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“An addition-to event, a draw for the antique crowd plus. A crossover event that’ll benefit Home and the resort. Make us partners, not adversaries.”
Hope, that herbicide-resistant bastard, sprouted once more. “What did you have in mind?”
Casey clasped his hands under his chin. “A food and music festival.”
Dev blinked. “Wait a sec. You want to cook for people?”
Casey rolled his eyes. “Of course not. We don’t want to turn Home into the murder capital of Vermont. But think about it. I may not be a chef myself, but over the years, I’ve met dozens of people in the restaurant industry. Sylvia’s got connections, too, and Kat’s network of local growers and suppliers is intense. One of my friends from business school got into food trucks, and I’ll bet I can tap her resources.”
Dev could almost see it in his mind’s eye. “That… might actually work.”
“Of course it will. You were in a band, right?” Casey wrapped his arms around Dev’s waist. “Did you keep up any of your connections?”
“Some,” Dev said cautiously. The only bridges he’d actually burned were with Nash and POV.
“Fantastic! At this late date, we’d probably need to focus on the local music scene, but that’s all to the good, right? We can call it Home Grown Tastes and Tunes.”
That does it. Game over.
Dev toppled straight off the cliff and into full immersion love. He picked Casey up and planned a kiss on his mouth.
“You may never be a chef, Casey, but you’re brilliant. I’m all in. What do we do next?”
Before Casey could answer, Randolph Scott uttered a muffled mew. The two of them looked down in time to see him drop a dead mouse next to Dev’s foot.
Casey let his forehead fall onto Dev’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose we can prevent him from killing rodents for the festival?”
“Don’t press your luck, babe. One miracle per summer is the best we can hope for, and if we pull off the festival, that’ll fill our quota.”
Casey peered around the newel post and through the archway into the living room. Kat Hathaway sat in the Kennedy rocker next to the fireplace, right below Home’s framed town charter, staring fixedly out the window. Sylvia was about as far away from her as possible, sitting bolt upright on the threadbare Victorian loveseat, a magazine in her lap. She was not turning the pages.
The pitcher of iced tea on its enamel tray was untouched on the coffee table, its attendant tumblers empty. He’d hoped for a little mutual beverage interaction, but that clearly hadn’t happened.
He sighed, wishing Dev were here for moral support, but he’d retired to his cottage to start working his music contacts. As the person in charge of the food half of the festival, Casey really needed to get Kat and Sylvia behaving like allies, not adversaries, and their… competitive inattention didn’t bode well for his plan.
He scuttled backward before either one of them spotted him and took a moment, standing next to the console table by the staircase where he’d left the tray of canapes—puff pastry topped with goat cheese, thinly sliced radishes, and microgreens.
He’d asked Sylvia to make them this morning to demonstrate them for him. She’d been mystified but had complied. Of course, he hadn’t divulged where precisely he’d procured the goat cheese, microgreens, and the radishes, even when she’d expressed her awe and delight over the quality and freshness. She’d assumed he’d called in a favor from one of his father’s suppliers.
He’d quickly changed the subject. Maybe he’d felt a tad guilty about misleading by redirection, but all in a good cause.
He picked up the tray and marched into the living room. “Good afternoon,” he said brightly. “Thank you both so much for agreeing to meet with me.” He approached Kat and held out the tray. “Would you like a canape? Goat cheese, radishes, and microgreens on puff pastry.”
She took one, its parchment liner crinkling in her fingers. “Don’t mind if I do.”
He slid the tray on the table in front of Sylvia, who set her magazine aside and took a canape with a smile directed expressly at Casey. He poured three glasses of tea and handed them around.
“All set? Excellent. Now.” He sat down next to Sylvia and schooled his expression into seriousness, not hard to do considering he didn’t need air conditioning with the chill the two of them were blasting. “I’ve got some bad news to share with you both.”
“Bad news?” Kat set her tea on the marble coaster on the table at her elbow. “It’s not Dev, is it?”
“No. He’s fine. But I’m afraid there’s a threat to our town. A big one.” His palms were sweating, so he laced his fingers together and clamped his folded hands between his knees. “The Fair Fair is a no-go.”
Sylvia jerked, ice tinkling in her glass. “What?”
“How?” Kat’s expression was thunderous. “And what the hell is Dev gonna do with all those Port-a-Potties?”
“As to what and how, the reasons aren’t important. Casting blame is irrelevant and unproductive.” He flicked his gaze between both women. “At some point, we just have to buckle down and solve the problem. Which brings me to why I invited you both here together. I’ve got a solution to the excess of Port-a-Potties, but it’s going to require the two of you to cooperate closely, because we don’t have much time if we expect to save Home.”
