Chapter 44
TARA
Ihold the final note for what seems like a thousand years.
It takes all my strength, all my focus, to make that note resonate.
I know I have power in my voice. Mr. Rudin recognized it too.
But to really drive the passion and angst in the aria home, I channel the character of Pip.
I imagine his rage after suffering abuse by the captain and crew on that whaling vessel.
I bring to mind the night that Mr. Johnson dared attack me. And the helplessness I felt when that juvenile hall guard tried to violate me in my cell when I was just fourteen.
Like Pip, I was nearly defenseless to fight back.
But I survived.
And now I'm fighting back with my voice. I’m letting it express the rage I've been holding back all this time.
I'm so caught up in the heat of the moment that when I finish my aria, time seems to have passed in seconds.
The next thing I know, the stagehand is yanking the curtain closed.
In moments, the roar of applause fades into the muffled hum of guests leaving for the post-performance afterparty in the lobby.
“You did great, honey,” Mindy whispers, slipping me a water bottle as I stagger backstage. “Better than Fabiana herself.”
My throat is raw, my body shaking, but the music still hums through my bones.
Around me, the cast breaks formation—laughter, embraces, the heady spill of adrenaline.
Even that sarcastic woman, who’d side-eyed me since day one, grabs me in a fierce hug.
“You were excellent, Tara. More than excellent. That voice belongs at the Met itself—not just here on the island.”
“High praise. Thank you,” I say, faking a smile.
I want a moment to myself, a breath of silence—but the stagehands are already herding us toward the wings.
“Mr. Rudin wants us out front. Benefactors. Big wallets,” says a fellow troupe member.
Of course. Opera isn’t just art—it’s business.
I smooth a hand over the cabin boy’s costume I’m still wearing, the sweat-damp fabric clinging to my skin.
No time to change. No chance to disappear.
So I follow the others toward the lobby lights, pulse still racing, bracing for whatever waits beyond the curtain.
The backstage hallway funnels us into the lobby.
Here the audience is already lounging in velvet seats, clinking glasses at the bar. The air is thick with perfume and champagne, all chatter and applause.
I tug at the collar of my costume—still damp, still binding me into a boy’s frame—but it hardly matters. No one here sees me as a boy.
They see me as the soprano who just stole the stage.
Mr. Rudin is already circling, shaking hands, bowing, collecting compliments like tiny jewels.
“Remember,” he whispers to me in passing. “Smile, stay visible. Tonight is for donors. Eyes open—this is where futures are made.”
I agree that it's true for my career goals. But as far as my heart, the future feels more fragile than ever.
The future I dared to imagine with Cameron and Posey. One wrong step, and Jason can claim her.
The crowd shifts, and then I see them. Cameron—tall, too handsome, every line of his tux pressed sharp. Beside him, Posey, hair ribbons bobbing as she bounces with excitement.
They’re flanked by Mrs. Bixby’s rigid frame and Mrs. Bellows’s softer one. For a second, my knees nearly give.
I hadn’t let myself believe they’d be here—not really.
“Tara!” Posey’s voice cuts through the din. She wriggles free of Mrs. Bixby and barrels toward me.
“You were incredible! Seeing you sing about a whale was even better than seeing you get spit out by a whale.”
I drop to my knees, catching her in my arms.
“You’re going to be famous!” she squeals, her curls brushing my cheek. I laugh, breathless, dizzy from the sudden weight of her affection.
When I rise, Cameron is there. He doesn’t lunge, doesn’t embrace—paparazzi are everywhere. But his firm hand finds mine.
The look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d be singing in Fabiana’s place?” he demands.
“I wanted to. But with the paternity suit, I thought it could pose a risk. But you’re here tonight! How did that come to be?”
“Miss Swain invited me and insisted I bring my entire household. She wouldn’t say why—only that we had to be here.”
“I’m glad she did,” I say, glancing toward the edge of the crowd where two society photographers swirl among the well-dressed crowd “Even if this isn’t exactly safe.”
Cameron’s jaw flexes. “Nothing about this has been safe.”
For a moment, we just stand there. Heat spikes through me—sharp and dangerous. I want to kiss him right here, consequences be damned. But before I can move, a shadow falls across us. “Tara, a moment?”
I turn to see Mr. Rudin beaming, one hand gripping the elbow of a distinguished-looking man in a seersucker suit. Cameron steps away. “This is Kenneth Kane,” he announces. “The theater critic for The New York Times.”
My stomach flips. The critic. The one I’d heard whispers about—always more rumor than reality. Once we greet one another, Mr. Rudin smiles. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”
Mr. Kane studies me with the kind of detached curiosity that makes my stomach knot. His corny seersucker suit looks like it came straight out of an old black-and-white movie.
Yet his eyes are sharp, alert—taking in everything.
“You handled that stage with rare conviction,” he says. “Your voice—crystal, but not brittle. Emotion carried every note. I’d like to believe I’ll be hearing it again, on a much larger stage.”
I swallow hard. “Thank you, sir. That means more than I can say.”
He tips his head. “May our photographer take a few shots? The Times would like a record of tonight.”
My heart lurches. “Of course.”
The photographer arrives, camera swinging at his chest. He’s already waving me toward a space near the staircase.
I pose—awkward at first, then stronger as the flash pops.
I can feel eyes on me—donors, patrons, strangers. My heart soars to see Cameron watching me with Posey by his side, pride etched across both their faces.
“Is that your family?” the photographer asks suddenly, glancing at Cameron and Posey. “Would you like them in the shot as well?”
I think of Jason and how he’d twist this to suit his objective.
Cameron and I had already agreed: the less we’re seen together, the better—for Posey’s sake.
“Thanks, but no.”
“Reconsider, please. It always makes for a stronger feature if we can show a singer’s roots.”
When I glance at Posey, her hopeful smile disarms me completely. She’s overheard Mr. Kane’s offer of a family photo and is already tugging at Cameron’s sleeve, as if begging him to say yes.
“Okay,” I hear myself say, voice steady, even though my heart is hammering. “Why not?”
Posey squeals and rushes forward, her tiny arms wrapping around my waist.
Cameron’s eyes cut to mine. In them, I see surprise. Then understanding. As if to say: Forget Jason. Let’s memorialize this magic moment.
He takes his place by my side.
Mr. Kane signals to the photographer. “Perfect. Hold just like that.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Mrs. Bixby hovers nearby, her face tight and unreadable.
But Mrs. Bellows’s face seems to reflect a thousand emotions: pride, happiness—and something I can’t name.
She rummages frantically in her oversized handbag until she unearths a crumpled tissue and dabs at her eyes.
I try to smile through the glare of the camera, but my chest twists. Why is she crying like this? It’s Moby Dick, not a sentimental tragedy like La Bohème.
Time passes. The crowd thins.
I notice Mrs. Bellows blotting her eyes with the now ragged tissue.
“Mrs. Bellows? Are you all right?”
She startles, as if caught. “Oh—yes, dear. Just proud, that’s all. You’ve done well tonight.”
Her voice cracks halfway through. She turns quickly, shoulders stiff. Her tissue is soaked through.
I frown. Before I can press her, Cameron steps to my side.
“Let’s get Posey settled. Too much excitement for one night.”
We move, but heavy footsteps follow.
“Wait,” Mrs. Bellows says, her voice low, urgent. “Mr. Crow. Miss Tara. Please.”
Cameron signals to Mrs. Bixby to keep Posey close, then returns to me. Mrs. Bellows stands near a velvet bench, wringing the limp tissue between her hands.
“I shouldn’t say this,” she whispers. “I swore I never would. Jason… he was like my own boy. I raised him after my Michael died.”
Before Mrs. Bellows continues, she breaks down again into a torrent of tears.
“Continue,” I say softly.
Mrs. Bellows collects herself. Then she looks up at both of us.
“Seeing Posey tonight, smiling like that, the affection you all share… well, I can’t keep quiet anymore.”
Cameron leans in, steady. “Go on.”
Her eyes glisten.
“Jason has been stealing. For years. It started with small things when he was a boy—his parents’ cash, valuable knickknacks—but it grew.
Partnerships. Investments. Mr. Abernathy hushed it up, paid his debts, anything to keep it quiet.
That’s why Jason was cut off. At first, he’d grovel to get back in their good graces, and they would give in.
But then it would happen all over again. ”
The words land like blows. My pulse roars in my ears. I knew it had to be something like that.
Mrs. Bellows dabs her nose, shaking.
“I’ve loved him like blood—but he’s not fit to raise a child. Not Posey. He’d squander the fortune she inherited, leaving nothing for her when she’s grown. Worse, I’m worried he’d mistreat or ignore her. And I couldn’t bear to see that happen to such a sweet girl.”
Beneath Cameron’s cool, controlled facade, I’m sure he must be stunned.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bellows,” he says. “I imagine how hard this is for you.”
She winces. “I didn’t want to tell you. I was hoping a smart man like you would find a way to use this information to keep custody of Posey. But at the same time, avoid blackening my Jason’s name…”
As if Jason’s name isn’t black enough, I think.
“I don’t think that will be possible,” Cameron says carefully. “The judge needs to know all the details you shared with us. Otherwise, Jason has a very real chance of getting custody of Posey.”
Her eyes swing to me. “Tara, is that true?”
“Yes,” I say softly. “Without your testimony—and any evidence you might have—Jason could win custody.”
Mrs. Bellows crumples onto the bench, head bowed. A moment later, she collapses into another wave of sobs.
Cameron puts his hand on mine.
Will Mrs. Bellows agree to testify?
Her answer could decide everything.