Chapter 17
TARA
Once I unpack, I take a welcome shower. As I lather myself with herbal-scented body gel, I reflect on the tabloid article about Cameron's 'secret child.'
I remind myself that it must have been quite a shock for him to learn so suddenly he has a daughter. I try to imagine my reaction if this kind of news hit me out of the blue.
But it must be so much more difficult for a man like Cameron. A rockstar likely accustomed to a hard-partying lifestyle and independence.
Even though I resent his icy demeanor, I try to understand where it's coming from.
As I finish dressing, I hear the front door slam and echo through the mansion. It's followed by Posey's lively chatter as she greets Mrs. Bellows.
"Good afternoon, Posey, Mrs. Bixby," I say after I make my way down the stairs to the foyer.
Both the little girl and the stern nanny look up at me.
The contrast between Mrs. Bixby and Mrs. Bellows is remarkable. Where Mrs. Bellows is plump and warm, bony Mrs. Bixby looks like she thrives on pencil shavings and sawdust.
"I suppose I should welcome you to the house," Mrs. Bixby says, looking me up and down.
"Tara!" Posey shouts joyfully, dropping her things at the door. She rushes to hug my legs. "You're here! We'll have so much fun together."
Mrs. Bixby moves toward us, gathering Posey's abandoned sweater. "Come, Posey, it's time to get cleaned up for dinner."
"I want Tara to help me get ready!" Posey declares.
"Tara doesn't know where your things are."
"Then she'll learn! Come this way, Tara. I want to introduce you to Mr. Frog."
I glance at Mrs. Bixby to gauge how she's taking this sudden shift in Posey's loyalty. Not well, judging by how her thin lips press together.
"Show me the way, Posey."
Posey takes my hand and leads me back up the stairs to the connecting bathroom she shares with Mrs. Bixby.
"This is where I wash my hands before dinner," Posey announces, stepping onto a small white wooden stool at the marble sink.
"I wash my face here before bed, too. Then Grandma would read me bedtime stories. She read them to Mr. Frog, too."
"What kind of stories?"
She shrugs. "Beautiful princesses rescued by handsome princes. Heroes like my new father."
The image of Cameron saving Salty's life flashes through my mind. God, he was magnificent.
Most rockstars would have called 911 and posed for selfies. But Cameron dove in without hesitation. Like saving lives is just another day for him.
"Can I introduce you to Mr. Frog now?"
I follow her into the bedroom, where she retrieves a plush frog from the top of her pillow.
"Mr. Frog, meet Tara, my new nanny."
"I'm not your new nanny, Posey. I'm just helping Mrs. Bixby for a few weeks."
"How long is that?"
"Enough time for us to have lots of fun." I lightly touch her nose, then shake Mr. Frog's plush forelimb. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Frog."
Posey drags me to her closet, which looks like a costume department for a period drama. Her grandmother must have treated Posey like a living doll.
"Do you always dress for dinner?"
"Yes, always." She says it as if it's the most natural thing in the world for a four-year-old.
"Which one is your favorite?"
A naughty glint sparkles in her eyes. "This one," she says, reaching for a dress at the very edge of her closet. "It's the dress Grandmama lets me wear when we paint together."
It's a cute smock-like dress with colorful printed easels on it.
"Okay. Let's get you into it."
When I finish buttoning her up, I spin her toward her little dresser mirror. "I pronounce you 'dressed for dinner.’ Now what?"
"You're a guest, so I'll give you a tour of the house."
Posey takes me by the hand and leads me down the hall. "This is my grandparents’ room. And this one here used to belong to my Uncle Jason when he was little. But that was a long time ago."
The casual way she mentions Jason makes me wince. I remember his predatory smile and the feeling of his foot against my sandal-clad toes under the dinner table.
"Do you know your Uncle Jason well?"
She shakes her head, then tugs on my hand. "Let me show you the gardens."
The garden is beautiful. Yet the key point of interest is Cameron, sitting in the gazebo's shade with Edison lying at his heels. I watch Cameron's fingers move across his guitar strings. The sound is low, mesmerizing.
His head lifts. Those blue eyes pin me.
"Tara."
Posey skips forward, pride in her voice. "I was just showing my new nanny around. You’d better change for dinner. It's almost six."
Cameron’s hand tightens around the guitar neck. He gazes up at me as if he wants to say something.
Then the sound of heels clicking on the path announce Mrs. Bixby's arrival.
The moment I shared with Cameron vanishes.
"Is that what you call dressing for dinner?" the nanny asks Posey. "You know better. Now let's change."
"But Tara told me I can—"
"It's all right, Mrs. Bixby," Cameron says, his voice commanding. "Posey looks great. Let her be."
"But, sir, children need a routine. Especially now," she says, ending her sentence with a theatrical flourish.
Tension thickens the air.
"I'm not accustomed to having staff talk back to me," he says, his voice like ice. "Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir. Of course."
"Very well. Let's sit down for dinner."