Chapter 23
TARA
Posey and I sit across from each other chatting lightly at breakfast. After three days in this grand house, the formal dining room is feeling less intimidating and more like home.
"What should we do today, Posey?"
"Can we go shopping like you promised yesterday?" She reaches across the table to touch the thick denim of my jeans with curious fingers. "You said I could buy clothes like yours."
"Shopping is a lovely idea."
She nods enthusiastically, then hesitates before asking her next question. The way she tilts her head reminds me so much of Cameron when he's considering something serious.
"On TV, little girls have mommies who live in their houses. Since you live in my house, can you be my mommy?"
My heart clenches. I set down my coffee cup carefully, buying myself a moment to find the right words.
"You have a Daddy Cameron," I say gently.
"It's not the same. I want a mommy too." She juts out her lower lip and crosses her little arms in defiance.
The gesture is so endearingly stubborn that I suppress a smile. "Well, we'll go shopping. And we'll take the rest step by step."
I stand and begin clearing the dishes from the breakfast table.
"You don't have to do that. Mrs. Bellows always does that."
"Right. But we're the ones who ate the food. It's polite to take our dishes back to the kitchen and do our share."
Posey considers this for a moment. Then, she carefully picks up her plate and juice glass and follows me into the kitchen.
"Thanks for helping," Mrs. Bellows says gratefully as we appear in the doorway, her round face lighting up with surprise and approval.
"What will you two be doing today?" She asks, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Posey says shopping, so shopping it will be."
Through the kitchen window, I spot Cameron in the gazebo with his guitar, fingers moving across the strings.
Edison lies in his usual spot at Cameron's feet, ears perked toward the music. Even from this distance, there's something magnetic about watching Cameron create music. Something about the way his shoulders move with the rhythm, and how completely absorbed he becomes.
"Okay. Let's ask your dad," I say, pulling my attention away from the window.
Posey and I walk toward the gazebo. Edison rises as we approach, greeting us with a friendly bark and vigorous tail wag.
"Good morning, Edison," Posey says, reaching up to pet the large dog's glossy black fur. "Want to come shopping with us?"
Edison responds enthusiastically by licking Posey's hands, which sends her into a fit of giggles.
"What's this I hear about shopping?" Cameron looks up with a smile that makes my pulse quicken.
His dark hair appears mussed from the ocean breeze. There's something irresistibly relaxed about seeing him in this domestic setting. "I might join you. I need a few things myself."
Twenty minutes later, Henry helps us into the Rolls-Royce. Edison takes his usual position with his massive head poking out the window.
Cameron settles into his corner of the backseat and sets about teasing Posey about her upcoming shopping spree. But when he pulls out his phone to read his messages, his jaw tightens.
Something in the message has upset him, I think.
When Henry pulls the car over in the shopping district, we all get out.
"Sorry, girls, I hate to disappoint you, but something came up," says Cameron, guitar in hand. "I can't shop with you. I'll see you at home tonight."
"Bad news?" I ask.
Instead of answering my question, he bends to kiss Posey goodbye. His hand briefly touches her hair with surprising tenderness. Then he's gone, striding away with that confident walk.
"Edison, come!" he calls over his shoulder.
The dog bounds after his master, leaving Posey and me standing alone on the sidewalk.
"Why doesn't Daddy Cameron want to come shopping with us?" Posey asks, her small hand slipping into mine.
"He does—but he's a busy man. Everyone wants his attention. He'll shop with us again," I say, wondering what that text message contained.
News about his record contract? News about Posey?
I take Posey's hand and we walk down the quaint, old-fashioned street.
"Let's shop here," says Posey, seeing a cheerful children's clothing store bursting with bright colors.
"Hi, can I help you?" asks a smiling salesperson once we step inside.
"We're looking for a wardrobe," Posey says. "I want jeans, and I want a T-shirt like my mommy."
Posey glances up at me, checking if I'll correct her in front of the saleswoman. The word “mommy” hits me square in the chest, but I don't contradict her.
"Well then, let me show you to a fitting room and bring you some items."
"This is the first time I've shopped like a grown-up," Posey announces proudly a few minutes later, modeling a new outfit in the three-way mirror.
She's chosen bright blue jeans and a soft pink T-shirt.
The transformation is remarkable. Gone is the stiff, formal child who sat at breakfast in her starched pinafore. In her place stands a little girl who looks ready to run and play and get delightfully dirty.
"Shopping is fun," she says, spinning so the mirror catches her from every angle. "Can we shop every day?"
I laugh, imagining Cameron's reaction to daily shopping expeditions. "People don't shop every day, Posey. It's a special thing people do when they need clothes."
"Not true," she says with the confidence of someone stating an obvious fact. "Mrs. Bellows says that when she gets her paycheck on Fridays, she goes shopping because she needs a pick-me-up."
Oh boy. She's four years old and already understands retail therapy. "Well, some people shop for that reason too. But I don't think it's the best reason. Spending money doesn't always make you happy."
Her little face scrunches in concentration. "Then what makes you happy?"
"You make me happy. And singing makes me happy too."
"Sing something now!" she demands, bouncing on her toes with excitement.
"Not in the dressing room," I tell her, laughing at her enthusiasm. "There's a time and place for singing."
We pay for her outfits—she's chosen three pairs of jeans and an assortment of bright tops. Posey insists on having everything wrapped in colorful tissue paper with ribbons, not realizing it costs extra.
On our way down Main Street, I suggest ice cream for our shopping spree celebration.
"Yes! Orange sherbet, to match your blouse. And strawberry for me because of my pink top."
Once the vendor delivers our treats, I turn to him. "Could you take our picture with our matching cones?"
"Sure thing," he says, snapping several shots of us holding up our treats like trophies.
"Will you send it to Daddy Cameron?" Posey asks.
"Good idea," I say, taking a selfie of us, our faces squished together, our pink and orange dessert merging.
Then I text Cameron the pictures with the caption: "Shopping mission accomplished!"
"Tell Posey she's my little fashionista," he texts back immediately.
"Your little girl is a winner," I return.
"So are you," he messages back.
Something about those three simple words makes my heart flutter in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream or shopping trips.
Posey tugs on my jeans. "Do we have to go home now? Or can we check out Main Street?"
"Sure. Let's keep walking," I say, taking her sticky hand in mine.
As we walk toward the small park at the end of Main Street, I can't shake the feeling that something significant has shifted today.
Not just Posey's wardrobe transformation, but something deeper. The way she called me mommy so naturally. The easy domesticity of our first real morning routine. And oddly, even the text communication we shared.
It all feels as though we're building something real together.
Something that might be harder to walk away from when my time with Cameron and Posey is over.