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Dev’s fingers hovered over the keypad. What would happen if he did skip it? If it was so important, surely he’d get some kind of warning or inquiry. In response, he could apologize for the late payment and put it back on autopay, but at least he’d have a clue what he was autopaying for.
His gaze caught on the time display in the corner of the monitor. Half-past two. He’d be safe from encountering Casey for at least another two hours because he’d checked in with Sylvia this morning to find out what today’s lesson was. Roast duck? No way would Casey be free from that until well after six, possibly later.
Just to be safe, though, Dev could close up here by four and head into Merrilton. Maybe pop in at the resort and chat with Shira, the manager, about the antique fair. Green Mountain Shadows had only been open for the last two biennial fairs, but in both instances, Shira directed resort guests out to Home for the event, promoting it as a local activity. In fact, she’d told Dev several times that occupancy was at a peak during the weeks before and after the fair because some guests were repeaters, and planned their vacations around the fair.
Then he could mope into a beer for a couple of hours while he listened to whichever local garage band was murdering Queen and Beatles covers onstage at the Station Tavern.
He rubbed the tips of his fingers absently. He’d lost his guitar calluses long ago, and the hours he’d spent the last two nights playing and composing had left them tender. He hadn’t noticed it then, falling into the zone, immersed in the music as he hadn’t been since Garlan and Grandfather died and he’d left POV.
In truth, the hours had passed in a heartbeat, just as they always had, and his sore fingertips were the only evidence of exactly how much time he’d played.
God, he’d missed music. If the debacle with Casey had done nothing else for him, at least it had brought him back to his guitar. Sometimes the only way he could process any strong emotion was by writing about it, singing about it, and he hadn’t done that even once since the accident.
Fuck, had he ever really grieved?
He’d gotten the call from Ty as the band was rehearsing for a gig at the biggest venue they’d yet played. He could still recall Ty’s voice, choked with tears. The shape of his cell phone in his hand, the pressure of it against his ear. The scuff mark on the toe of his left boat shoe. The snort of Eli’s laughter over one of Owen’s incessant pranks, backed by Nash’s petulant demand for Dev’s attention.
But he couldn’t remember crying. He couldn’t remember anything at all, from the call until he’d arrived in Home. It was almost as though he’d stepped into a time warp: One minute he’d been at the rehearsal studio and the next he’d been stepping out of Pete’s truck in front of Harrison House, the snow crunching under his feet.
He’d forgotten there would be snow.
The cold seeping in through his Sperrys, the wind cutting through a denim jacket suitable for LA in January but not for Home—those he remembered. And his fingers, so stiff in the icy darkness that he’d been certain if he tried to move them, even to do something as familiar as fold them around the neck of his guitar, that they’d crack. Break right off at the knuckle.
Ty had been waiting for him on the porch. So had Kenny. Kat. Sylvia. Dev had hugged each of them in turn, their tears dampening the denim of his jacket, the cotton of his T-shirt, making him colder still.
But his own face had stayed dry and unmoving, as though paralyzed at the moment of Ty’s call.
Because the one thing he remembered feeling then was anger. Anger at Garlan for passing the burden of Home onto Dev’s shoulders, shoulders that could never be broad enough to carry the weight. Anger at his grandfather for schooling Garlan in estate management, but not Dev. He’d even been angry at Ty, at Kenny, at Sylvia, at Pete—hell, at the whole town. At everyone who expected him to step in, take charge, be enough.
He’d never had time to grieve.
“Christ,” he muttered brokenly. “Did I really never cry for them?”
He scrubbed his hands over his face, because he didn’t have time for it now either. Because Casey’s fucking fiancé had brought up something Dev had been trying to ignore for the last year and a half.
The town was dying. On his watch.
Land-rich and cash poor. That’s what that asshole Pillsbury had said, and it was true. Persistence’s grandson had started the tradition: If anyone who lived in Home decided to move on, to seek a different life elsewhere, the Harrisons would purchase their land, their dwelling, and keep it in trust to let or sell to the next person who needed Home.
Dev had sixteen properties on the estate rolls now, and only five of them were occupied. The eleven empty places returned nothing to the coffers yet continued to consume maintenance and upkeep resources.
Grandfather had always insisted on that. All Harrison properties must be meticulously preserved, so they’d be ready for the next person who moved in, the next person who needed a soft landing. Summers spent on repairs and renovations, autumns raking leaves and cleaning gutters, winters chopping wood and shoveling snow, springs pruning trees and prepping garden beds—Dev had done it all.
He hadn’t done it alone, though. There’d been his dad and Ty’s dad, Garlan and Grandfather, Kenny’s folks, Mitch’s mom, to work alongside him and Ty and Kenny and Mitch.
But all the Harrisons except Ty and Dev were gone now, as was Mitch’s mom. Kenny’s folks had retired to Arizona—about as opposite from Vermont as you could get. Ty and Kenny had their own businesses to run, and Mitch had left more than a decade ago, hightailing it out of Home like his ass was on fire right after high school.
Without them, Dev was hanging on by his fingernails. Barely. Home needed people, but his family had always maintained that some people—the right people—needed Home more. That’s who they kept those houses ready for. But without the funds to maintain them, they would be just as unusable as if they didn’t belong to the Harrisons anymore.
Would it really be so terrible to sell off a couple of those places—not Harrison House; never Harrison House—but maybe the places furthest out, the ones closest to Merrilton? Dev could use the money to hire real contractors, a real property manager. The vacation rental game had changed completely in the last few years. Maybe enrolling one or two properties with one of those outfits would at least bring in some very necessary income.
But what if somebody really needed those places? Dev snorted. It wasn’t as though Home would suddenly be overrun by displaced people, like it had been back in the day. Didn’t he owe it to the people who were here, the ones who already belonged, to preserve the town for them?
He remembered Bradley’s shiny car, his disregard for the lawn, his disparaging remarks about change. If Dev sold any of his family’s properties to that dickhead, they sure wouldn’t be preserved. The guy was a slick operator, for sure. He’d probably find some way to circumvent the zoning laws, subdivide the land, tear down the buildings that were his family’s heritage and throw up something as soulless as a meat locker.
Those red numbers bored into him and he pressed his fingers against his eyes. If he didn’t do something, the situation might be moot. Home would be gone, because Dev couldn’t find a way to save it.
Do the needs of the many outweigh the needs of my own fucking ego?
