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He paused with one foot on the bottom porch step. Presumably he’d find somebody inside to show him to his room and give him the rundown, even if Ms. Grande was unexpectedly absent. But with nobody around to look over his shoulder, he had the perfect opportunity to do a little reconnaissance—aka snooping—before somebody else took charge of his time.
Hands in his pockets, he strolled along the front of Harrison House, shamelessly peering inside. The porch shaded the front windows, cutting the sun’s glare, so he was able to catch glimpses of well-worn furniture and floor-to-very-high-ceiling bookshelves stuffed full of everything from mass market paperbacks to what looked like gold-embossed, leather-bound hardcovers.
Casey made a pleased sound in his throat. The room, whether it was a living room, parlor, or library, had the air of comfort and use. Although his own apartment would probably fit in its center, the room had the same cozy ambience that Casey intentionally sought, probably because his father’s style in decorating echoed his restaurant kitchens: all sharp angles, hard metal surfaces, and unforgiving white light.
In Donald’s view, comfort was for the weak and lazy—two words that he’d thrown at Casey times beyond counting.
The drugging scent of the big lilacs at the corner of the house wound around him, tempting him closer. This was a place made for laziness, that invited a leisure that was its own reward. He’d leave the industry to the bees buzzing busily among the blooms.
Casey carefully broke off one spray of magenta blossoms. He held it to his nose and inhaled as he rounded the corner.
A smaller porch was tucked along the side of the house, its French doors opening onto that same living room-slash-library. Casey couldn’t detect any movement inside, so since there was nobody to get freaked out, he climbed onto the porch and cupped his hands beside his eyes to peer through the glass. From this angle, he could see that opposite where he stood, up two steps, was an entryway, the foot of a wide oak staircase with a carved pineapple-topped newel post visible beyond an arch. Another room opened off the entry, and beyond that, another.
It was almost like one of those endless funhouse mirrors, and Casey had the notion that if he stepped into this room, he could keep going from one room to the next, possibly forever.
He stepped back with a sigh. Leave it to a guy who lived in an apartment with a bedroom the size of a bathtub—and no actual bathtub—to fantasize about square footage. Hopping down from the porch, he continued his circuit. When he got his first glimpse of the rear of the house, he stopped dead, his jaw sagging.
He’d thought the front lawn was huge, but the back lawn—or should he say field—had to be five times as big, easily as long as a football field and twice as wide. If Pete maintained this—and the open grass was neatly cropped—it was no wonder he drove a mower the size of a Humvee.
At the other end of the house, separated from it by a brick path, was another building of the same general style as Harrison House. But instead of three rambling stories, this was a single story with a steeply gabled roof and brilliant white clapboard siding, its many windows framed by forest green shutters. The door was a vivid scarlet.
“The summer kitchen, I presume,” Casey murmured.
Its footprint wasn’t huge, although it still made at least four of his apartment. Casey could understand the logic: For its original use, it would have needed space for those massive wood stoves, and enough room around them that the servants wouldn’t be parboiled by the time dessert rolled around.
That red door called to him and repelled him at the same time. He trotted across the expanse of grass toward it. It only made sense for him to at least peek inside, right? After all, he’d be stuck there for the next three months. Might as well see what he was in for.
When he was halfway there, though, he slowed, his hand pressed against his belly. What would greet him inside? Would it be like the kitchen at Chez Donatien, all long steel prep tables and glaring halogen lights? Trying to cook his father’s food would be bad enough if he had to try to accomplish it in a place that echoed his worst childhood nightmares.
He crept forward until he reached the walkway. Up close, he saw that the bricks were laid out in a herringbone pattern of random red, gray, and black bricks. He swallowed and squared his shoulders before marching up the path and onto the summer kitchen’s stoop. He laid his hand on the shiny brass doorknob. It turned easily under his hand, so either locking doors wasn’t a thing in Home or else Pete was mistaken and Ms. Grande was awaiting him inside.
He winced. If that was the case, would she judge him for poking his nose in before she invited him? Was she the same kind of kitchen martinet as his father had been? He’d never have another chance to make a first impression on her, and he didn’t want to screw it up before she’d ever sampled the horror that was Casey’s cooking. Time enough for bad impressions the first time he dropped a skillet or cut his finger on a chef’s knife or mistook oregano for basil.
Hey, that could happen to anybody. They smelled exactly the same.
So instead, Casey backed away and continued on around the house. This side didn’t have another little porch, but a set of metal bulkhead doors stood open about halfway along. As Casey drew closer, he detected sounds coming from the doors: the clank of metal, a fuzzy burr interspersed with pops like frying bacon, and—oddly enough—a deep, rich voice singing a song from the same POV album Bradley’d had on repeat during the drive from New York.
Intrigued, Casey peered past the doors. A set of wide plank steps descended into what was clearly a basement. Maybe whoever was down there could tell him where to find Ms. Grande, or else point him to his room.
He crept down the stairs, one hand on the cool cement wall. This section of the basement was lined with metal shelving. Some of them held jars of preserved food—Casey spotted pickles, tomatoes, peaches, and green beans. Others were stacked with building materials and hardware—boxes of nails, coils of electrical wire, lumber arranged neatly by size. But no singer.
Casey stepped past a retaining wall and froze with a strangled cry.
In the center of the floor stood the Iron Giant.
The Giant’s metal head nearly brushed the exposed ceiling joists. He wore a leather apron, leather gloves, and held a torch tipped with blue flame in one hand. His blank glass eyes were focused on the cage of metal clamped in a vise on the waist-high table in front of him.
The Giant looked up, and the song died. “Shit,” he growled.
Casey dropped the lilacs and bolted.
“Damn it.” Dev shut off the welding torch and ripped off his helmet, taking some of his hair along with it. Fuck. On top of everything else, I need a haircut. He shucked off his gloves and tossed them aside, along with his apron, and strode for the stairs.
How had he forgotten that Sylvia’s student was arriving and that Dev was supposed to greet him like a civilized person? He’d only gotten a glimpse before the man had run. From what he could tell, given the dim and distorted view through the welding helmet, the guy was probably about Kenny’s size—five-ten or so and slender, with a mop of wavy hair.
Dev had caught the wide-eyed shock, though. He needed to catch up with the guy before he ran all the way back to wherever he’d come from. Sylvia needed the income, and frankly, so did Dev.
When he reached the stairs, his boot heel slid on something. Was that… Yes, it was. He picked up the crushed lilac spray, his heart constricting. The guy had obviously been having a moment, enjoying the house, enjoying the town, enjoying Dev’s home, and Dev had spoiled it, just like he’d spoiled these flowers.
