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“Uncle Walt. Trust me?”
He frowned, but nodded. “Of course, my boy.”
Their arms still linked, Casey led his uncle at a leisurely stroll off the Harrison House lawn. He pointed to the sidewalk beneath their feet. “This is marble. It was quarried only a few miles down the road.” He chuckled. “Imagine what a six-inch-thick, three-foot-square slab of marble would go for today, and it makes your head spin to think this was considered surplus at the time.”
Uncle Walt jerked sideways and shuffled onto the grass. “Should we be walking on it?”
“Since it’s not raining or icy, we’re safe.” Casey leaned in and whispered, “Otherwise, it can get a little slippery. But it’s lasted for a century or so, so I think it’ll withstand a little extra foot traffic today.”
They wandered down Main Street, past food trucks already doing a brisk business even though it still lacked ten minutes before the official festival opening. He pointed out Tim, the Vegetable Guy’s stand.
“This man owns a farm just over the border in Massachusetts. It’s built in the Shaker style and he runs it as an immersion program.”
Tim, all buff, six foot three of him, looked up from arranging rows of jewel-toned produce—bright chartreuse butter lettuce, ruby red radishes, glowing orange carrots with their eye-wateringly green tops—and nodded at Casey, a grin splitting his neat brown beard. “Morning. Looks like we’ve got some early birds.”
Casey glanced at the stand next to Tim’s, where Miranda, the weaver, was setting bundles of handwoven napkins and tablecloths. “Is that a problem?”
“Nah. We’re ready.” He tapped a stack of lunchbox-sized baskets on Miranda’s table. “Your idea about do-it-yourself picnic baskets was brilliant.”
Casey shrugged. “We sold out of the pre-orders for Sylvia’s premium baskets, but there were enough sad-puppy emails from folks who missed out that I figured they’d be on board with a little DIY action. They can shop around, put their lunch together before heading to the music venue.” He grinned. “And it’ll give the vendors a chance to upsell.”
Miranda laughed. “If I have anything left by noon, I’ll eat my loom.”
“Not taking that bet.” He lifted a hand in farewell and led Uncle Walt further down the road. Vendor stands extended from the sidewalk halfway to each of the houses that lined Main Street.
Uncle Walt dodged a couple of women in bright pink visors, turquoise T-shirts, and fanny packs as they made a beeline for Mountain Laurel’s booth.
“Do the homeowners mind that you’ve set up these… arrangements on their lawns?”
“Are you kidding? They fell over themselves offering to host them. We called our event Home Grown for a reason. It’s intended to benefit businesses and artists from the region, as well as Home itself. The vendors are all from New England, mostly Vermont, New Hampshire, and northwestern Massachusetts.”
“And you think it will succeed?”
Pete stopped the van at the curb and offloaded a dozen passengers as several other groups walked around the corner from East Road, obviously strolling in from the parking area Pete had set up behind Ty’s clinic.
Casey’s chest filled with warmth and satisfaction. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it will.”
Uncle Walt gazed at the Market, where Kat had set up beverage service—strictly non-alcoholic—on the porch. “You arranged all this?”
“Not by myself. I had help. A lot of it.” He turned to face his uncle. “The people who live in Home love this place, love its history, love what it stands for. Inclusion, fellowship, community. They’re all invested in keeping it as charming as it is now.” Casey sighed contentedly. “I can’t wait to see what we’ll do to keep Home growing and thriving in the coming years.”
Uncle Walt blinked at him, a frown wrinkling his brow and turning his mouth down at the corners. “You mean you’ll see the progress when you come back to visit. Once the restaurant is open.”
Casey rolled his lips against his teeth and took a huge breath. Now or never. “No. I mean I intend to stay here. To sell my place in Manhattan and buy a house here.”
“But, Casey.” Panic chased across Uncle Walt’s face. “The restaurant. The opening. Your legacy. You can’t move away from your home.”
“Come on, Uncle Walt. We need to talk.”
Casey took his uncle’s arm and led him to a bench under a maple tree on the green in front of the Market. With his stomach doing its best impression of a cement mixer, he angled himself to meet Uncle Walt’s bewildered gaze.
“This is important, so I want you to really listen, okay?”
“Of course. I always listen to you, my boy.”
“Yeah, but this time I want you to hear what I’m saying.” Casey blew out a breath. Here goes. “Restaurants have never been home to me. Dad’s kitchens were always someplace chaotic, intimidating, dangerous, even. They were also what took my father away from me. Every time I needed him or wanted him to be there for some little personal milestone of mine, the restaurant always stopped him. You were the one who came to my school plays, my soccer games, my high school graduation.”
“I never begrudged the time spent with you, Casey,” he said earnestly. “Not a single moment.”
