Chapter 18
TARA
The tension from the garden lingers all the way through dinner.
Cameron takes charge of the seating without asking anyone’s opinion. He settles at the head of the long cherrywood table. On his right sits Posey—bright-eyed in her quirky but colorful dress. I'm on his left. Edison lies at his feet.
Mrs. Bixby sits at the opposite end of the table, silent and dignified.
Every so often, Mrs. Bellows appears from the kitchen to serve us food.
"You know, I was a nanny to the late Mrs. Abernathy when she was a girl," Mrs. Bixby says, putting her knife and fork on her empty plate. "I raised Alice and Jason. When they were grown, Mrs. Abernathy made me her social secretary. Then, when Posey came along..."
She stops herself when she sees Posey watching her intently.
"Well, that's all history now. I'll take Posey up to bed and retire for the evening. Come Posey."
Posey rises, kisses me and Cameron good night, then follows her nanny up the staircase to her room.
Mrs. Bixby must know so much about the Abernathy family. I long to ask her questions, but I already sense she'd never answer.
"I think I'll turn in too," I say, rising from my chair.
"No," Cameron says in a low tone. "Stay."
The silence that follows feels charged.
Mrs. Bellows returns to clear away the last of the remaining dishes. "I'll just tidy up in the kitchen, sir, and drive myself home.”
Cameron turns to her. "Do we have a wine collection? Liquor?"
"Yes, sir. The Abernathy family collected a lot of wine. They maintained a wine cellar and often enjoyed a drink after dinner."
"Good. Bring us whatever they had for themselves after dinner.”
My pulse quickens at his casual assumption that we'll be sharing wine. There's something deliberately intimate about the request. It's the thing couples do, not an employer and employee.
"Right away, sir." Mrs. Bellows leaves. In the stillness, I realize how near Cameron and I are to one another. Close enough for me to feel the heat of his elbow just barely crossing into my space.
Close enough to register the mesmerizing pull of attraction between us. And I could swear he feels it too, under that grumpy exterior.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Bellows returns with a bottle of green liquid and two glasses. Then she vanishes into her kitchen.
"What is this? That green color looks like someone put Posey's Mr. Frog into a blender."
Cameron laughs. "It's called Chartreuse. A rather old-fashioned drink. Clearly, the Abernathys had taste. Try it."
I take a tentative sip. "It's sweet! Herbal. And a little peppery..."
He nods, distracted.
"What do you want to talk about?" I ask, my voice softer than intended.
"I want to apologize," Cameron says after a hesitation. "I'm quick to anger—one of my major flaws. And slow to forgive, which can be worse."
I look at him incredulously. "You still don't believe I'm a tipster for the tabloids?"
"I should never have believed it. But Tara, put yourself in my position. The tabloids have hunted me for decades."
The vulnerability of his admission catches me off guard. This isn't the commanding rockstar from moments ago. This is a man who's been wounded by fame.
"I understand."
"Good." He pauses, his eyes finding mine. "I like how you are with my daughter."
"She's a wonderful child."
As Cameron sips his drink, I hope that with the air clear between us, we could finish what we started.
"What drew you to study childhood education?" He studies my face with genuine curiosity.
The question catches me off guard. "I think there are a lot of children struggling at preschool age," I say. "Whether it's from mild forms of autism, Asperger's syndrome, divorce in the family..."
I pause, my throat tightening. "Or other kinds of trauma. I want to make sure they're okay."
Something in his expression shifts. His eyes meet mine.
"Personal experience?"
I debate how much to tell him. That my father's untimely death caused my life to spin further and further out of control? My dreams to crash?
Instead of responding, I change the subject. "Were you rehearsing for an upcoming gig in the gazebo?"
"No," he says, tapping the brown leather notebook on the table. "Working on some new songs. My label hates them."
"Why?"
"Probably because my 'old sound' was a moneymaker. Predictable. Marketable."
"So they want more of the same?"
"Now you sound like my agent," he says. "All of them want me to write something new, but the same."
"And you?"
"I want to write and sing about the things people feel when they're alone late at night. Moments. Vibes."
The intensity in his voice makes my pulse quicken. This is the artist beneath the rockstar facade. Raw, hungry for something real.
"That won't get people on the dance floor," I say.
"Exactly my point," he says, leaning forward. "Songs are a vibration. Not always for your dancing. Sometimes they just..." He pauses, his dark eyes holding mine. "Sometimes they just touch your soul."
"I feel what you're trying to say."
"Yes," he says, his voice rough with something that might be relief. "You feel it."
The passion in his voice when he talks about his art sends heat spiraling through me.
We fall quiet. One candle that Mrs. Bellows lit when we started dinner flickers before burning out, casting us in more intimate shadows.
"I should get some sleep," I say, rising on unsteady legs. Whether from the Chartreuse or his proximity, I can't tell.
As I stand, Cameron's hand brushes mine on the table. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. When I look down at him, there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before.
He's looking at me in a way that makes my pulse race.
"Good night, Tara," he says, his voice low. His words unsaid.
Something between us has shifted.
The question is no longer whether something will happen. It's when.