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Sylvia blinked at her. “Really?”
Pink infused Kat’s narrow face. “Well, it’s possible I might have jumped to conclusions. But I like to think I can admit when I’m wrong.”
“If anybody can appreciate starting over, it’s me.” Sylvia held out her hands. Casey grasped one immediately and Kat only hesitated a second before she did the same. Sylvia squeezed once and then let go, expression turning businesslike. “What’s your plan, Casey?”
“I’m putting my lessons on hold for the foreseeable”—thank goodness for an excuse—“so I can focus on organizing a new event for Home. A food and music festival to take place the same weekend as the antique fair. Which, by the way, is occurring, but in Merrilton in conjunction with the resort.” When both women opened their mouths, Casey held up both hands. “Don’t ask. Once again, not important. We’ve only got five weeks to pull this together. Dev’s handling the music side. But”—he clasped his hands under his chin—“please, please, please can I count on the two of you to co-chair the food options?”
“Just tell us what you need.” Kat shared a tight smile with Sylvia. “We’ll make it happen.”
“Absolutely,” Sylvia said.
“Thank you.” He faced Sylvia. “You’ve still got connections in the restaurant business, right? And not just in Manhattan. All over the Northeast?”
She nodded slowly. “Yeeesss. But the higher profile chefs won’t have much to do with me.”
“Good.” When she raised her eyebrows, he grimaced. “Sorry. I don’t mean it’s good that they won’t speak to you. I mean we’re not looking for high-end people. Home isn’t a high-end place. It’s comfortable. Charming. Homey. We want vendors who fit that profile.”
“Okay,” she said, a tiny frown pinching her brows and her mind clearly sorting through her mental Rolodex.
“Furthermore, we want vendors who’ll work with local ingredients, local suppliers.” Casey turned to Kat. “That’s where you come in, Kat. I don’t want us to focus only on prepared foods. I’d like the ingredients around too. A farmers’ market feel. Maybe collaborations between some of the growers and some of the chefs. Like… buy your bread from the baker’s stand, your veggies from the grower’s stand, and your cold cuts from the sausage maker, then have it all put together by a chef who can put a spin on the sandwich with sides and sauces. Maybe make it a competition—who can make the best sandwich. I don’t know. But I’m betting you two can come up with a dynamite formula.”
As Sylvia and Kat gazed at each other, Kat drumming her fingers on her knees and Sylvia gnawing the inside of her cheek, Casey held his breath. He nearly passed out before they grinned at one another.
“Hell, yeah.” Kat held out her hand this time. “Partners?”
Sylvia shook it. “Partners.”
Casey let his breath out in a whoosh. “Oh, thank heavens. By the way, I’ll give you the contact info for one of my business school friends. They’ve got a line on at least half a dozen food trucks who might want in on the fun.” He stood up. “I’ve got to go talk to Kenny about building the stage and the booths for us now. Can I leave everything in your hands?”
“Sure thing,” Kat said.
“You can ping me any time you want, and we’ll have regular meetings with the whole group, but I trust you both to bring it all together.”
As he left, Kat was pouring them both more iced tea and Sylvia had pulled a notepad out of her handbag. Casey practically skipped out the front door, mentally patting himself on the back. Randolph Scott joined him on the porch, thankfully dead rodent free.
“Come on, cat. Let’s go see Kenny.” Casey headed down the sidewalk toward Kenny’s shop, Randolph Scott trotting along beside him, tail up. He looked down at the cat. “Participation. That’s the key. But if we keep the barrier to entry as low as possible, we ought to be able to attract—”
His cell phone buzzed with an incoming call, and he frowned. Had Kat and Sylvia reached an impasse already? But when he pulled the phone out of his pocket, the number was flagged as Unknown. At least it’s not Bradley. Casey didn’t think Bradley was inventive enough—and certainly way too arrogant—to try to disguise his number.
“Casey Friel,” he said.
“Casey. Is that who… Oh, yeah.” The man’s rough, staccato voice was unfamiliar. “Joe Rintoul here. I understand you’re in charge of this event… What is it? Where’s the fucking…” Paper rustled on the other end of the line. “Oh. Here it is. Home Grown Tastes and Tunes?”
Casey shared a wide-eyed gaze with Randolph Scott. That was quick. It hadn’t even been forty-eight hours since he’d proposed the event to Dev. “Yes, that’s correct. Are you a chef?”
“What?” He barked a laugh. “Not me. No, I’m a manager. I represent Persistence of Vision, and they’re interested in performing at your little shindig.”
Casey sucked in a breath. “POV?” he squeaked. “Really?” Having a name act like POV would certainly put them on the map, but… “Does the band understand that this will be a very small event at an outdoor venue? We can’t possibly hope to compete with their usual engagements.” He grimaced. “And I know we can’t afford their booking fee.”
“Trust me, I pointed that out to them. But for some reason, they want to do it. And they’ll settle for room and board, a modest upfront fee”—he named a figure, which was actually less than Casey and Dev had discussed for all the acts—“and ten percent of the take.”
“Two,” Casey said. “This event is a fundraiser for the town. The acts are here for exposure, not a big payday.”
From the muffled conversation, Joe must have put his hand over his phone. Casey held his breath again. If he kept this up, he’d need to start packing his own oxygen tank. But if they said yes…
Before Casey could pass out from oxygen deprivation, Joe was back on the line. “Listen, I’ll get back to you. Gimme your email.”
“O-okay.” Casey was a little leery of stepping out of his food lane and into Dev’s music bailiwick, but POV! Surely Dev would be happy about it, and with all the empty properties on the Harrison roster, the room and board shouldn’t be a problem either.
