"It's following us with our packages inside. Don't you see?"
She turns her head and smiles when she spots the Rolls-Royce a few paces behind.
We make our way toward India Street, and I spot a sign: "Nantucket Atheneum." I'd read about it during my pre-summer research.
But now I wish Cameron were discovering it with us.
I love watching the way his eyes light up when Posey learns something new. The pride that transforms his entire face.
I know he has important business to handle.But I still miss him. And I'm still curious about the text he received.
"Let's go to the library. Maybe they have picture books.”
"Oh! That sounds fun!" she says.
The building is all white stone and grandeur. Greek porticos. Grand, like a courthouse from the 1880s.
"Wow," says Posey, pausing. "Do you think we're dressed too brightly to go in?"
"Dressed too brightly?"
She shrugs. "Grandmama always said we need to wear dark, serious clothes to places like churches or government buildings."
"Well, no one's enforcing a dress code here. This is supposed to be a fun place. I bet there are other kids inside."
Cameron would probably laugh at the idea of a four-year-old worrying about library dress codes. I can almost hear his low chuckle, the way it rumbles in his chest when Posey says something quaint. God, I miss Cameron's voice already.
We walk up wide stone steps and enter.
Inside, the librarian looks up and gives us a polite smile.
"Hi," I say. "Where's the children's section?"
"Over there," she says, pointing. "But you'll have to be quiet—it's story time."
"Story time?" Posey echoes. "Do you think they might tell a story about a frog?"
The librarian laughs softly. "They might. You'll have to go find out. But remember—shhh," she adds, placing a finger to her lips.
Posey mimics the sound perfectly, sending it back to me with exaggerated seriousness. The gesture is so endearing I want to scoop her up and kiss her.
I take a mental picture of Posey to share with Cameron when we're at home later.
We follow the signs toward a cozy, colorful room full of low stools and toddler-height shelves. A woman is reading from a large picture book. Posey hesitates, then pulls at my arm.
"You come with me," she says, picking an empty spot near the front and tugging me down beside her.
Seven or eight other kids sit in a loose half-circle, all of them turning to stare at Posey.
For a moment, I see something flicker across her face. Uncertainty, maybe. The same unsure look I had walking into the opera break room. A stranger in a strange land.
The librarian finishes her story and closes the book.
"Well now," she says, offering Posey a kind smile, "looks like we have a newcomer. What's your name?"
I hold my breath. I've only known Posey for a few days. Is she the type to retreat under pressure or rise to it? Perhaps she'd inherited Cameron's instinct for reading a room. I wish he were here to guide her through this moment.
"My name is Posey Abernathy," she says clearly. "I'm four years old. This is my first time at this library. And I like it."
