The contrast between Mrs. Bixby and Mrs. Bellows is remarkable. Where Mrs. Bellows is plump and warm, bony Mrs. Bixby looks like she thrives on pencil shavings and sawdust.
"I suppose I should welcome you to the house," Mrs. Bixby says, looking me up and down.
"Tara!" Posey shouts joyfully, dropping her things at the door. She rushes to hug my legs. "You're here! We'll have so much fun together."
Mrs. Bixby moves toward us, gathering Posey's abandoned sweater. "Come, Posey, it's time to get cleaned up for dinner."
"I want Tara to help me get ready!" Posey declares.
"Tara doesn't know where your things are."
"Then she'll learn! Come this way, Tara. I want to introduce you to Mr. Frog."
I glance at Mrs. Bixby to gauge how she's taking this sudden shift in Posey's loyalty. Not well, judging by how her thin lips press together.
"Show me the way, Posey."
Posey takes my hand and leads me back up the stairs to the connecting bathroom she shares with Mrs. Bixby.
"This is where I wash my hands before dinner," Posey announces, stepping onto a small white wooden stool at the marble sink.
"I wash my face here before bed, too. Then Grandma would read me bedtime stories. She read them to Mr. Frog, too."
"What kind of stories?"
She shrugs. "Beautiful princesses rescued by handsome princes. Heroes like my new father."
The image of Cameron saving Salty's life flashes through my mind. God, he was magnificent.
Most rockstars would have called 911 and posed for selfies. But Cameron dove in without hesitation. Like saving lives is just another day for him.
"Can I introduce you to Mr. Frog now?"
I follow her into the bedroom, where she retrieves a plush frog from the top of her pillow.
"Mr. Frog, meet Tara, my new nanny."
"I'm not your new nanny, Posey. I'm just helping Mrs. Bixby for a few weeks."
"How long is that?"
"Enough time for us to have lots of fun." I lightly touch her nose, then shake Mr. Frog's plush forelimb. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Frog."
Posey drags me to her closet, which looks like a costume department for a period drama. Her grandmother must have treated Posey like a living doll.
"Do you always dress for dinner?"
"Yes, always." She says it as if it's the most natural thing in the world for a four-year-old.
"Which one is your favorite?"
A naughty glint sparkles in her eyes. "This one," she says, reaching for a dress at the very edge of her closet. "It's the dress Grandmama lets me wear when we paint together."
It's a cute smock-like dress with colorful printed easels on it.
"Okay. Let's get you into it."
When I finish buttoning her up, I spin her toward her little dresser mirror. "I pronounce you 'dressed for dinner.’ Now what?"
