Chapter 34
TARA
Isit on a red velvet chair in the Dreamland Theater, watching Fabiana Farr sing the title role of Moby Dick.
As Mr. Rudin ordered, I take notes about every aspect of her performance. Fabiana is the ultimate classic opera diva. Totally old school, every gesture calculated for maximum dramatic effect.
Though I'm thrilled to be her understudy, I vow to do things differently if I ever get the opportunity to take her place on stage.
But would I dare to be different if this opportunity came to pass? Critics would be in the audience. If I expressed myself too freely, veered too far from tradition, they might think me raw rather than seasoned and experimental.
For a fleeting moment, I'm torn by indecision.
Perhaps it's best to follow convention until I'm at the height of my fame, then I can afford to take chances.
Then again, who am I kidding?
The Grand Dame herself swears she never gets sick. Would never miss a day, even on her deathbed. She attributes it to her steady diet of cod liver oil, apple cider vinegar, and red cabbage.
I sigh. Fantasies are fantasies. Especially where the opera is concerned.
My phone buzzes. It's Cameron. My pulse quickens just at seeing his name on Caller ID.
“I have a gig. Want to come?”
A gig? I bite my lip as I stare at the screen. What is he talking about? His concerts are promoted years in advance.
I quickly scroll through a popular Nantucket event website, but I don’t see any notice of his upcoming performances there—or on social media.
"I have some exciting news for you too," I message him. I can't wait until he hears I’m an unofficial understudy for the great diva Fabiana Farr.
Before I can text the news, another message pops up: “Meet me out front at two o'clock.”
Well, I guess that news will have to wait. By the time the Rolls-Royce purrs up in front of the opera house, I'm brimming with questions.
Tara!" Posey exclaims, launching herself into my arms for a hug and kiss. Edison inserts himself into our embrace, nudging his cold black snout against my neck.
I ruffle Edison's fur, then turn my attention to Posey.
She's wearing new jeans and a bright red shirt that makes her look like a little Valentine's Day cutout.
"You look adorable," I tell her.
"Mrs. Bixby didn't want me to wear this outfit," Posey confides, "but I made her let me. I told her I'm the boss of me."
"You look adorable too, Tara," says Cameron, sending heat spiraling through my chest.
"Did Daddy tell you where we're going? What we're doing?" I ask Posey.
"Daddy Cameron just told me we're going to the market," she says with a shrug.
The ten-minute drive feels eternal. I steal glances at Cameron, noting how his powerful hands grip his phone as he taps out messages. There's a nervous energy radiating from him that's completely unlike his usual confident demeanor.
What has him so on edge?
Finally, Henry parks outside the market and then comes around to open our door.
We step into the bustling market, alive with vibrant produce displays. Well-dressed locals walk about, chatting with vendors offering samples of artisanal cheeses and local honey.
"Where are the frogs?" Posey asks, scanning the scene with disappointment.
"No frogs, but look at these delicious cherries. Let's buy some!"
As I pay the vendor for the cherries, I notice Cameron checking his phone with even more intensity than before, jaw tight.
Then I notice a small, elevated platform and a technician checking the microphone.
"Are you performing here?" I ask Cameron as Posey happily digs into her cherries.
"Yes."
I haven't heard that tone before. And when his eyes meet mine, I see something in his face that stops me cold.
Uncertainty.
This man, who commands stadiums full of screaming fans, is nervous about performing for a handful of market shoppers. A fit-looking man in a suit approaches and shakes Cameron's hand vigorously. Then he leads Cameron off towards the makeshift stage.
"Where's Daddy going?" Posey asks, tugging on my sleeve.
"I don't know, Posey. I think he might sing a song. But we should get closer." I lift her onto my hip. "We want the best view."
We weave through the small crowd gathering near the platform. I settle cross-legged on the ground in front of the stage. Posey in my lap, Edison sprawling beside us with his tongue lolling out.
The suited man takes the microphone, his voice carrying across the market space. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a rare treat today. One of our summer residents—Cameron Crow—who you might know as a famous superstar, is going to perform one of his new songs."
No one in the market is Cameron's target demographic. They're mostly elderly residents, middle-aged tourists, or day trippers from Boston. I'd be surprised if any of them had heard his name.
But when Cameron steps up to the microphone, his voice commands attention in a way that makes my pulse skip.
"Hey, neighbors," he says, that familiar warmth threading through his tone as he strums the guitar slung across his chest. The casualness of it—calling them neighbors—makes something tender unfurl in my chest.
"I've only been on the island for a matter of days. But I've enjoyed my time here, and I wanted to share a song inspired by a journey my daughter, Posey, and I took together."
At first, I'm miffed that he doesn't mention me.
Then I remember all the issues with Jason and the potential custody battle. The key reason we couldn't finish what we started last night. Well, one of the reasons, anyway.
But then, Cameron's eyes find mine across the small crowd. In a heartbeat, I forgive him. There's something in his gaze—intimate, almost private—that makes me feel like he's speaking directly to me.
"We were in a place called..." He pauses, his smile turning playful. "Well, I'm going to call up my daughter Posey to tell the story. Then I'll sing you our song."
I look down at Posey, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
"I'm coming, Daddy!" She scampers from my lap to the platform with determination. Cameron lowers the microphone to her height, his large hands gentle as he guides her closer.
"Hello, everybody," Posey begins, her voice carrying that formal precision that makes her sound like a miniature adult. "A few days ago, we were in the wilderness looking for arrowheads to add to my museum wing."
Soft chuckles ripple through the crowd at her serious tone. I hear whispers of "That's the little Abernathy girl," flutter through the crowd.
"But then it started to rain, and it started to pour, and my dog Edison found this old house for us so we wouldn't get too wet."
At the mention of his name, Edison woofs. People in the crowd laugh. I smile, remembering the intimacy of the moment Cameron and I shared there.
"There was thunder and lightning, and I got scared. But my daddy told me it's okay, because we had shelter from the storm. Then he made up a song. And now he's here to sing it to you today."
Posey runs back to me, settling into my lap with a satisfied grin.
Cameron's eyes meet mine as he adjusts his guitar. We both remember that magical night.
In that brief glance, a shared memory passes between us. That exact moment when we became more than strangers. Cameron strums the familiar melody, and my breath catches.
The song he'd created that night in the abandoned farmhouse, as thunder crashed around us. He had pulled magic from the chaos.
But these are no longer the same simple words he'd hummed to comfort Posey. His original lyrics have been sharpened, deepened. Cameron's voice, rich, carries across the marketplace as he sings about finding refuge from a storm.
My pulse quickens as the song's meaning becomes clear. It's about emotional walls, about letting someone in when you've spent years keeping everyone out.
The way he looks at me while he sings certain lines makes heat bloom in my cheeks. This song isn't just about an afternoon spent riding out a thunderstorm.
It's about us.
I study Cameron's face as he plays, watching how the music transforms him. Gone is the guarded man who sometimes seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Here, performing for these strangers who barely know his name, he's completely himself.
Authentic in a way that makes my heart ache. As the final notes fade, I hold my breath, wondering how they'll respond.
Then scattered applause begins in the back, growing stronger. "Attaboy, Cameron!" someone calls out. "Sing another one!"
Soon the entire marketplace erupts in appreciation.
Posey leaps up, clapping enthusiastically. "That's my Daddy Cameron! That's my daddy!"
But I remain still, with Edison warm against my side. I find it fascinating to watch people approach Cameron for autographs.
The way he handles each interaction—patient, genuine—only makes me fall harder for this complicated man.
Finally, the crowd disperses. Posey and I make our way to him.
"That was incredible, Cameron," I say. "You've created a masterpiece in just a few days."
"No," he says, shaking his head. "I got the melody that night. The words, the basic feeling. That's what counts. The rest is just spit-shine."
"It's going to be a hit. But why the premiere here?”
He hesitates.
I catch something vulnerable in his expression before he answers.
"I wanted to get a pulse. See how it would go over with real people."
"Everyone loved it. But these aren't the ones who are going to rush out and buy your albums."
Cameron's face darkens before he changes the subject.
"Let's shop for dinner," he says in an upbeat tone as he ruffles Posey's hair. "I bet Mrs. Bellows would be delighted if we bought fresh produce from the marketplace. What should we have for dinner, Posey?"
"Candied apples!" she exclaims, pointing toward a colorful booth. "I saw them over there!"
"You got it," Cameron says, his tone softening as he looks at his daughter.
"We'll make sure we have candied apples for dessert,” I say, sounding like a spoilsport to my own ears. “But let’s shop for dinner items first.”