Chapter 19
TARA
The first breakfast with Posey and Mrs. Bixby doesn't run smoothly. My early childhood education classes covered nutrition and developmental stages. But they didn't prepare me for the reality of navigating household hierarchies.
Mrs. Bixby has set the dining room table with elaborate formality: the Spode breakfast china, sterling silver, linen napkins, and crystal juice glasses.
Posey sits perfectly straight in her chair, hands folded, waiting patiently for her omelet to be served on the proper dishware.
Cameron appears in the doorway and stops dead when he sees the elaborate breakfast setup.
"What's all this?" he asks, gesturing at the formal table setting.
"Breakfast, sir," Mrs. Bixby replies crisply. "As the family has always taken it."
Cameron stares at the formal place setting as if it's written in a foreign language. "She's four years old. Breakfast doesn't have to be such a production.”
Mrs. Bixby's lips press into a thin line of disapproval. "Miss Posey is accustomed to proper breakfast service. The Abernathys maintained certain standards."
"Grandmama said ladies and gentlemen always use the good china for breakfast. It shows respect for the meal and for each other," Posey says.
Cameron runs a hand through his hair, clearly out of his depth. "Posey, that's a great idea for the holidays. But maybe we could eat like normal people sometimes?"
"What are normal people?" Posey asks, tilting her head with genuine curiosity.
I bite back a smile as Cameron realizes he's painted himself into a corner. Mrs. Bellows catches my eye from the sideboard, where she's polishing silver that's already gleaming. Even she seems amused by Cameron's bewilderment.
"Normal people," Cameron says slowly, "eat breakfast without..." He waves helplessly at the elaborate table setting. "Without all this ceremony."
"But I like ceremony," Posey says solemnly. "It makes breakfast special."
As Cameron looks around the elaborate table setting, I imagine the wheels turning in his head.
"Okay," he says finally, surprising everyone. "But how about we make a deal?"
Posey perks up, clearly intrigued by the concept of negotiation.
"Some mornings we'll do the fancy breakfast with all the china and ceremony. But on other mornings, we'll eat like..."
He pauses, searching for the right words. "Like a regular family. Maybe pancakes in the kitchen, or cereal while watching cartoons."
Mrs. Bixby looks scandalized. But before she can object, Posey nods thoughtfully.
"That sounds fair, Daddy Cameron," she says, and I notice Cameron's slight double-take at the title.
"Why do you call me that? Do you have other daddies I should know about?"
"Not that I know of," she says with four-year-old innocence that makes Mrs. Bellows suppress another smile.
"Then why not just call me Daddy?"
Posey sets down her fork. "Because Mrs. Bixby says you're famous, and Daddy Cameron sounds more important. What are you famous for?"
Cameron shifts in his chair, clearly caught off guard by the direct question. There's a cocky edge in his voice when he responds.
"I'm famous for a lot of things. But primarily, I'm a singer. You've never heard my songs?" he asks, as if Posey is fifteen instead of four.
"Are they children's songs? Like 'London Bridge Is Falling Down'?"
Cameron grins. "Kind of. Do you want me to sing one for you?"
"Yes, Daddy Cameron, please!"
"Do you want me to get your guitar?" I offer, surprising myself with the suggestion.
Cameron looks at me, his dark eyes holding mine for a moment longer than necessary. "That would be great. Thanks."
I walk upstairs with a sense of excitement I can't quite explain.
Edison follows me into Cameron's room. It smells like him. Clean. Masculine. Accented with a hint of that expensive cologne he wears.
I snap on the lights.
Cameron's bed is already made, even though Mrs. Bellows hasn't been up yet. A simple dresser holds his worn brown leather wallet, stuffed with cash. The guitar leans against the wall.
But it's his brown leather notebook on the nightstand that catches my attention.
The pages are filled with Cameron's messy handwriting. Fragments and random notes that paint a picture of his scattered life:
Flight 447 LAX to Boston - Gate B12 Milo's cousin - good sushi place on 82nd New chord progression - Am, F, C, G? Sophie 212-555-8847 (blonde from after-party)
There are phone numbers with no names, restaurant recommendations, half-finished lyrics that trail off mid-sentence. A doodle that looks like a guitar neck fills one margin.
Edison shifts in the doorway, and I swear those dark doggy eyes are judging me. My cheeks burn with guilt, but I keep reading.
Sterling meeting Tuesday. New contract bullshit. Mrs. B says Posey is afraid of thunderstorms. Tara - early childhood education major. Why teach?
My heart skips a beat at seeing my name in his handwriting. Below it, he's scribbled: Ask about her family? Something sad there.
Edison woofs, as if accusing me of being a snoop.
"Sorry, Edison," I whisper. "I couldn't help myself."
Edison and I make our way back downstairs, my heart still racing from what I'd read.
Cameron had written my name, wondered about my family. It makes something flutter in my chest that I'm not ready to examine.
"Here you are," I say, presenting the guitar to Cameron with unexpected formality.
Edison settles by Cameron's feet, shooting me one last reprimand for snooping.
"What are you going to play?" Posey asks, bouncing slightly in her chair.
"I think I'll play one of my favorites. It's called “You Light Up My World.”
He plays the first few bars, and his voice when he sings differs from his speaking voice—richer, more vulnerable. I study his hands on the strings, remembering how those same hands had written my name in that notebook.
"Daddy Cameron, is that song about me lighting up your world?"
"Truth is, I wrote this song before you were born. Knowing that a girl like you was going to come into my world one day. And here you are."
"And you light up my world," Posey says to Cameron as she walks over to wrap her little arms around him. "I like that you're here with me."
He pulls her into a gentle embrace, and I watch his entire demeanor soften. My eyes tear up. I can tell Mrs. Bellows and Mrs. Bixby are also moved.
We all stand there for a moment, slightly uncomfortable witnessing this private bonding between parent and child.
Cameron clears his throat and pulls back, clearly overwhelmed by the unexpected intensity of the moment.
"Well," he says, picking up his guitar again, "do you want to hear the complete song or not?"
"Yes, Daddy Cameron. I want to hear the song."
Cameron strums the guitar and plays "You Light Up My World."
I've heard it before and consider it one of my favorites.
When it's over, we all give him a small round of applause. Sincere applause, with Posey clapping the loudest.
"Now what shall we do today? Go to town?" Cameron asks.
"Yes!" says Posey. "Tara, will you help me get ready?"
We walk upstairs to her room. After I help her wash her face and brush her teeth with her frog-shaped toothbrush, she asks a question I find challenging to answer.
"Do you like my Daddy Cameron?"
"He's my boss," I say carefully. "Everybody has to be nice to their boss."
"I didn't ask if you had to be nice to him. I asked whether you liked him. They're two different questions."
I pause, remembering his notebook entry about my family, the way he'd looked at me when I handed him his guitar.
"I like him as an employer," I say diplomatically.
"Do you like him as a friend?"
"Posey, an employer is not a friend. An employer pays you money. If your daddy didn't pay me money, I wouldn't be here."
"Oh," she says, processing this adult reality. "Well, I think he's very nice and that you should like him."
"I'll keep that in mind. Now let's go join your father downstairs."