Chapter 7
CAMERON
The limousine's engine purrs to silence in front of a mansion that looks like a feature in Architectural Digest—all weathered gray shingles and pristine white trim. Gardens stretch in every direction, manicured to magazine perfection.
"This is for real," I mutter. I may live in a twenty-million-dollar penthouse in a high-rise hotel, but this is Old Money rich.
When I exit the limo, Edison bounds out behind me, his black coat gleaming in the afternoon sun. My Lab immediately investigates the Nantucket scents, so different from New York City.
Radha emerges from the limo gracefully, not a hair out of place despite the flight and car ride. Her crisp Armani pantsuit makes her look like she belongs here more than I do.
But who cares about belonging here? I'm comfortable in my jeans and black Versace T-shirt. Especially as it shows off the muscles I spent months building in the gym.
We make our way up the stone steps to massive double doors that probably predate the Revolutionary War. A man in a conservative suit opens the door.
"Ms. Kumar and Mr. Cameron Crow. I am Mr. White, the family solicitor. Mr. Jason Abernathy is waiting for you in the main salon."
Edison barks out a sharp, authoritative greeting that echoes through the marble foyer. The sound bounces off the oil paintings of dead Abernathys along the wall. They probably made their fortunes whaling or whatever rich bastards did back then.
"Easy, boy," I murmur to my dog. Yet honestly, I'm glad he's here. Edison stays close to my side as we walk through rooms that smell like old money and furniture polish.
We're led into a salon with enough antiques to stock the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
"May I present Mr. Jason Abernathy, the child's uncle. Jason, this is Mr. Cameron Crow and Radha Kumar."
Jason Abernathy steps forward with a politician's smile. He offers a firm handshake I don't take.
"Please sit down," Jason continues, like he owns the place. Then again, I realize he and Alice must have grown up here. Radha was vague about when and why his parents disowned him.
The silence stretches like when one of my old cheap guitar strings was about to snap.
"I understand the funeral was yesterday," Radha begins, her voice cool and professional. "Why wasn't my client informed?"
Mr. White clears his throat. "Terribly sorry. It was arranged at the last minute. Let us turn to the immediate matter." Mr. White adjusts his glasses. "Which is the child's welfare and living arrangements. As executor of the Abernathy estate, I need to establish temporary guardianship protocols."
"Meaning what, exactly?" I ask.
"Massachusetts law requires a period of evaluation before a biological father can relocate a minor child out of state, particularly when said father has had no previous contact." His tone is neutral, lawyerly. "We're looking at approximately two weeks."
Two weeks. I feel my jaw clench.
"Two weeks here? On this island?"
"I'm afraid so. The child has suffered significant trauma. The court wants to ensure stability during the transition."
Radha leans forward. "What does that mean practically? Who has authority during this period?"
"Mr. Crow, as the biological father. He'll need to remain in residence here, with the existing staff maintaining their current roles."
Jason turns to me with a sharp gaze. "You'll also need to take a paternity test.”
"You don't believe I'm the father?" Though I can hardly believe I'm the father myself, the test would put both our minds at rest.
“It’s a court-ordered formality,” Mr. White tells me. He closes his leather portfolio. “Now shall we bring in Miss Posey?"
He calls toward the hallway, and moments later I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps. A thin, severe-looking woman in her sixties appears first, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun.
Behind her, almost hiding, is a small blonde girl in a navy pinafore that looks like it belongs in a museum.
"Sir," the woman says with crisp formality, "I'm Mrs. Bixby, Posey's nanny. And this is Miss Posey Abernathy."
The little girl steps forward with perfect posture, her hands clasped in front of her like she's meeting the Queen.
Christ, she's beautiful. Alice must have been stunning.
What's weird about this is that the child doesn't seem to think there's anything unusual about this situation. She must have been informed about the accident, about her grandparents. But she's calm.
Too calm.
"Hello," Posey says in a voice so proper it sounds rehearsed. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."
Posey's formal words cut off mid-sentence when Edison bounds forward. The massive black Lab towers over her. I watch as her blue eyes flash fascination and delight.
Edison, being Edison, immediately drops into a play bow. His tail wags like a metronome set to allegro.
"What's his name?" Posey says, stepping closer to him instead of backing away.
"Edison," I say, moving to crouch down to her level. "He's friendly, but he's a big dog..."
"Oh, he's perfect." She extends one small hand toward Edison's head with the careful precision of someone who's been taught proper etiquette for everything, including greeting dogs. "Hello, Edison. I'm Posey."
Edison's tail goes into overdrive. He gently nuzzles her palm, then sits with the dignity of a gentleman caller.
"He likes you," I tell her, surprised by the tightness in my chest watching them together.
Posey's completely absorbed in Edison, who now rolls onto his back for belly rubs. The sight of my four-year-old daughter giggling while my dog acts like a fool should strike me as ridiculous. Instead it creates a warm sensation in my heart.
Jason stands up from his chair. "Posey, darling, come say hello to Uncle Jason."
Posey gives Edison one last pat, then reluctantly stands and smooths her pinafore. She walks over with perfect posture and executes a small curtsy that belongs in another century.
"Hello, Uncle Jason," she says politely.
With our introductory talk out of the way, Mr. White clears his throat.
"I'll be in touch with that paternity test, Mr. Crow. And a further meeting. Here are my details if you need anything else," he says, handing a card to Radha and me.
After Radha escorts Mr. White and Jason to the front door, she returns to the salon where Mrs. Bixby and I stand watching Posey and Edison become best friends.
"I'd better get back to New York," she says, checking her watch. "You okay here? Up to taking care of a four-year-old?"
"With Mrs. Bixby by my side, I am," I say, shooting the older woman a grin. "But I need clothes. And probably other shit I haven't thought of yet."
"I'll have everything FedExed over tomorrow."
I glance around—my guitar case leaning against the antique sofa, my cracked leather notebook tucked into my back pocket. "I never thought about it like this, but this here is all I really need."
She nods, understanding. "Call me."
And then she's gone, leaving me alone with a four-year-old and a house full of strangers.