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This time, Bradley did meet Casey’s eyes, if only to stare at him with total shock. “Impossible. Just look at this place!”
Casey’s smile grew. “I am.” He widened his stance and folded his arms, blocking his suitcases from Bradley. “Thank you for the ride, but I’d like you to go now. I need time to get acclimated before I start classes tomorrow.”
Behind Bradley, the mower guy gave Bradley a narrow-eyed stare, then winked at Casey, and fired up the mower, kicking a spray of grass over the Lexus’s shiny silver hood—and probably inside its open driver’s door—even though a giant canvas grass catcher sat right next to the mower’s rear wheels.
“What the—” Bradley marched toward the car, glaring at the mower guy, who didn’t seem the least daunted. Or impressed.
Casey grinned. I think I like this guy.
Bradley met Casey’s gaze over the car roof. “I’ll call you,” he shouted over the growl of the mower’s engine.
“Don’t bother,” Casey said.
“What?”
“I said—”
Mower guy revved the motor and Casey gave up. Instead, he just made shooing motions until Bradley climbed back in his car. Bradley’s desire to get away from the mower was apparently greater than his fear of gravel-induced paint chips, because he took off along the curve of the drive, rocks spraying from his wheels. Several of them pinged off the mower.
“Oh my god.” Casey hurried toward the mower, raising his voice to be heard over the engine. “Are you okay? Did that”—the engine cut out before Casey could moderate his tone—“idiot hit…” He blinked, clearing his throat. “I mean, did any of the rocks hit you?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.” He wiped his right hand on his overalls and held it out. “Pete Tucker.”
Casey shook the callused palm. “Casey Friel. Sorry about”—he flicked his fingers at Bradley’s disappearing taillights—“that.”
“No skin off my backside.” Pete resettled his cap. Closer to it, Casey could see that its logo wasn’t from a ball club or seed company. Instead, it was the stylized, intertwined letters POV, the emblem that adorned Persistence of Vision’s first album, from before their breakout success.
Casey gestured toward the house. “This is Summer Kitchen, isn’t it?”
“Not so’s you’d say.”
“But…” Casey frowned, pulling the creased Summer Kitchen brochure from his back pocket. “The brochure—”
“This here’s Harrison House. The summer kitchen’s around back.”
Casey blinked again. “So Summer Kitchen, the program, is held in an actual summer kitchen?”
He knew that in the days of wood stove cooking and before the advent of air conditioning, families who could afford it often built a separate structure for preparing meals in hot weather—a summer kitchen. For some reason, that bit of whimsy made him feel a bit better about spending his summer at remedial cooking school.
Not a lot better, but some.
“Ayup,” Pete grunted.
Casey glanced around. There didn’t seem to be anybody else around other than Pete. “I was supposed to check in with Ms. Grande. Will I find her in the classroom?”
“Nawp.”
Casey frowned. “Inside Harrison House?” He cast another appreciative glance at the building. “I believe I’m supposed to room here for the summer.” He couldn’t help a little shiver of anticipation. If it weren’t for, you know, having to cook, this could be a dream vacation.
“Nawp.” Pete started up the mower and climbed onto its seat. “Day’s wasting.”
“But—”
Pete put the mower in gear and trundled off across the lawn. With its mower deck lifted, it made decent speed, enough that Casey would look like a fool running alongside to ask more questions. So he stayed where he was and raised his face to the dappled sunlight as a playful breeze teased his hair.
Back in Manhattan, summer humidity was already setting in, the skyscrapers creating canyons of exhaust and noise. But here? The sun and breeze balanced each other—the breeze cool enough to offset the sun’s warmth and the sun hot enough to offset the breeze’s chill.
In fact, Casey stripped off his light hoodie and tossed it over his largest suitcase. He’d needed it in Bradley’s car because Bradley had the AC cranked up to eleven.
