Chapter Two

Dev Harrison slammed down the phone on his office desk. "Why the hell are Port-a-Potties so damned expensive?"

A chuckle sounded from the hallway. "Maybe because having people piss on the nearest tree doesn't play well with the tourist crowd." Dev's cousin Ty sauntered into the room, his pale green scrubs already dotted with dark threads of animal fur, and dropped into the chair next to the desk. "Plus, Pete would have a fit trying to mow around any open cesspits. And the smell?" Ty wrinkled his nose. "The dog runs at the clinic after a bout of puppy diarrhea've got nothin' on that."

Dev scrunched up his face. "That's disgusting."

"So is wrangling a crowd of tourists when you don't have the right bio break facilities."

"I know." Dev sighed, leaning back in the chair which, along with the desk, the house, and the town, didn't really fit him. Or rather, he didn't fit any of them, despite eighteen months of trying to shoehorn himself into his role. "I don't know how Garlan managed everything so well."

Despite the pang under his heart whenever he thought about the accident that had taken his brother and grandfather out of the world in one skid on the ice, he still found the room to be pissed at Garlan for dying.

He should be here. He was the Harrison heir. He was the one groomed for this.

But Garlan was gone, and without him, the mantle of Harrison heir, town manager of Home, and caretaker of Home's legacy fell straight onto Dev's unprepared shoulders.

Ty laced his fingers across his flat stomach. "If it makes you feel any better, everyone thinks you're doing a great job."

If only I felt the same."By everyone, do you mean the people who are too stubborn to move away while the town dies around them? The people who are too stubborn to admit that Vermont winters suck all the life out of your bones? The people who are too stubborn to elect a town manager who isn't a goddamn Harrison?"

Ty narrowed his eyes as if considering the questions, and then shrugged. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Why don't they elect you?" Dev jabbed a finger in Ty's direction. "You're a Harrison too."

"Because whenever they threaten to put me on the ballot, I counter with the specter of a vet who won't make house calls because he's too busy with town business. Besides, my family isn't in the direct line of succession." He flicked a finger through his straight, black hair, inherited from his Korean grandfather. "Harabeoji was an adopted Harrison, remember. I dodged that bullet two generations ago."

"Adoptions count," Dev mumbled.

"Don't pout, Devondre. It's highly unattractive. Besides…" He shrugged.

Dev sighed. "I know." After Garlan's death, Dev was the only one of the remaining Harrisons who didn't have another useful occupation. His band, Persistence of Vision, hadn't been getting any traction, so despite being the primary songwriter and lead guitarist, Dev had left the band—and broken up with his lover, Nash, the lead singer—and returned to Home.

Nash had never forgiven Dev for what he considered the double betrayal, making sure to twist the guilt knife at the same time he gloated when POV finally hit it big the month after Dev's departure. With one of Dev's songs, no less.

Drowning in grief and self-reproach, Dev hadn't pushed for his share of the royalties. Yet. Maybe I'll cash them in to fund the fucking Port-a-Potties. Heaven knew the town's budget wouldn't cover them.

"You know," Ty said, his tone cautious, "nobody would blame you if you decided to leave again. Go back to the band."

Dev lifted an eyebrow. "I'm sorry. Have you met the people in this town?" He held up both hands, palms out. "No need to answer. Of course you've met them. So have I. We've seen the same people every fucking day from the time we were born."

"But the difference is I actually like it here. Home is… well, home. The whole time I was away at vet school, all I dreamed about was coming back and taking over Doc Patel's practice."

Dev smiled, despite his financial-doom-laden mood. "I think that dream dawned the first time you took a stray kitten to Doc and he let you watch while he set its leg."

"A point. But you were different, Dev. You had ambitions outside of Home, not to mention more talent in your little finger than Nash Tambling has in his whole manscaped, perfectly coiffed body."

"Talent isn't everything." Dev sighed again. "I never saw my place in Home, not the way you and Garlan did. But that doesn't mean I don't love the town. Its legacy. Our family's legacy. We've been diverse and welcoming from the town's founding, and that's something I'll always be proud of. It's worth preserving. Worth working for."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean it should make you miserable in the process. Have you even picked up your guitar in the last year and a half?"

Dev pressed his lips together. "No time. Garlan's bookkeeping was what I'd call idiosyncratic, and trying to figure out how to pay the town's bills is like an eternal game of Whack-a-Mole. I might complain about the Port-a-Potties, especially since I have to pay for them now to reserve them for the antique fair before the vendor registration fees start rolling in, but can I say thank you to the powers that be for the antique fair? With the Inn shut down, Madame Ivanova closing her dance studio, and Summer Kitchen's enrollments down to almost nothing, it's the only thing we've got to lure tourists into town."

"Yeah. Too bad it's biennial."

"Please." Dev clenched his eyes shut. "Don't wish an annual event like this on me. I'm only thankful that Garlan and Grandfather had just wrangled the last one before the accident. I'd never have been able to get up to speed in less than six months."

"I guess." Ty tilted his head, and the way his bangs flopped over his eyes made him look like one of the dogs in the shelter he ran out of his vet practice. "Do you regret that we fought the bypass? If we'd allowed the road to run through Home, we'd at least get some drive-through traffic."

Dev shook his head. "Nope. Even a two-lane state road would have ruined the town's peace. We'll just have to figure out some other way to lure the tourists away from that damn resort."

"A resort which wouldn't have existed if Merrilton hadn't actively lobbied for the bypass."

"Well, they're welcome to it." Dev glared at his monitor, where the red numbers splattered across the budget spreadsheet looked like arterial spray. The town was bleeding out in front of his eyes—and on his watch.

"Knock knock?" Sylvia Grande hovered in the doorway in her usual summer uniform of black trousers and crisp white shirt, although her wavy silver hair was more flyaway than usual without her chef's toque. "Dev, could I have a word?"

Ty rose, ineffectually brushing at his shirt—the fur didn't budge. "I'll get out of your way."

She waved him back into the chair. "No need. It's not a private word." She carded her hands through her hair—which probably explained its state. "My student is arriving today."

Dev buried his wince. Student. Singular. True, the lone student would be paying for lodging in Harrison House, but Dev's grandfather had started the tradition of charging Sylvia rent on the summer kitchen where she held her classes based on enrollment. When she'd first arrived, fresh from rehab, invited by Grandfather who'd met her soon after her show was cancelled, that was actually a good deal for everyone: The student fees were generous, classes were full for all three sessions—summer, autumn, and spring, since nobody with any sense traveled to Vermont in the winter unless they were rabid skiers. Sylvia turned a nice profit, and Harrison House brought in more than enough for building upkeep and improvements.

But with the advent of so many TV cooking competitions, and the rise of younger, more social media-savvy chefs, nobody remembered Sylvia anymore, secluded as her school was up here in Home.

"Kenny's dropping a new nightstand off for the student's room today, but otherwise, everything's ready." Dev tried to keep the desperation out of his tone. "Will, um, other students be arriving later?"

She grimaced. "Sorry. He's the only one."

"Got it." Dev ought to be grateful. Until last week, there'd been nobody booked at all.

"I wanted to be here to greet him, but"—she bit her lip—"I really need a meeting."

Dev braced his hands on the chair arms, ready to stand. "If you need a ride into Merrilton—"

"No, no." She waved him back down, too. "Pete's driving me as soon as he finishes mowing the field behind the Inn. But could you look out for him, please? Show him his room? Take him over to the classroom? Since he's the only student and we've got a special curriculum, we'll be starting classes tomorrow. Oh!" She hauled her giant shoulder bag in front of her and started digging through it. "I need to pick up a couple of frozen ducks at Shaw's. My supplier didn't have any fresh duck. I just hope it has time to thaw before we have to bone it."

"Duck?" Ty asked. "You've never asked me to sample duck before, and I always make a point of walking the dogs by the summer kitchen at the end of the day. I didn't realize it was one of your specialties."

"It's not. Where the heck is that— Aha! Gotcha!" She produced her phone with a flourish. Her expression clouded as she keyed something in. "I have to arrange the wine delivery, too."

"Wine? What gives?" Dev peered at her lowered head and detected a flush on her cheeks. "None of your Summer Kitchen recipes ever involve alcohol."

"It's the special curriculum for this student. He has to master specific dishes and many of them involve liquor." She dropped the phone back in her bag and spread her hands. "Hence, the meeting."

Dev lowered his brows. "You shouldn't have to deal with that. It's your school, so you should be able to run it according to your rules."

She gave him a pitying look. "Dev, my dear, without students, there is no school. I need the money. So do you."

Dev glanced sidelong at Ty. "I get by just fine."

She hitched the bag's strap further onto her shoulder. "Perhaps. But I don't. I'll just make sure I attend more meetings this summer." She winked at Ty. "And hire Ty to do all the tasting for me."

"Sylvia—"

"If you wouldn't mind doing me another favor, Dev, could you take a look at the bookcase outside my office? That middle shelf collapsed again."

Clearly she was evading the issue, but Dev couldn't really call her on it. He'd become a master of evading lately himself. "No problem."

"Thank you, dear." She rounded the desk and dropped a kiss on Dev's cheek, and then waggled her fingers at Ty as she headed for the door. "I'll see you later."

Ty harrumphed as she walked out. "How come you get a kiss and I get a finger wiggle?"

"You get to taste the food."

Ty's expression cleared. "Good point. But don't think I missed that little hedge. What aren't you telling me about your finances, Devondre?

"I don't tell you anything about my finances, Tyrese, because they're none of your business."

"Dev." Ty reached across the desk and gripped Dev's forearm. "We're family. You've got a lot to shoulder, and although said shoulders are broad enough to cause all the twinks from here to Atlantic City to swoon—"

"Look who's talking."

"—they're not broad enough to carry Home and everyone in it. What's going on?"

Dev dropped his gaze to his hands. They used to speak—through his guitar, his songs, his music. But now? They couldn't even balance the damn budget. "Nothing."

"Dev." Ty's voice was edged with command.

Dev scowled up at him from under his brows. "Don't use that tone with me. I'm not one of the dogs in your training classes."

"Then stop acting like you need a trust refresher. Come on," Ty said, coaxing. "Tell me."

Dev scrubbed both hands over his face, the weight of his worries making him slump in the chair. "It's…" He dropped his hands into his lap and met Ty's concerned gaze. "The town isn't pulling in enough for its maintenance. I've, uh, kind of been supplementing it. Out of the Harrison estate account."

"What?" Ty punched Dev's biceps. "That's your inheritance. You can't fritter it away on the town."

"When you think about it, Home is our inheritance too. Do you imagine Persistence Harrison would have stood by and let the town and its people suffer if he could have done something about it? Hell, that's the whole reason he founded Home—so anybody who didn't fit in elsewhere because of who they were, or how they looked, or who they loved would be safe and happy."

"Even Persistence didn't pay everyone's bills."

Dev glared at Ty. "It was 1791. People were more self-sufficient then. There was no internet." He shifted his glare to the monitor. "And no Port-a-Potties."

"Granted. But how many times can your neighbor ask you to help them dig a privy before you tell them to bury their own shit?"

Dev pushed his chair back from the desk as though the distance would make him feel less trapped. It didn't. "I get what you're saying, Ty. I do. But times have changed. A couple of hams and a flat of strawberries cut no ice with cable companies or Vermont Electric."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean you have to foot the bill for bringing the services to town."

"No? If we want Home to survive, it needs to offer the kind of lifestyle that people can get in a bigger city."

"I'm preeetty sure," Ty drawled, "that if people wanted a big city lifestyle, they'd be, you know, living in a big city. Part of the reason people come to Home is to get away from that fuckery."

"Tell that to all the kids who left for college and never came back. Our populace is aging, Ty, and even the aging populace is abandoning the place and looking for milder climates. If we can offer the charm of a small town with the conveniences of a city, then we might stop the hemorrhaging. Home has a history, a legacy, something that no other place in the country has. We just need to make sure other people know it. And to know it, they have to visit. And to visit, they need a reason." He resolutely turned off the monitor. The scary red numbers would still be there the next time he looked. "At least the antique fair will bring in some traffic. People have been coming back to it every other year since the mid-70s."

Ty screwed up his face. "Yeah, but last time the Inn was still open and they had a place to stay or catch a meal or grab a drink after a busy day of trying to talk vendors into reducing their prices. This time, the only thing in town is the Market, and while Kat's espresso machine is kick-ass and her wine aisle rivals Burlington's best, there's really nothing else to keep them here."

"I talked to Kat. She's planning to offer ready-made sandwiches. Some of the high school kids'll be helping her prep and serve."

"Yeah, but she can't offer anything more complicated than that. She's got a deli counter, not a kitchen. And while she can sell unopened wine and beer, she can't serve it. How likely is it that people won't stow their authentic Shaker chairs into their SUVs and high-tail it back to the resort where they can enjoy bottomless bloody Marys and a hot tub?"

Dev narrowed his eyes. "How do you know about the bloody Marys, let alone the hot tubs?"

"Relax. I haven't defected. But Pete's better than a paparazzo when it comes to nosing out gossip. He reports back every time he gets an Uber or Lyft fare in Merrilton."

The notion of Pete—Home's grizzled, curmudgeonly jack-of-all-trades—eavesdropping on his riders was more than a little disturbing. "That's another thing. Pete used to make a decent living here in Home. Now he has to hire himself out to people from the resort."

"You ever think he might enjoy it?"

"Pete? He hates flatlanders."

"He doesn't hate them. He pities them for not being native Vermonters. If you'd ever take the time to talk with him—"

"I talk with him," Dev protested. "I always have. The most he ever says is ‘Ayup.'"

"That's because you only talk to him about the jobs. But never mind. My point is, we've got more trouble than the antique fair is likely to solve, no matter how many Port-a-Potties you order." Ty slapped his thighs and stood. "By the way, if you see Randolph Scott around, grab him and text me, will you? It's time for his rabies shot and he's avoiding me."

Dev lifted an eyebrow. "He's a cat. He can't possibly know what you intend."

"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.