Tomorrow we'll go back to being Cameron and his daughter's nanny. Professional. Distant. Safe. But tonight, for just a few hours, I'd felt like I belonged somewhere. Like I mattered to someone who mattered to the whole world.
I close my eyes and try to hold on to that feeling before it slips away completely.
CHAPTER 33
TARA
The chemical sting of mothproofing spray burns my nose as I hold up Fabiana’s elaborate navy jacket trimmed in gold.
Thank goodness I'm outdoors in the fresh air, or else the fumes might bring about my own demise.
Fabiana, in her usual imperious fashion, tossed her opening night costume to me and claimed moths were "breaking and entering" into her private wardrobe.
Then she ordered me to “kill them all.” Hopefully, this spray will deter the costume-munching insects.
My phone buzzes. Zaza's face fills the screen. "Hey, Nantucket girl," her voice crackles through the speaker. "Where are you? In the rockstar billionaire's arms?"
"I told you for the millionth time, I'm just the nanny," I say, hoping for a guileless tone.
"Right. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Cameron Jr. in the baby carriage." Zaza explodes in a cascade of laughter.
"Please stop," I say. "I'm trying to concentrate. You actually caught me at the Dreamland Theater."
"What are you doing? On stage, belting out that opening act song?"
"I'm just a drudge here. What's up with you?"
Zaza chews my ear off with Manhattan news. All the trendy clubs that have opened, descriptions of the hot new guys that joined the Equinox where she works.
"And if you ever want to leave your gorgeous rockstar and come back to Manhattan, there may be a place for you. Keesha's summer roommate may move out early."
"Why?"
"Who knows? My guess is that Keesha's too much of a neatnik. I gotta go."
I smile, glad to have Zaza and Keesha as friends. I miss them.
In the last few days, Cameron's taken on the role of friend and confidant to a large extent. We got close, as close as a man and a woman could be.
Then, just like that, he broke away. Damn.Why did I have to be a virgin?
To distract myself from obsessing over the rockstar, I hum the “Ballad of a Cabin Boy” aria once again.
I embellish this by imagining myself on stage, singing the aria to the Nantucket crowd on opening night.
Then I upscale the location and visualize myself singing the aria at the Met on its official debut in Manhattan this fall.
I let the fantasy swell—envisioning the evening so vividly I feel as if I’m there. A glittering Manhattan debut. Patrons in tuxedos and ballgowns. The spotlight burning hot on me. A program with my name printed in bold.
And in my mind’s eye, I see my father. Sitting in the exclusive balcony section with its perfect view of the stage. He’s leaning forward, proud, hands ready to clap.
At the finale, he rises, applauding with tears in his eyes. He shouts “bravo!” the way he used to when he took me to the opera as a child. My locket grows warm as I live out this fantasy.
The memory catches me off guard. My father’s been gone almost a decade, yet the thought of him seeing me there—claiming the stage as he always hoped I would—fills me with emotion.
That emotion comes through loud and clear as I reach the crescendo of the aria. I hold that high note so long glass could shatter.
Suddenly smelling the aroma of a freshly lit cigarette, I look up. Mr. Rudin exhales a plume of smoke, eyes narrowing on me.
