"You did this," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "You challenged me to stop hiding behind formulas. Made me remember what authentic music feels like."
"I just told you what you already knew."
"No." I meet her eyes in the firelight. "You're my muse, Tara. That song exists because you opened something in me I thought was dead."
The words hang between us, weighted with more than professional gratitude. She's not just helping me find my artistic voice. Tara's helping me find myself.
Before either of us can speak, a beam of light cuts through the high window, sweeping across the cabin walls.
Car headlights.
"Cameron?! Tara!" Tom's voice carries through the still air. Our guide. Finally, back for us.
The rescue we've been waiting for now feels like an interruption.
CHAPTER 31
TARA
It's twilight by the time Tom turns up the driveway, bringing us back home after our arrowhead adventure. Though I had been hoping to chat with Cameron on the way home, he spent the entire ride on the phone with his record label.
His voice carried a confidence I hadn't heard before. Almost defiant as he spoke about "new directions" and "authentic material." Well, we'll see how that pans out.
With Posey asleep between us, I made use of the time by listening to "The Ballad of Pip" for the millionth time.
Even though Mr. Rudin treats me like an unneeded intern, I'm not giving up.
Once we reach the estate, Cameron's quick to scoop Posey into his arms. "I'll get her to bed."
"Mrs. Bixby's still visiting her sister," I remind him. "Do you know what 'putting a child to bed' even means?"
His brows shoot up as he grins. "You'll be surprised, Miss Thompson. But if you'll carry my guitar into the house, I'll be grateful."
I watch him disappear through the front door, Posey's small form cradled against his chest.
"Come on, Edison," I say to the black Lab as we approach the entrance.
At the front door, I drop Cameron’s guitar inside and glance at Edison. He’s caked with mud from paw to tail, waiting patiently like he knows what’s coming.
“Follow me,” I sigh, leading him around back toward the garden shed. No way Mrs. Bellows will forgive either of us if we track mud across her floors.
After placing my phone on a dry ledge, the sound of Fabiana Farr singing “The Ballad of Pip” pierces the dusky air. She's a bitch, but I must admit she's a damned talented singer.
“Okay, buddy. Showtime.”
I flip the switch marked sprinklers. Water erupts across the lawn in graceful arcs.
“Okay, let’s have some fun!” I dash toward the spray, laughing as the cool water soaks my muddy jeans.
Edison barrels in after me, rolling and shaking until the mud sluices from his coat.
When stubborn patches remain, I grab the garden hose, aiming at his paws. The Labrador submits with princely dignity, eyes half-closed as if he’s at a spa instead of a backyard wash.
Fabiana Farr’s voice continues to float up from my phone, her aria from the “Ballad of Pip” piercing the air. I lift the hose like a microphone, lip-syncing along until the phone dies mid-note.
The silence lingers. Then, without thinking, I keep singing. My voice carries across the drenched grass, pure and unrestrained. Edison sits perfectly still, ears pricked, as if I’ve given him a front-row seat.
When I finish, breathless, a long, slow clap startles me.
