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“Dev.” Ty reached across the desk and gripped Dev’s forearm. “We’re family. You’ve got a lot to shoulder, and although said shoulders are broad enough to cause all the twinks from here to Atlantic City to swoon—”
“Look who’s talking.”
“—they’re not broad enough to carry Home and everyone in it. What’s going on?”
Dev dropped his gaze to his hands. They used to speak—through his guitar, his songs, his music. But now? They couldn’t even balance the damn budget. “Nothing.”
“Dev.” Ty’s voice was edged with command.
Dev scowled up at him from under his brows. “Don’t use that tone with me. I’m not one of the dogs in your training classes.”
“Then stop acting like you need a trust refresher. Come on,” Ty said, coaxing. “Tell me.”
Dev scrubbed both hands over his face, the weight of his worries making him slump in the chair. “It’s…” He dropped his hands into his lap and met Ty’s concerned gaze. “The town isn’t pulling in enough for its maintenance. I’ve, uh, kind of been supplementing it. Out of the Harrison estate account.”
“What?” Ty punched Dev’s biceps. “That’s your inheritance. You can’t fritter it away on the town.”
“When you think about it, Home is our inheritance too. Do you imagine Persistence Harrison would have stood by and let the town and its people suffer if he could have done something about it? Hell, that’s the whole reason he founded Home—so anybody who didn’t fit in elsewhere because of who they were, or how they looked, or who they loved would be safe and happy.”
“Even Persistence didn’t pay everyone’s bills.”
Dev glared at Ty. “It was 1791. People were more self-sufficient then. There was no internet.” He shifted his glare to the monitor. “And no Port-a-Potties.”
“Granted. But how many times can your neighbor ask you to help them dig a privy before you tell them to bury their own shit?”
Dev pushed his chair back from the desk as though the distance would make him feel less trapped. It didn’t. “I get what you’re saying, Ty. I do. But times have changed. A couple of hams and a flat of strawberries cut no ice with cable companies or Vermont Electric.”
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you have to foot the bill for bringing the services to town.”
“No? If we want Home to survive, it needs to offer the kind of lifestyle that people can get in a bigger city.”
“I’m preeetty sure,” Ty drawled, “that if people wanted a big city lifestyle, they’d be, you know, living in a big city. Part of the reason people come to Home is to get away from that fuckery.”
“Tell that to all the kids who left for college and never came back. Our populace is aging, Ty, and even the aging populace is abandoning the place and looking for milder climates. If we can offer the charm of a small town with the conveniences of a city, then we might stop the hemorrhaging. Home has a history, a legacy, something that no other place in the country has. We just need to make sure other people know it. And to know it, they have to visit. And to visit, they need a reason.” He resolutely turned off the monitor. The scary red numbers would still be there the next time he looked. “At least the antique fair will bring in some traffic. People have been coming back to it every other year since the mid-70s.”
Ty screwed up his face. “Yeah, but last time the Inn was still open and they had a place to stay or catch a meal or grab a drink after a busy day of trying to talk vendors into reducing their prices. This time, the only thing in town is the Market, and while Kat’s espresso machine is kick-ass and her wine aisle rivals Burlington’s best, there’s really nothing else to keep them here.”
“I talked to Kat. She’s planning to offer ready-made sandwiches. Some of the high school kids’ll be helping her prep and serve.”
“Yeah, but she can’t offer anything more complicated than that. She’s got a deli counter, not a kitchen. And while she can sell unopened wine and beer, she can’t serve it. How likely is it that people won’t stow their authentic Shaker chairs into their SUVs and high-tail it back to the resort where they can enjoy bottomless bloody Marys and a hot tub?”
Dev narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about the bloody Marys, let alone the hot tubs?”
“Relax. I haven’t defected. But Pete’s better than a paparazzo when it comes to nosing out gossip. He reports back every time he gets an Uber or Lyft fare in Merrilton.”
The notion of Pete—Home’s grizzled, curmudgeonly jack-of-all-trades—eavesdropping on his riders was more than a little disturbing. “That’s another thing. Pete used to make a decent living here in Home. Now he has to hire himself out to people from the resort.”
“You ever think he might enjoy it?”
“Pete? He hates flatlanders.”
“He doesn’t hate them. He pities them for not being native Vermonters. If you’d ever take the time to talk with him—”
“I talk with him,” Dev protested. “I always have. The most he ever says is ‘Ayup.’”
“That’s because you only talk to him about the jobs. But never mind. My point is, we’ve got more trouble than the antique fair is likely to solve, no matter how many Port-a-Potties you order.” Ty slapped his thighs and stood. “By the way, if you see Randolph Scott around, grab him and text me, will you? It’s time for his rabies shot and he’s avoiding me.”
Dev lifted an eyebrow. “He’s a cat. He can’t possibly know what you intend.”
