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“That’s what you think.” Ty sighed. “If we knew where he spent his nights, we could get his… his…”
“Host?” Dev said dryly.
Ty huffed a laugh. “That fits. We could get his host to detain him long enough for me to show up with the syringe. But he’s slipperier than an eel when vaccinations are due, even though he’s constantly underfoot the rest of the time.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks, man.” Ty lifted a hand. “Later.”
Dev frowned at his dark monitor for a solid five minutes after Ty left, but he couldn’t scare up the courage to face the budget again. He stood up.
“Might as well get something accomplished, so I don’t feel so fucking useless.”
He could fix Sylvia’s broken shelf, even if he couldn’t fix Home’s dwindling supply of both resources and residents. In fact, he’d construct a whole new unit, sturdier than the last one. Metal, this time, instead of wood. Something that would last. Maybe longer than the town.
Anyway, his basement workshop was the perfect place to hide from red ink, family obligations, and goddamn fucking Port-a-Potties.
The trip to Vermont had been excruciating, despite the cushiness of the leather seats in Bradley’s Lexus. Even if he’d wanted to—which he had not—Casey hadn’t been required to contribute to the conversation since Bradley took care of that all on his own. He’d even ordered for Casey when they’d stopped for lunch in Hartford.
By the time they turned onto Home’s Main Street, Casey could have given a master class on All Things Bradley Pillsbury, including the unabridged text of Bradley’s prep school valedictorian speech, because if Bradley had left anything out, it was purely by accident.
Luckily, Casey had been blessed with a very efficient memory, and when they passed a tall hedge near the end of the street and he got his first look at Harrison House, he shunted everything Bradley had said to his mental Trash folder.
Because wow.
Not wow fancy wow, but just wow, because this was exactly the kind of house Casey had always dreamed of, growing up in Manhattan apartments that were either cramped and rundown (his early childhood) or spare, modern, and soulless (after his dad’s first restaurant took off). This house—a conglomeration of Federalist, Victorian, farmhouse, and maybe a couple of other styles that Casey didn’t recognize—had three stories in its central block, with single story wings jutting off each side. It looked like a place you could explore for years and still find an unexpected staircase behind a door you’d never noticed.
A trio of massive oak trees shaded a front lawn that had to be at least the size of a city block. That much grass needed the giant riding mower that was parked under one of the oaks, with a sturdy man in overalls, white hair peeking from under his ball cap, bent over its engine.
Bradley hmmphed as he turned into the gravel drive that cut a semi-circle like a smile in front of the house.
“So inconsiderate.” Bradley’s mutter was barely audible over the Persistence of Vision playlist he’d had on a loop since they crossed the Vermont border. Casey liked POV’s music well enough, but Bradley didn’t seem to be listening to the songs. They simply served as a soundtrack to his monologue. “This gravel could chip the Lexus’s paint.” He looked down his nose at the mower. “Although I suppose they don’t get many high-end cars up here.” He pulled to a stop next to the steps that led to a wide front porch.
Casey didn’t waste a minute climbing out. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean air redolent of new-mown grass and lilacs from the bushes massed along the porch railing and towering at the corners of the house in colors from white through lavender all the way to dark purple. The guy with the mower looked up and touched the brim of his cap. Casey grinned at him and gave a little wave as Bradley climbed out the driver’s side door, still grumbling.
He crunched to the trunk, his loafers—“Italian. Handmade for me in a village outside Naples.”—skidding a little in the gravel. Casey couldn’t help feeling a tad smug over his trainers, which, along with his well-worn jeans, T-shirt, and faded red hoodie, had seriously offended Bradley when he’d double-parked in front of the apartment this morning. “You could have dressed up a little for our first date.”
Casey had rolled his eyes. “It’s not a date. You’re making a completely unnecessary drive. I was perfectly happy to take the train and catch an Uber from the station in Merrilton.”
But Uncle Walt had said it would make him feel better to know that Casey had made it there safely, so he’d given in. Now he wished he’d stood his ground, because over six hours of Bradley Pillsbury—if you counted lunch and two stops for lattes—was way more than enough.
Bradley unloaded Casey’s luggage and slammed the trunk. “I’m surprised at your uncle.”
Casey didn’t answer. He’d learned by now that Bradley didn’t require a response—he’d supply one himself regardless of whether Casey said anything or not. Besides, he’d just noticed a bird’s nest tucked under the front porch eaves. A swallow swooped past him and perched on its edge, greeted by the frantic peeps of the babies inside.
So different from New York. Even if a swallow had nested outside his building, Casey wouldn’t have been able to hear them over the noise of traffic and the gabble of endless crowds rushing, rushing, rushing, yet never seeming to be satisfied with their destination.
“Considering your pedigree,” Bradley said, setting Casey’s bags next to the porch steps, “he could have enrolled you in a culinary institute in Manhattan with no difficulty at all. Add in my connections, and—”
“I’ve already attended”—and failed—“Manhattan schools. Twice. Uncle Walt and I discussed it, Bradley. This is my choice.”
Bradley gazed at a spot over Casey’s left shoulder. Would it kill him to look me in the eye? “You realize that the distance will be quite inconvenient for me to visit you regularly?”
Oh, I certainly do. In fact, Casey was counting on it. “You definitely shouldn’t inconvenience yourself, Bradley. In fact”—Casey picked up his suitcases—“I can take it from here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Bradley looked around, probably expecting a bellhop to materialize along with a valet. “Just look at this place. I doubt there’s a decent latte closer than Merrilton. In fact, you ought to stay there instead. I’ll lease a car for you and you can drive out here for your lessons while staying in marginally civilized lodgings.”
“No.” Casey might have trouble saying no to Uncle Walt, but Bradley was another story. “For one thing, I can’t drive, so leasing a car would be useless. For another, the proximity to the classroom is one of the selling points of this place. For a third—” Casey smiled as he turned in a circle, checking out the other houses along Main Street, all different, all idiosyncratic, all set behind deep, emerald-green lawns. “—I like it here.”
