"I'll have everything FedExed over tomorrow."
I glance around—my guitar case leaning against the antique sofa, my cracked leather notebook tucked into my back pocket. "I never thought about it like this, but this here is all I really need."
She nods, understanding. "Call me."
And then she's gone, leaving me alone with a four-year-old and a house full of strangers.
CHAPTER 8
CAMERON
The silence stretches in the mansion's formal salon after Radha's departure. Now I'm alone with my four-year-old daughter and her stern Scottish nanny in a house that belongs to another century.
Posey sits perfectly upright on a burgundy velvet chair, her small hands folded on her navy pinafore. Mrs. Bixby stands nearby, looking uncertain whether to trust me with the child she's raised since infancy.
Edison breaks the quiet by padding over to Posey. Her serious expression softens as she reaches out to stroke his ears.
"Mrs. Bixby, is it lunchtime? I'm hungry."
"Of course, Miss Posey. Cook can prepare your usual?—"
"Actually," I interrupt as I stand, "maybe we should go out for brunch. Get some fresh air."
"Dine out?" Mrs. Bixby's Scottish accent sharpens. "Of course, sir, I'll just grab my things."
"Thank you, Mrs. Bixby, but that won't be necessary. It will be a father and daughter adventure."
Edison woofs.
"With our dog," says Posey. I like the way she says "with our dog."
"Yes. Of course."
"But are you accustomed to handling young children, Mr. Crow?" she says.
"Posey doesn't strike me as much of a child. She looks quite capable of handling herself. Right, Posey?"
"Right! I'll be right back." Posey disappears, returning moments later with a cream cardigan draped over her arm and a small straw hat.
"I'm ready," she announces. "And I know exactly where we should go for lunch. The Patriot Café. Grandmother always said it's important to maintain one's presence there each week."
Edison barks once, tail wagging at the mention of going on an adventure. I notice a gleaming white Rolls-Royce waiting in the circular drive outside the window.
"That's the car of our estate," Mrs. Bixby says, noticing the direction of my gaze. "You're free to use it. The driver's name is Henry."
Once we're outside, Henry holds the door of the Rolls-Royce. Edison bounds ahead, clearly excited about a car ride.
"Henry, this is my new daddy," Posey announces to the driver with matter-of-fact politeness.
"We're going to the Patriot Café."
"Very good, Miss Posey," Henry replies with practiced formality. "Sir."
I slide into the leather interior beside Posey while Edison claims the opposite window.
The moment we move, Edison's massive head disappears outside, ears flapping in the salty breeze.
The Rolls glides through Nantucket's narrow streets lined with weathered shingle houses. Red geraniums bloom from windowsills. Postcard perfect.
