Chapter Twenty-Three

Casey peered around the newel post and through the archway into the living room. Kat Hathaway sat in the Kennedy rocker next to the fireplace, right below Home's framed town charter, staring fixedly out the window. Sylvia was about as far away from her as possible, sitting bolt upright on the threadbare Victorian loveseat, a magazine in her lap. She was not turning the pages.

The pitcher of iced tea on its enamel tray was untouched on the coffee table, its attendant tumblers empty. He'd hoped for a little mutual beverage interaction, but that clearly hadn't happened.

He sighed, wishing Dev were here for moral support, but he'd retired to his cottage to start working his music contacts. As the person in charge of the food half of the festival, Casey really needed to get Kat and Sylvia behaving like allies, not adversaries, and their… competitive inattention didn't bode well for his plan.

He scuttled backward before either one of them spotted him and took a moment, standing next to the console table by the staircase where he'd left the tray of canapes—puff pastry topped with goat cheese, thinly sliced radishes, and microgreens.

He'd asked Sylvia to make them this morning to demonstrate them for him. She'd been mystified but had complied. Of course, he hadn't divulged where precisely he'd procured the goat cheese, microgreens, and the radishes, even when she'd expressed her awe and delight over the quality and freshness. She'd assumed he'd called in a favor from one of his father's suppliers.

He'd quickly changed the subject. Maybe he'd felt a tad guilty about misleading by redirection, but all in a good cause.

He picked up the tray and marched into the living room. "Good afternoon," he said brightly. "Thank you both so much for agreeing to meet with me." He approached Kat and held out the tray. "Would you like a canape? Goat cheese, radishes, and microgreens on puff pastry."

She took one, its parchment liner crinkling in her fingers. "Don't mind if I do."

He slid the tray on the table in front of Sylvia, who set her magazine aside and took a canape with a smile directed expressly at Casey. He poured three glasses of tea and handed them around.

"All set? Excellent. Now." He sat down next to Sylvia and schooled his expression into seriousness, not hard to do considering he didn't need air conditioning with the chill the two of them were blasting. "I've got some bad news to share with you both."

"Bad news?" Kat set her tea on the marble coaster on the table at her elbow. "It's not Dev, is it?"

"No. He's fine. But I'm afraid there's a threat to our town. A big one." His palms were sweating, so he laced his fingers together and clamped his folded hands between his knees. "The Fair Fair is a no-go."

Sylvia jerked, ice tinkling in her glass. "What?"

"How?" Kat's expression was thunderous. "And what the hell is Dev gonna do with all those Port-a-Potties?"

"As to what and how, the reasons aren't important. Casting blame is irrelevant and unproductive." He flicked his gaze between both women. "At some point, we just have to buckle down and solve the problem. Which brings me to why I invited you both here together. I've got a solution to the excess of Port-a-Potties, but it's going to require the two of you to cooperate closely, because we don't have much time if we expect to save Home."

Kat's scowl deepened, which Casey didn't think was possible. "Then why ask her? She doesn't care about Home. She doesn't live here. She doesn't even shop here."

Sylvia turned pointedly to Casey. "I don't shop here because every time I come into the Market, she practically chases me out with a broom. That she's riding on."

"Ha!" Kat took a vicious bite from her canape. "I don't need her looking down her snooty nose at my shop because it doesn't measure up to your big city places."

"As it happens," Sylvia said to Casey, "when I lived in the city, I did most of my personal shopping at the corner bodega."

"Bodega, shmodega. She—"

Casey stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled loud enough to cause both women to flinch. "Time out. In the first place, both of you are here in this room and you need to talk to each other, not triangulate the conversation through me. Secondly, as I understand it, this feud has been going on for almost fifteen years. It's time for it to stop."

"She started it," Sylvia muttered.

"Like fun I did," Kat growled.

"What did I just say?" Casey narrowed his eyes. "Blame is immaterial. We're focusing on solutions here. Also—" He jerked his thumb at the framed cross-stitch over his head: Welcome Home. Don't be a dick.

Both of them huffed, nearly identically, and turned away. Casey set his jaw and plowed on.

"Kat, I spoke to Sylvia about why she didn't use you to source the supplies for Summer Kitchen. The reason had nothing to do with disapproval of the Market. She was new to the area and had other stressors in her life, so she fell back on suppliers she knew, even though they were more expensive and difficult to manage from a distance."

"She could have asked," Kat said.

"From what I understand, once you found out about where she ordered the Summer Kitchen supplies, you were hardly approachable."

"So if she doesn't look down on us here in Home, why does she live in Merrilton? I know Dev's offered to rent one of the empty Harrison properties to her."

Sylvia gripped her glass with both hands. "Since I only run classes in the summer, Casey, and since enrollment has dropped off, there's no reason for me to be here most of the year. And there are no meetings in Home."

Kat blinked, looking at Sylvia for the first time since Casey had entered the room. "Meetings?"

Sylvia met her gaze for an instant before focusing on her lap. "Yes. Meetings. Merrilton has several, in the library, the town hall, and the Oddfellows lodge, so it's more convenient for me to live nearby."

"I… forgot," Kat said quietly. "That you'd need those. I'm sorry."

Sylvia shrugged one shoulder. "It is what it is. I probably should have made more of an effort once I'd been around for a while. But change is hard, you know?"

"Yeah." Kat rose and scooted her rocker closer so she was within reach of the canapes. She snagged another one. "I get it. And I could have been nicer. Pete tells me rabid badgers would be better at customer service than me." She snorted. "Like he's got room to talk."

"Great." Casey clapped his hands. "Now. Kat, Sylvia's agreed to let me order all the supplies for Summer Kitchen, and I want to use you as you as my source."

"Really?" Kat asked, a canape stalled halfway to her mouth. "You'd do that?"

"I agreed to let him try," Sylvia said.

Casey could detect a chill creeping back in, so he grabbed a canape and held it in his palm. "Sylvia made these this morning."

Kat looked at the pastry in her hand. "I thought you made them, Casey."

"Are you kidding? If I wasn't the only Summer Kitchen student, Sylvia would probably have expelled me by now for gross incompetence and reckless endangerment. And Sylvia? Kat sourced the goat cheese, the microgreens, and the radishes from local farmers."

Sylvia looked from the empty canape tray to Kat. "That chevre is amazing. It's really local?"

Kat nodded. "The produce too."

"See?" Casey leaned forward, projecting earnest entreaty for all he was worth. "Cooperation. That's what we need. What I need. What Home needs, from you both."

Kat's gaze flicked to the cross-stitch and then to Sylvia. "All right." She gripped her knees and nodded decisively. "I'm in."

Sylvia blinked at her. "Really?"

Pink infused Kat's narrow face. "Well, it's possible I might have jumped to conclusions. But I like to think I can admit when I'm wrong."

"If anybody can appreciate starting over, it's me." Sylvia held out her hands. Casey grasped one immediately and Kat only hesitated a second before she did the same. Sylvia squeezed once and then let go, expression turning businesslike. "What's your plan, Casey?"

"I'm putting my lessons on hold for the foreseeable"—thank goodness for an excuse—"so I can focus on organizing a new event for Home. A food and music festival to take place the same weekend as the antique fair. Which, by the way, is occurring, but in Merrilton in conjunction with the resort." When both women opened their mouths, Casey held up both hands. "Don't ask. Once again, not important. We've only got five weeks to pull this together. Dev's handling the music side. But"—he clasped his hands under his chin—"please, please, please can I count on the two of you to co-chair the food options?"

"Just tell us what you need." Kat shared a tight smile with Sylvia. "We'll make it happen."

"Absolutely," Sylvia said.

"Thank you." He faced Sylvia. "You've still got connections in the restaurant business, right? And not just in Manhattan. All over the Northeast?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeeesss. But the higher profile chefs won't have much to do with me."

"Good." When she raised her eyebrows, he grimaced. "Sorry. I don't mean it's good that they won't speak to you. I mean we're not looking for high-end people. Home isn't a high-end place. It's comfortable. Charming. Homey. We want vendors who fit that profile."

"Okay," she said, a tiny frown pinching her brows and her mind clearly sorting through her mental Rolodex.

"Furthermore, we want vendors who'll work with local ingredients, local suppliers." Casey turned to Kat. "That's where you come in, Kat. I don't want us to focus only on prepared foods. I'd like the ingredients around too. A farmers' market feel. Maybe collaborations between some of the growers and some of the chefs. Like… buy your bread from the baker's stand, your veggies from the grower's stand, and your cold cuts from the sausage maker, then have it all put together by a chef who can put a spin on the sandwich with sides and sauces. Maybe make it a competition—who can make the best sandwich. I don't know. But I'm betting you two can come up with a dynamite formula."

As Sylvia and Kat gazed at each other, Kat drumming her fingers on her knees and Sylvia gnawing the inside of her cheek, Casey held his breath. He nearly passed out before they grinned at one another.

"Hell, yeah." Kat held out her hand this time. "Partners?"

Sylvia shook it. "Partners."

Casey let his breath out in a whoosh. "Oh, thank heavens. By the way, I'll give you the contact info for one of my business school friends. They've got a line on at least half a dozen food trucks who might want in on the fun." He stood up. "I've got to go talk to Kenny about building the stage and the booths for us now. Can I leave everything in your hands?"

"Sure thing," Kat said.

"You can ping me any time you want, and we'll have regular meetings with the whole group, but I trust you both to bring it all together."

As he left, Kat was pouring them both more iced tea and Sylvia had pulled a notepad out of her handbag. Casey practically skipped out the front door, mentally patting himself on the back. Randolph Scott joined him on the porch, thankfully dead rodent free.

"Come on, cat. Let's go see Kenny." Casey headed down the sidewalk toward Kenny's shop, Randolph Scott trotting along beside him, tail up. He looked down at the cat. "Participation. That's the key. But if we keep the barrier to entry as low as possible, we ought to be able to attract—"

His cell phone buzzed with an incoming call, and he frowned. Had Kat and Sylvia reached an impasse already? But when he pulled the phone out of his pocket, the number was flagged as Unknown. At least it's not Bradley. Casey didn't think Bradley was inventive enough—and certainly way too arrogant—to try to disguise his number.

"Casey Friel," he said.

"Casey. Is that who… Oh, yeah." The man's rough, staccato voice was unfamiliar. "Joe Rintoul here. I understand you're in charge of this event… What is it? Where's the fucking…" Paper rustled on the other end of the line. "Oh. Here it is. Home Grown Tastes and Tunes?"

Casey shared a wide-eyed gaze with Randolph Scott. That was quick. It hadn't even been forty-eight hours since he'd proposed the event to Dev. "Yes, that's correct. Are you a chef?"

"What?" He barked a laugh. "Not me. No, I'm a manager. I represent Persistence of Vision, and they're interested in performing at your little shindig."

Casey sucked in a breath. "POV?" he squeaked. "Really?" Having a name act like POV would certainly put them on the map, but… "Does the band understand that this will be a very small event at an outdoor venue? We can't possibly hope to compete with their usual engagements." He grimaced. "And I know we can't afford their booking fee."

"Trust me, I pointed that out to them. But for some reason, they want to do it. And they'll settle for room and board, a modest upfront fee"—he named a figure, which was actually less than Casey and Dev had discussed for all the acts—"and ten percent of the take."

"Two," Casey said. "This event is a fundraiser for the town. The acts are here for exposure, not a big payday."

From the muffled conversation, Joe must have put his hand over his phone. Casey held his breath again. If he kept this up, he'd need to start packing his own oxygen tank. But if they said yes…

Before Casey could pass out from oxygen deprivation, Joe was back on the line. "Listen, I'll get back to you. Gimme your email."

"O-okay." Casey was a little leery of stepping out of his food lane and into Dev's music bailiwick, but POV! Surely Dev would be happy about it, and with all the empty properties on the Harrison roster, the room and board shouldn't be a problem either.

After Joe disconnected the call, Casey practically skipped down the sidewalk, Randolph Scott prancing along at his side. He wouldn't mention it to Dev yet, not until he heard back from Rintoul, because he seriously doubted the band would go for it, and he didn't want to get Dev's hopes up. But the fact that they'd heard about Home Grown? That they'd expressed initial interest?

He grinned down at the cat. "You know what, Randolph Scott? I think this is actually going to work."