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.
