"Don't mind her," says a friendly-looking woman, making herself tea. "Fabiana's rude to everyone. I'm Mindy. Violin."
"I'm Tara."
I look up at her. "How do you know my name?"
"We all know your name. Miss Swain is your benefactor. We were told to bow and scrape at your heels."
"She's not my benefactor. But if Miss Swain really said to give me preferential treatment, your troupe has a strange way of showing it."
Mindy laughs. "Touche. True enough. We're from the Met in New York. We're an ornery bunch. Rebellious. None of us like being told what to do, especially Mr. Rudin."
"He seemed nice enough."
"Only because part of his job is to please the benefactors and make sure the big bucks keep rolling in."
When the break ends, I settle into my back-row seat. Mindy set the record straight, and reality hit hard.
I'm not building a career connection here—I'm filling time until the real professionals finish their work.
When rehearsal ends, Henry picks me up and takes me back to the mansion. A sense of exhaustion washes over me.
I’d come to Nantucket partly to connect with the Met opera troupe. And I got lucky with Miss Swain making the right introduction.
But with Fabiana Farr’s derision and Mr. Rudin’s indifference, I can’t help but wonder—what’s the point of being on the inside if no one actually sees you?
CHAPTER 23
TARA
Posey and I sit across from each other chatting lightly at breakfast. After three days in this grand house, the formal dining room is feeling less intimidating and more like home.
"What should we do today, Posey?"
"Can we go shopping like you promised yesterday?" She reaches across the table to touch the thick denim of my jeans with curious fingers. "You said I could buy clothes like yours."
"Shopping is a lovely idea."
She nods enthusiastically, then hesitates before asking her next question. The way she tilts her head reminds me so much of Cameron when he's considering something serious.
"On TV, little girls have mommies who live in their houses. Since you live in my house, can you be my mommy?"
My heart clenches. I set down my coffee cup carefully, buying myself a moment to find the right words.
"You have a Daddy Cameron," I say gently.
"It's not the same. I want a mommy too." She juts out her lower lip and crosses her little arms in defiance.
The gesture is so endearingly stubborn that I suppress a smile. "Well, we'll go shopping. And we'll take the rest step by step."
I stand and begin clearing the dishes from the breakfast table.
"You don't have to do that. Mrs. Bellows always does that."
"Right. But we're the ones who ate the food. It's polite to take our dishes back to the kitchen and do our share."
Posey considers this for a moment. Then, she carefully picks up her plate and juice glass and follows me into the kitchen.
"Thanks for helping," Mrs. Bellows says gratefully as we appear in the doorway, her round face lighting up with surprise and approval.
