Chapter Twenty-Nine

"That's the last one." Kenny shut down his tablet and stretched. "All vendors present and accounted for, and all musicians at least accounted for, even if they're not present."

Casey chuckled. "Well, it's only eight-thirty in the morning. Musicians are a nocturnal race, aren't they? I don't think we can expect to spot any of them until the first set this afternoon."

Casey had left Dev snoozing away when he'd crawled out of bed at six. They hadn't had a chance for as much as a little frotting last night because Dev had come staggering to bed after two, following a marathon session with Haru at Ty's place. They hadn't wanted to rehearse at Harrison House where the rest of the band—or the glowering Nash—could hear or in the cottage where they'd disturb Casey.

Not that Casey would have minded being disturbed. Dev and Haru together made a truly marvelous noise.

"If you don't need me for anything," Kenny said, tucking his tablet under his arm, "I promised Kat I'd help at the Market."

Casey shooed him away. "Go, go. In fact, I'll come with you. We'll handle any other questions at the information tent in front of Harrison House." They walked across the dance studio's scuffed wooden floor, their movements echoed in the mirrors along one long wall. "Registration was the only thing I was worried about. Nothing's worse than a backlog when all the vendors want to do is get their stands set up for the incoming hordes. I helped out with enough conferences back in business school to know that much."

"Let's hope for hordes," Kenny said. "If we only get a trickle—"

"Bite your tongue!" Casey made sure the studio door locked behind them, and that the sign directing folks to the information table was in place. "It's going to be a rousing success. I insist."

Kenny grinned. "Well, in that case, who am I to rain on the parade?"

"Augh!" Casey held up his fingers in a cross to ward off the ominous words. "Don't say rain."

Kenny's grin morphed into a full-on belly laugh as they headed toward Main Street. "Even if it does—and every meteorologist from here to Burlington says we'll have nothing but a few fluffy clouds all day—the vendors will be safe under their awnings and the musicians under the stage canopy."

"But it might keep the audience away."

Kenny winked. "Never underestimate the passion of a tourist for food or a music aficionado for true discomfort in the quest for live performances. Remember Woodstock?"

"We're hardly Woodstock."

"Nope. We're Home." He winked again. "We've got more Port-a-Potties per capita. See you later."

Kenny trotted off down the street as Casey paused at the marquee under the Harrison House oak trees to greet Ty, who was chatting with Winnie Barrows, a retired schoolteacher who had volunteered to staff the table.

"Hey, Ty. Everything okay, Winnie?" Casey asked.

"All good." She raised a to-go cup from the Market. "Kat's keeping me supplied with tea, and Kenny's high school posse will be stopping by to give me breaks all day."

"You've got my number if you need me, right?"

"Don't worry, Casey. We've got this."

Beside Casey, Ty was squinting up at a suspicious bulge in the canvas overhead. He shot a wicked grin at Casey. "Say, Winnie? Could I borrow your cane for a sec?"

"Sure." She unhooked the curved wooden handle from the edge of the table and handed it to him.

Ty crept toward the bulge and used the cane's rubber tip to poke the bulge, which vanished only to appear about two feet away.

"Let me guess," Casey said. "Randolph Scott?"

"He prefers to supervise from on high."

"I've noticed," Casey said, remembering Randolph Scott lurking on top of his armoire.

"However…"

Ty set the cane against the canvas and drew it along as he walked toward the tent's edge. Sure enough, the bulge tracked it in a series of leaps.

"Watch this," Ty said with a grin.

"Ty Harrison," Winnie said with mock severity, "you're as bad as you were back in grade school. You and Eddie Mitchell gave me more gray hairs than all the other students combined. If it weren't for Kenny Li reining you both in, you'd have spent half your recesses in the principal's office."

"His reins worked better on Mitch than on me, but Kenny always was the best of us. Still is." He gave a mock bow. "Good thing he's not here now."

He pressed the cane against the tent again and took off, dashing around the table twice. Randolph Scott wasn't pouncing so much now as racing along the canvas, chasing the cane.

Suddenly, Ty made a dash toward the house and into the open. And Randolph Scott, not pausing in his momentum, flew off the edge of the tent to land on the grass in a crouch.

He shook his head, ears laid back, tail puffed out like a bottle brush, before he sauntered toward the porch as if he hadn't just made a total goober of himself.

"Fool cat can't resist a moving target." Ty returned Winnie's cane. "Falls for that every time. Never gets old. See you later, folks. I've got a petting enclosure set up for all those fairgoers who need a little stress relief." He walked off down the drive in a crunch of gravel.

"Casey?"

At the sound of that familiar voice, Casey's breath seized and his head snapped around. Uncle Walt was standing near the lilac bush at the corner of the house, his bewildered glance bouncing between Casey and the path toward the summer kitchen.

Casey hurried toward him, willing his lungs to resume their regular operation. "Uncle Walt?" He gave his uncle a quick hug. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"Bradley invited me for the antique fair. He's been marketing it as far away as Atlantic City and he's been very satisfied by the response."

And I've been very satisfied to let him do the work of pulling more tourists to the area. Free advertising FTW. "Imagine that," Casey murmured.

"Yes. A number of investors have already expressed interest in…" He watched Pete drive past in a fifteen-passenger van he'd sourced from somewhere, Home Grown Shuttle emblazoned on its doors. "I don't understand." Uncle Walt's tone was plaintive. "What's going on? I expected to find you in Merrilton with Bradley, but he said your lessons were keeping you busy here so I thought I'd stop in and see your progress, but"—he gestured helplessly—"this. What is this?"

Casey linked his elbow with his uncle and gestured expansively with his other hand. "This is Home Grown Tastes and Tunes, the food and music festival I've helped organize here in Home."

"But… but what about your studies?" His expression brightened. "Are you cooking for the festival? One of your dad's dishes? To promote the restaurant?"

Casey sighed. "Come with me. I want to show you what we're doing here."

"But… But…"

"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."

"I know. That's why I love you, why I've always wanted to make you happy. But being stuck in a kitchen for the rest of my life?" He gripped his uncle's hands. "I'm sorry, but I can't. Not even for you. Furthermore, you wouldn't want me to, because if you want your restaurant to succeed, you need a chef who can actually cook."

"It wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be Chez Dontatien."

"As well it shouldn't. It was Dad's dream and now he's gone." Casey met Uncle Walt's eyes. "Tell me the truth. Do you even want to own a restaurant?"

"I… I…" He looked away, blinking rapidly, and exhaled on a half sob. "I miss him so much."

"I know. But isn't the best way to honor him to move on? Build on the legacy. Don't try to recreate the past, because you can't. Hire a new chef. Let them make the place their own. Maybe have one night as an homage to Dad, with a menu that's a nod to his food. But then say goodbye to it. To him." Casey squeezed his uncle's hand. "It's time. Don't you think?"

"Hey, babe." At Dev's call, Casey released Uncle Walt's hand and turned, his smile blooming at the sight of Dev's grin.

"Hi." He studied Dev's face as he trotted across the street toward them between a cheesemaker's stand and a Ben Jerry's ice cream truck. For the first time since Casey had arrived in Home, for the first time since he'd seen Dev without his welding mask, Dev looked relaxed. At home in his own skin.

At home in Home.

Casey wasn't arrogant enough to think he was the whole cause of Dev's contentment. The apparent success of the event, with registration fees that more than covered the cost of the dang Port-a-Potties, not to mention his rediscovery of music, probably had more to do with it. But Casey liked to think he'd had at least a supporting role in putting that sparkle in Dev's eyes, the ease in his wide shoulders, the spring in his step.

"Sylvia wants to know if you've got the rosters for her interactive cooking demos."

"Oh! Right. Yes." Casey pulled out his phone and forwarded the list to Sylvia and Dev. "Sorry. I intended to do that right after registration closed down, but then Uncle Walt showed up."

Dev's eyebrows rose. "This is your uncle, then?" He held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, sir. Dev Harrison."

Uncle Walt glanced a little frantically at Casey as he shook Dev's hand. "How do you do?"

"Dev is the direct descendant of Home's founder, the town manager, and"—Casey inhaled and took the plunge—"my boyfriend."

Dev's grin grew even wider as he wrapped an arm around Casey's waist and dropped a kiss to the top of his head. "And proud of it. He's the most remarkable man I've ever met."

"But… But…" Uncle Walt glanced between them. "What about Bradley?"

Casey leaned into Dev's side. "Bradley was never in the picture. Not my picture, anyway. If you want to partner with him for the restaurant, you can certainly do so. But I'd think really hard about that."

"Why?" Uncle Walt asked.

"Because the guy's a dickhead," Dev said. "A dickhead who doesn't deserve Casey. But if I'm lucky"—he smiled down at Casey, the warmth in his eyes enough to melt Casey's knees—"someday I will."