Chapter 30
CAMERON
"Hey Daddy Cameron," Posey calls out, her fair skin flushed pink from two hours under the relentless afternoon sun. But it seems true what they say about Nantucket weather and sudden storms. Low gray clouds now cast an ominous shadow over our expedition.
"When's Tom coming back? I'm getting hungry."
"Maybe twenty minutes," I tell her, checking my phone again—still no signal. "Just enough time for you to find one more arrowhead for your collection."
She nods, returning to her excavation beside the murky pond.
Tara settles beside me on the weathered log, close enough that her bare shoulder brushes mine. Memories of last night's kiss flood back with punishing clarity.
"When do you think we'll get internet again? The guide couldn't have just forgotten us out here."
"Are you calling him irresponsible?" I tease, fighting the urge to pull her closer. "You're the one who researched and hired him."
"Very funny." She delivers a playful punch to my shoulder.
"Ouch!" She jerks her hand back like she's been burned. "Jesus, that hurt! You need to ease up on the gym obsession."
The brief contact of her knuckles against my chest sends electricity crackling between us. I catch her wrist instinctively, ready to wrestle her down for a kiss.
Then I remember our mandate.
Keep it professional. For Posey's sake.
But the way she's looking at me—lips slightly parted—makes our good intentions feel impossible.
Suddenly, thunder crashes overhead with bone-rattling force. It’s followed by violent lightning that splits the darkening sky.
Edison's ears snap to attention. He scrambles onto a boulder, throws back his head, and releases a primal, wolf-like howl that raises every hair on my arms. Then he dashes off, spooked by the storm.
"What's happening, Daddy Cameron?" Posey races toward us as the first fat raindrops splatter against the rocks.
At once, the sky tears open. Sheets of water slam down with the force of a broken dam. Within seconds, we're drenched to the skin.
I hoist Posey into my arms, my other hand instinctively reaching for Tara. She grabs it without hesitation.
"Edison!" I shout in the storm's roar.
"Where did he go?" Tara shouts, water streaming down her face. Her white t-shirt is now completely transparent against her skin.
"He'll be back. We'll be okay."
But sheets of water pummel us with relentless force.
I check my phone. Still no signal, no lifeline back to civilization. We're completely cut off.
Then Edison comes bounding back through the downpour, barking like a mad dog.
He jumps up, his paws hitting my chest for emphasis. Then his head jerks toward a slight hill, his body language screaming for us to follow him with every fiber of his being.
We're no match for Edison's speed, but we push through the deluge in his wake.
Rain pounds so hard I can barely see three feet ahead, each step a gamble on unstable ground. Posey clings tight to my chest as I try to shield both her and Tara from the worst of the storm's fury.
As we stumble forward, following Edison's confident lead, I catch glimpses of something solid emerging from the gray curtain of rain. Not just trees or rocks. Something man-made.
"Look!" I point ahead as the outline sharpens into focus.
A small stone structure sits nestled among the pines, weathered but intact. Ancient fieldstone walls, and a slanted roof that promises salvation from this biblical downpour.
Edison jumps ahead and pounces on the wooden door. He bounds inside without hesitation, shaking rain from his coat as thunder crashes overhead.
"Is it safe?" Tara asks as we navigate the uneven stone threshold.
We enter the space, peering into the gloom. Dusty light filters through grimy windows, illuminating a single room with rough-hewn beams overhead.
A stone fireplace dominates one wall, cold ashes. Basic furniture scattered around—a wooden table, mismatched chairs, what looks like an old sleeping alcove built into the far corner.
"Looks like an old hunting cabin."
Edison circles the hearth twice before settling with a satisfied grunt.
As soon as I set Posey down, she explores with a four-year-old fearlessness. I watch as she runs her small hands along the stone walls. "It's like a fairy tale house! Are there trolls?"
"No trolls," Tara assures her, wringing water from her soaked hair. "Just us taking shelter until the storm passes."
I slam the door shut against the howling wind and survey our temporary sanctuary.
We're drenched, stranded, and completely cut off from the outside world. The isolation should terrify me. But instead, I feel something else entirely. Relief.
For the first time in months, maybe years, there's nowhere else I need to be. No phones ringing, no meetings, no Maxwell Sterling breathing down my neck about contracts.
Just the three of us and Edison, safe from the storm.
Tara catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," I lie.
But I'm guessing the truth is written all over my face. Being trapped here with her doesn't feel like a crisis—it feels like fate.
"Can we make a fire, Daddy Cameron?" Posey asks, petting Edison by the cold hearth.
Moving to the fireplace, I discover someone's left long wooden matches in a tin box—the old-fashioned kind pioneers used.
Straw baskets nearby overflow with kindling, small twigs, everything needed to build a proper fire.
"Good idea. Tara, why don't you play with Posey while I work on this?"
With the females occupied, I turn my attention to the hearth. Wondering how to start a fire without the Internet or YouTube to help me.
It takes several frustrating minutes. Yet eventually, flames catch and spread across the logs. When I turn around, both girls are sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, completely absorbed in a game of rock, paper, scissors.
Something about the domestic scene—Tara's patient teaching, Posey's delighted giggles—hits me square in the chest.
This is what I've been missing my entire life without even knowing it.
"Can I join?" I ask, settling beside them on the floor.
I fold my legs, acutely aware of how close Tara is beside me. Her knee brushes mine as we play. Every casual contact sends heat racing through my system.
Tara's changed out of her soaked shirt into something dry from her bag, but somehow she looks even more tempting in the oversized sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder.
After a while, Posey yawns and leans against Tara. "I'm tired, Daddy Cameron."
"Let's get you settled upstairs," I say, scooping Posey into my arms. "Tara, help me get her comfortable?"
The handmade wooden staircase creaks under our weight but feels sturdy enough. Edison bounds up after us, claiming his role as guardian.
Upstairs, a simple bed waits under the eaves. The linens aren't exactly fresh, but they're soft and inviting. I check discreetly for any issues while Tara strips off her dry sweater to create a clean pillow for Posey.
Tara's figure, revealed by her thin tank top, clings to her delicious curves. I pretend not to notice.
"Are you comfortable?" Tara asks, smoothing Posey's hair with gentle fingers.
But Posey doesn't answer because she's already drifting asleep, exhausted from the day's adventure and the storm's drama.
Edison settles protectively beside the bed, shooting us a look that clearly says, “I’ve got this handled.”
We make our way quietly back downstairs.
We settle near the hearth. The fire has calmed into a steady burn, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The storm still rages outside. But here in our sanctuary, everything feels suspended in time.
"You're good with her," I say quietly, watching the flames. "She trusts you completely."
"She's easy to love," Tara replies, then seems to realize what she's admitted. Color rises in her cheeks. "I mean—"
"I know what you mean."
Tara's quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When she finally speaks, her voice is careful.
"I remember the first time I heard 'Dark Water.' I was thirteen. It blew my mind. I fell totally in love with you."
The mention of that song—one of my earliest, rawest tracks—hits me like a punch to the gut.
"That song came from somewhere real," she continues, not looking at me. "It wasn't trying to be anything except honest. And now..."
"Now what?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She finally meets my eyes. "Now your melodies are the same album after album. The guitar work is still incredible, but it's like you're playing it safe. Following some formula instead of trusting your instincts."
Hearing it from someone who actually knows my catalog—who grew up with those early songs—makes it worse somehow.
"My record label wants me to chase algorithms now," I say quietly. "TikTok hooks, streaming playlist formulas. Everything has to test well with focus groups before they'll approve it."
"But you used to write songs that made people feel things they couldn't name," she whispers. "What happened to that Cameron?"
Her question cuts deeper than any music critic's review ever could. Because she's not asking as a stranger—she's asking as someone who loved what I used to create.
Before I can answer, a sharp crack of thunder explodes directly overhead, followed by a child's frightened cry.
"Daddy Cameron!"
I jerk back from Tara, both of us breathing hard. Posey's shrill voice carries pure terror from the loft above.
Rushing up the staircase, I find Posey sitting up in the narrow bed, tears streaming down her face. Completely disoriented.
"Where am I? I want Grandmama!"
"You're safe," I say, settling beside her on the bed. "We found shelter from the storm. Edison led us here."
Another rumble of thunder makes her flinch and bury her face against my chest.
"I'm scared. The noise is so loud."
Tara appears beside me.
"It's just noise, Posey," I say softly, stroking her hair. "The storm can't hurt us in here."
But she's still trembling. And suddenly, I know what she needs. What we all need.
I hum softly, letting a melody emerge naturally—not from any formula or focus group. But from this moment. From love and fear and the need to protect what matters.
"When the storm clouds gather, and the wind blows," I sing quietly, "we'll find our shelter, a place we can go..."
The melody flows out of me like water finding its course. Simple and true.
"Safe from the thunder, safe from the rain, in each other's arms, we'll weather the pain..."
"We'll be your shelter, shelter in the storm..."
When the last note fades, Posey settles into a restless sleep.
"That was beautiful," Tara whispers, her eyes bright with something that might be tears.
I look down at my sleeping daughter, then back at Tara.
The song came from a place I'd forgotten existed. Not manufactured for radio play or wedding playlists. Instead, born from love and need and truth.
"I haven't felt that in years," I admit quietly. "Like the music was just... there. Waiting."
"That's what real songwriting sounds like," she says softly. "When it comes from inside. Instead of algorithms."
Something shifts in my chest. The song didn't just calm Posey. It awakened something in me I thought Sterling Records had killed years ago.
"You did this," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "You challenged me to stop hiding behind formulas. Made me remember what authentic music feels like."
"I just told you what you already knew."
"No." I meet her eyes in the firelight. "You're my muse, Tara. That song exists because you opened something in me I thought was dead."
The words hang between us, weighted with more than professional gratitude. She's not just helping me find my artistic voice. Tara's helping me find myself.
Before either of us can speak, a beam of light cuts through the high window, sweeping across the cabin walls.
Car headlights.
"Cameron?! Tara!" Tom's voice carries through the still air. Our guide. Finally, back for us.
The rescue we've been waiting for now feels like an interruption.