ice. The article somehow quotes me by name. No wonder he's furious.
"Cameron, I never—"
"Don't." His voice could freeze hellfire. "I hate tabloids. I hate the vultures who feed them information. And I especially hate people who pretend to be innocent while stabbing you in the back."
Chloe strides to the checkout stand and takes her own copy. She opens to the article and laughs. "Oh for God's sake. Calm down. This is Tiffany's work."
"Who's Tiffany?" Cameron demands.
"The Patriot Café hostess," Chloe says. "It was an open secret that Mr. Johnson encourages her to alert the tabloids when celebrities came in. Says it's good for business."
"Everyone stop yelling!" Posey's voice cuts through our argument. "I need Grandmama to come back and buy this cereal for me! When we shopped together, she always put it in our basket!"
Mrs. Bixby kneels stiffly beside her. "Posey, your grandmother is in heaven. We've discussed this. And this cereal has far too much sugar for a growing child."
"But Grandmama bought it for me every time!" Posey clutches the box tighter. "Every time we came here! She said It was our special breakfast!"
Something clicks in my mind—child development courses, grief processing. This isn't about cereal. This is about loss, about desperately holding onto anything that connects her to someone she loved.
"She's not crying about cereal," I say quietly. "She's grieving."
I kneel carefully, positioning myself at Posey's eye level. "Posey, the Cheerios were special because you shared them with Grandmama, weren't they?"
Her tear-streaked face turns toward me, nodding frantically. "We ate them together at her big table with the pretty dishes. She let me pour the milk myself."
"That sounds like a wonderful memory. And you miss having those breakfasts with her."
"Mrs. Bixby says Grandmama's never coming back." Posey's voice breaks. "But I want her to come buy my cereal. I want her to pour the milk into the little pitcher with the pink flower on it like always."
Posey catapults herself against me, and buries her face in my chest. I smooth her hair as she seems to calm down.
Cameron's anger seems to falter as he watches his daughter's breakdown with growing helplessness.
"You didn't tip off the press?" he asks. Something in his tone suggests he still thinks I'm the culprit.
"No. And I resent being accused of something I didn't do."
A long silence passes as he scrutinizes me. Daggers still in his eyes. Clearly not believing the 'Tiffany excuse.'"
"Very well. Mrs. Bixby, Posey, let's go."
Mrs. Bixby pries Posey out of my arms.
Posey stands and allows herself to be pulled away by her nanny.
Something in my chest wrenches at the sight of this grief-stricken child being led away.
I take a step forward, but Chloe's firm hand stops me.
We watch helplessly near the exit as they head toward a Rolls Royce in the car park. But suddenly, Posey breaks free and runs toward me. A car entering the lot swerves sharply to avoid hitting her.
Posey runs straight into my arms. "I want Tara!"
"Tara has her own job. Her own life," says Cameron, picking Posey up and resting her against his hip.
"Tara doesn't have a job. Not anymore," says Chloe, turning to face Cameron.
"She was fired for standing up for herself when the Patriot owner, Mr. Johnson, tried to sexually attack her. And Johnson punished Tara further by having the tabloid credit her as the tipster. Believe me, she had nothing to do with the story in that tabloid."
Chloe pushes me forward. "Take Tara as your nanny's assistant. You can see that your daughter responds to her. She's very good with children. She's majoring in childhood education. You'll save money on a psychiatrist and get a second nanny all in one."
Cameron looks at me. "Your boss attacked you?"
"Yes."
Cameron hesitates. Now that Chloe has made a more thorough explanation, he appears to believe in my innocence.
But I sense some lingering doubt remains.
"Well, it will only be for a couple of weeks. After the hearing, Posey and I are headed back to New York."
"Sir, I assure you we do not need a second nanny," says Mrs. Bixby.
He holds his hand out like a stop sign, then looks at Chloe. "Very well. Bring her to my house today. I'll provide lodging. Food. A modest salary. But it's only temporary."
Chloe smiles. "Deal done."
As they walk away, Chloe and I exchange a high five.
"Did that just happen?" I whisper.
"Girl," she grins, "you just got yourself a job with a rockstar."