Chapter 16
TARA
Afew hours later, Chloe drives me to the Abernathy mansion.
"Take care of yourself," she says, stopping when we reach the end of the driveway. "Call me if you need anything."
"I will."
We embrace, and I leave the car. She waits, the car's engine running, as I approach the mansion's entrance.
The front door swings open before I can knock. Cameron’s gorgeous frame fills the doorway. I smile up at him, but he doesn’t smile back. He's still cautious. Guarded.
“What’s wrong? Still think I tipped off the press?”
He hesitates before answering me. “If I had, you wouldn’t be here. But you’ll have to work hard to prove my first impression wrong. Come in.”
I carry my suitcase into the entryway and look around. It’s a gorgeous mansion, but the dated furniture harks back to the last century.
Cameron is his usual devastatingly handsome self. Dark hair slightly mussed, piercing blue eyes that see too much.
Heat flickers between us for a split second before he eyes my suitcase. His hand moves toward it, as if he’s debating whether basic chivalry applies to someone he doesn’t quite trust.
I hold out my hand. “Can we be friends? Start fresh?”
His jaw tightens. Those lips I remember kissing twist slightly.
Instead of answering, he takes my suitcase and heads toward a sweeping staircase. “Follow me.”
I trail behind him through the mansion’s interior. The hallway stretches endlessly, lined with nautical paintings of whaling ships. Fresh paint can’t disguise the old-money atmosphere that clings to every surface.
Cameron stops at the first door and yanks it open with more force than necessary. We both peer inside simultaneously.
It’s clearly a woman’s writing room, complete with an antique desk, fountain pen in its stand, and those old-fashioned compartments for different-sized stationery.
“Mrs. Abernathy’s room, I guess,” he mutters, slamming it shut. The sound reverberates through the house.
He flings open the next door. This one reeks of cigar smoke and is filled with old-looking books.
He moves to the next door and pulls it open. Inside, a plump, middle-aged maid stands dusting. She shrieks in surprise, then comes toward us.
“Mr. Crow, you gave me a fright. May I help you, sir?”
“Mrs. Bellows, this is Tara Thompson. She’ll be assisting Mrs. Bixby with Posey’s care.”
“I see, sir. Yes, sir,” Mrs. Bellows says.
“I’m trying to find Tara a room. This place has many rooms. I’m not sure what’s suitable.”
Cameron sounds as if he’s navigating foreign territory.
“Well, Mrs. Bixby has a room adjoining Posey’s. Maybe Tara could have the room on the other side of Posey’s room?”
“That sounds perfect,” I say quickly, relieved to have this settled.
“Good, Mrs. Bellows, do the honors. I need to get back to my music.” Cameron shoulders past us in the narrow hallway, leaving me staring after him.
What is it with this man? Hot and cold doesn’t describe it.
“Well, dear,” Mrs. Bellows says pleasantly enough. “I’ll show you to your room.”
I pick up the suitcase Cameron dropped on the floor. Part of me wants to ask if he’s always this moody. But Mrs. Bellows wouldn’t know anyway.
At the end of the hall, she stops. “Now this is Posey’s room.” I notice an adorable multicolored nameplate on the door that says “Josephine.”
“Oh, so that’s Posey's real name.”
“Yes, but don’t dare tell the child. She hates it.”
“How does she even know what the nameplate says?”
Mrs. Bellows shakes her head, smiling. “That child is precocious as anything! When she was two years old, her grandmother called her Josephine, and she said, ‘That’s not my name.’ When asked what her name was, she pointed at a flower in a picture book and said, ‘I am Posey. Just like the flower.’”
“There’s some similarity,” I say. “Josephine, Posey.”
Mrs. Bellows laughs. “Yes. But how is a toddler supposed to know that Posey has been the nickname for Josephine for centuries?”
“Posey is definitely an interesting child.”
“That she is. When she learns to read properly, she’s going to demand a new nameplate above her bedroom door.”
We both laugh easily. An instant bond forms between us. I’m grateful. At least I’ll have one friend in this chilly house.
Mrs. Bellows opens Posey’s door, revealing everything I wanted as a child. Everything I had in Beverly Hills before our family's world collapsed.
A beautiful canopy bed with a pink bedspread takes up most of the room. Then there's the large painted toy chest, and a white French provincial dresser trimmed in gold.
There’s even a little vanity table scaled for a four-year-old, complete with gold brush, gold comb, and a ceramic basin painted with flowers.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, genuinely impressed.
“Mrs. Abernathy had so much fun creating this room. She finished it when Posey outgrew her crib. ‘I’m a big girl now,’ she announced when she was two and a half. Can you imagine a two-and-a-half-year-old talking like that?”
“I have a feeling Posey was born talking like that.”
“You’re not wrong,” Mrs. Bellows chuckles.
She pauses at another door but doesn’t open it. “This,” she says in a hushed whisper, “is Mrs. Bixby’s room.”
I’m curious about the reverent tone but don’t ask.
“Where is Mrs. Bixby now?”
“Taking Posey to the park. It's their usual time.” She checks her watch.
There’s an awkward silence, like Mrs. Bellows wants to say more about the stern nanny but thinks better of it.
“And this is your room,” she says, escorting me down the hall and opening the last door.
I step inside and breathe in the crisp scent of fresh cleaning. The air smells like the special fragrance hotels use that makes everything feel crisp and new.
The bed is small but comfortable-looking, with fresh white linens. There’s nothing fancy about the room. No dressing table like Posey’s, no writing desk like Mrs. Abernathy’s. Just clean, and welcoming.
“It’s very nice,” I say, pleasantly surprised. “So clean, too. Like you cleaned it just for me, but no one knew I was coming.”
“I clean every room every day, ma’am,” Mrs. Bellows says with obvious pride in her voice. “It’s how I’ve always done things.”
She checks her watch. “It’s three o’clock. I must speak with Chef Ernest about dinner.”
“Interesting, having a chef for just two people,” I muse.
“The Abernathys were formal like that. He’s new. Yet he trained under the former chef. Ernest brought some new ideas to the table, that’s for sure.”
“Like what?”
“Creating our own chef’s garden right outside the kitchen window. Fresh corn, tomatoes as big as your fist.” She laughs. “Delicious, too.”
“So how does the household run now? What do you think will change?”
Her expression turns solemn. “I don’t know, ma’am. Mrs. Bixby and I, we’re worried about our jobs. Ernest, the gardener, and the driver too. We’ve all depended on the Abernathys for so many years. They were so young. Mrs. Abernathy was not yet fifty; her husband only a few years older.”
“You must have been horrified to hear the news.”
“We were all shocked. Their helicopter stalled in mid-air, and the poor pilot too.” She crosses herself. “God’s will, I suppose. Posey is too young to understand what happened, but I worry about Jason. How it will affect him.”
“Jason?” I remember the man from the outdoor party, and the dinner at the Swain-Black house.
“Their son,” she says tenderly. "My dear boy."
From her tone, I could hardly believe we're talking about the same Jason.
“You're fond of him?” I ask, surprised.
She smiles warmly. “Yes, despite it all.”
“Despite what?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“He and his parents had a misunderstanding.” Her voice becomes diplomatic, careful.
From what Chloe tells me, it sounds like more than a misunderstanding.
“I hear they disowned him,” I say quietly.
Mrs. Bellows’ expression tightens slightly. “Yes, well, let’s not speak of that. I must get to the kitchen. I’ll leave you to get unpacked.”
She closes the door softly as she leaves, and I’m alone with my thoughts.
Mrs. Bellows genuinely cares about Jason; that much is obvious. But after what I witnessed at the party and dinner, her fondness puzzles me.
And what could he have done to make his own parents disown him completely?
I open my suitcase and unpack my meager belongings. Three changes of clothes, basic toiletries, and other personal items. My entire life in a suitcase.
Through the window, I spot the chef’s garden Mrs. Bellows mentioned. Neat rows of vegetables and herbs stretch toward a line of trees. It’s peaceful here, almost idyllic.
If only Cameron stopped treating me like a tabloid spy, everything would be great.
But when would that be? Time will tell.