Chapter 31
TARA
It's twilight by the time Tom turns up the driveway, bringing us back home after our arrowhead adventure. Though I had been hoping to chat with Cameron on the way home, he spent the entire ride on the phone with his record label.
His voice carried a confidence I hadn't heard before. Almost defiant as he spoke about "new directions" and "authentic material." Well, we'll see how that pans out.
With Posey asleep between us, I made use of the time by listening to "The Ballad of Pip" for the millionth time.
Even though Mr. Rudin treats me like an unneeded intern, I'm not giving up.
Once we reach the estate, Cameron's quick to scoop Posey into his arms. "I'll get her to bed."
"Mrs. Bixby's still visiting her sister," I remind him. "Do you know what 'putting a child to bed' even means?"
His brows shoot up as he grins. "You'll be surprised, Miss Thompson. But if you'll carry my guitar into the house, I'll be grateful."
I watch him disappear through the front door, Posey's small form cradled against his chest.
"Come on, Edison," I say to the black Lab as we approach the entrance.
At the front door, I drop Cameron’s guitar inside and glance at Edison. He’s caked with mud from paw to tail, waiting patiently like he knows what’s coming.
“Follow me,” I sigh, leading him around back toward the garden shed. No way Mrs. Bellows will forgive either of us if we track mud across her floors.
After placing my phone on a dry ledge, the sound of Fabiana Farr singing “The Ballad of Pip” pierces the dusky air. She's a bitch, but I must admit she's a damned talented singer.
“Okay, buddy. Showtime.”
I flip the switch marked sprinklers. Water erupts across the lawn in graceful arcs.
“Okay, let’s have some fun!” I dash toward the spray, laughing as the cool water soaks my muddy jeans.
Edison barrels in after me, rolling and shaking until the mud sluices from his coat.
When stubborn patches remain, I grab the garden hose, aiming at his paws. The Labrador submits with princely dignity, eyes half-closed as if he’s at a spa instead of a backyard wash.
Fabiana Farr’s voice continues to float up from my phone, her aria from the “Ballad of Pip” piercing the air. I lift the hose like a microphone, lip-syncing along until the phone dies mid-note.
The silence lingers. Then, without thinking, I keep singing. My voice carries across the drenched grass, pure and unrestrained. Edison sits perfectly still, ears pricked, as if I’ve given him a front-row seat.
When I finish, breathless, a long, slow clap startles me.
I look up to see Cameron standing on the terrace, freshly showered and wearing a white robe.
"How long were you standing there?"
"Long enough to see you've lied to me."
I tense. "About what?"
His eyes dance with amusement. "You're a secret water nymph, not a nanny. And you're corrupting my dog."
"Corrupting Edison? How so?"
"Edison gets bathed and clipped at Manhattan's most fashionable salons. Who do you think you are, hosing him down like a common canine?"
We both laugh, and Edison woofs to join in.
Cameron's faux stern facade cracks, and he walks toward me, laughing. "What do you say to some dinner? I'm starving."
"Opera divas don't cook," I retort playfully.
"Then let's scrounge up something together."
We head into the kitchen with Edison keeping pace behind us, his coat finally clean.
"Here you go, Ed," I say, unwrapping some of Mrs. Bellows' hamburger patties from their wax paper prison and putting them on fine china.
Cameron watches me as I take stock of the ingredients on offer. "Not much here for humans. Are you okay with cheese so gourmet I can't even pronounce the names? We even have grapes."
"Sounds great. Let's find the wine cellar and grab a few bottles."
"How do you know they have one?"
"Mrs. Bellows said so that first night, remember? Grab a flashlight in case the lighting's dim."
I do as he says, then follow him to the cellar.
The narrow stairwell forces me close behind him, his cologne mixed with damp stone air. Shadows from the flashlight make him look carved out of the dark.
“This is like something out of a gothic novel,” I whisper. "Do you recognize any of these wines? They don't seem like anything I'd see in a corner store."
He stops at a rack, brushing dust off a bottle. "Nice! I don't think the Abernathys will mind if we treat ourselves to this."
"You know wine?"
“Wine Spectator interviewed me once.”
Of course they did.
I watch as Cameron removes another bottle, this one so old it's caked in black slime.
“Oh my God, I’m not drinking that.”
“No problem. I will.” He tucks it under his arm and grabs a couple more.
Back upstairs, I set out bread, cheese, and grapes on the coffee table while he wipes the bottles down. Candles cast a soft glow across the room.
"This is a scene right out of Omar Khayyam."
"What's that? Some trendy downtown Manhattan bar?" I ask.
"No. A Persian poet. He's the one who said, 'All I need is wine, women and song.' Or maybe it was 'a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.’”
I laugh. "Do you recognize that those are two entirely different statements? In the second phrase, the man is obviously thinking about a special woman."
"I'll drink to that!" he says, raising his glass to me. "A salute to my new muse."
"Me? What did I do?"
"What muses usually do," he says cryptically. "Remember our talk at the cabin, and that song I sang to Posey today to calm her down?"
"Yes."
"That's going to be my new hit single."
"Pretty sure about that, aren't you, Mr. Rockstar?"
Cameron smirks. He takes a bottle and corkscrew, his strong hands working to ease out the cork. Then he pours the wine into glasses, the candlelight catching the deep burgundy liquid.
"Try it. I bet you'll like it," he says, raising the glass to me.
"Just a sip. I don't want to lose my head."
The wine tastes delicious on my tongue—rich, complex, intoxicating. I look up to see Cameron's eyes burning into me. Then he leans forward and kisses me.
The touch of his lips fills me with desire. The suppressed passion I felt for him when we were trapped in the cabin floods back with punishing intensity.
He pulls back slightly, his forehead against mine, breathing hard. "Tara," he says, his voice rough. "Before we... there's something we need to discuss."