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Across the field stood the stage that was poised to welcome the musicians tomorrow, including Dev’s old band—and how had he not known that Dev was a founding member of POV? Booths already lined Main Street, ready for the vendors’ arrival. Bunting had appeared overnight, stretched across the green, announcing Home Grown Tastes and Tunes.
Casey made a mental note to thank Kenny for that touch. He’d intended to commission something like it from Artists United, but Kenny had volunteered to spearhead the decorations, including wrangling the contentious artists. He’d turned into an awesome partner for infrastructure, just as Pete had for logistics. The entire town had embraced the new event.
I fit in here. I do. I’m not extraneous like I was to my dad and even to Uncle Walt. And I’m not leaving unless they chase me out with a pitchfork.
Harrison House was too big for one person, but even if Dev didn’t want Casey in the cottage, there were other vacant properties. Casey could sell his co-op in Manhattan and buy one of them. One way or another, he was staying.
And one way or another, he was holding onto the relationship he was building with Dev.
A horn blared insistently from the driveway, jolting Casey out of his reverie. He lurched to his feet.
“That had better not be Bradley,” he muttered.
When he cleared the side of the house, though, instead of Bradley’s Lexus, a stretch limo stood in front of the porch. The liveried driver, a decidedly sour expression on his face, was unloading luggage from the trunk while a familiar man—all tight tank, tattoos, leather pants, and sulky bad boy rocker looks—leaned into the driver’s door.
Nash freaking Tambling—Dev’s ex, as Casey now knew—laid on the horn again. “Where the fuck is everybody?”
A guy in a loose tie, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, blotted his forehead with a handkerchief as he trotted down the porch steps. “Take it easy, Nash. I’m sure they’ll be here soon. We weren’t scheduled to arrive until—”
“I don’t give a shit, Joe.” He glared at shirt-sleeve guy. “You’re our fucking manager. So fucking manage it.”
Casey pasted on a smile and hurried over to Joe. “Hello. You must be Joe Rintoul.” He held out his hand. “I’m Casey Friel. We spoke on the phone.”
Joe shook Casey’s hand, his palm damp. “Right, right. Are our rooms ready? We’re a little early.”
Casey managed—just—to keep from wiping his hand on his jeans. “Not to worry. I’m sure we can get you settled soon. You’ll be staying here at Harrison House.”
Nash sneered at Casey. “Is all the staff as incompetent as you? Maybe the rest of the band is staying here”—he cast a dismissive glance at Harrison House—“but I’ll be staying elsewhere.”
“Really?” Casey glanced between Nash and Joe as three other men boiled out of the rear of the limo. “Did you decide to stay in Merrilton instead? If so, I hope you’ve already booked your rooms, because from what I hear, there’s not a reservation to be had within twenty miles.”
Nash scowled. “Of course I’m not staying in Merrilton, although it’s better than this dump.”
“What are you talking about, Nash?” One of the others—a bear of a white guy with shaggy blond hair who Casey recognized from the band’s publicity stills as Owen Mosley, POV’s drummer—bounded over and shook Casey’s hand. “This is awesome. I loved this house when we stayed here with Dev. He claimed there wasn’t a ghost in the attic, but I swear I heard a window banging and ghostly footsteps overhead.”
So that’s how Randolph Scott is getting in. Casey made another mental note, this one to close off the informal cat door as he returned Owen’s firm grip.
“I’ve been staying here for a couple of months and haven’t noticed any ghosts yet.” None of Randolph Scott’s victims had attempted to reach out from the other side, thank goodness. “Welcome.”
“Thanks. Do I get my old room back? The old nursery? The one over the side porch?”
“That’s the plan.”
A tall, lanky guy with skin paler than Casey’s and a lugubrious expression worthy of Eeyore wandered over and held out his hand. “Eli Stack.”
Casey shook. “Bass player, right?” His fingertips certainly had the calluses for it.
Eli nodded and wandered away to stare at a lilac bush.
Owen waved a hand. “Don’t mind him. He hasn’t cracked a smile since 2011 when Esperanza Spalding beat out Justin Bieber for the Best New Artist Grammy.”
Casey glanced at the third guy, a slender Asian man with the face of a warrior monk who was standing diffidently to one side, glancing furtively at Nash, who was still scowling at the house. Casey couldn’t place him, since he hadn’t been in any of the publicity stills. Nash was the front man, the vocalist since Dev wasn’t in the band anymore. Maybe this guy was the guitarist who’d taken Dev’s place?
Owen beckoned him over. “This is—”
“Harry!” Nash said, glancing over his shoulder at the man before he had a chance to join Owen and Casey. “Did you bring my headphones?”
Sunlight glinted off Harry’s wire-framed glasses when he flinched at Nash’s abrupt tone. Irritation flickered across his narrow face. “No, Nash. Because it’s not my job to pack for you.”
