Chapter Three

The trip to Vermont had been excruciating, despite the cushiness of the leather seats in Bradley's Lexus. Even if he'd wanted to—which he had not—Casey hadn't been required to contribute to the conversation since Bradley took care of that all on his own. He'd even ordered for Casey when they'd stopped for lunch in Hartford.

By the time they turned onto Home's Main Street, Casey could have given a master class on All Things Bradley Pillsbury, including the unabridged text of Bradley's prep school valedictorian speech, because if Bradley had left anything out, it was purely by accident.

Luckily, Casey had been blessed with a very efficient memory, and when they passed a tall hedge near the end of the street and he got his first look at Harrison House, he shunted everything Bradley had said to his mental Trash folder.

Because wow.

Not wow fancy wow, but just wow, because this was exactly the kind of house Casey had always dreamed of, growing up in Manhattan apartments that were either cramped and rundown (his early childhood) or spare, modern, and soulless (after his dad's first restaurant took off). This house—a conglomeration of Federalist, Victorian, farmhouse, and maybe a couple of other styles that Casey didn't recognize—had three stories in its central block, with single story wings jutting off each side. It looked like a place you could explore for years and still find an unexpected staircase behind a door you'd never noticed.

A trio of massive oak trees shaded a front lawn that had to be at least the size of a city block. That much grass needed the giant riding mower that was parked under one of the oaks, with a sturdy man in overalls, white hair peeking from under his ball cap, bent over its engine.

Bradley hmmphed as he turned into the gravel drive that cut a semi-circle like a smile in front of the house.

"So inconsiderate." Bradley's mutter was barely audible over the Persistence of Vision playlist he'd had on a loop since they crossed the Vermont border. Casey liked POV's music well enough, but Bradley didn't seem to be listening to the songs. They simply served as a soundtrack to his monologue. "This gravel could chip the Lexus's paint." He looked down his nose at the mower. "Although I suppose they don't get many high-end cars up here." He pulled to a stop next to the steps that led to a wide front porch.

Casey didn't waste a minute climbing out. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean air redolent of new-mown grass and lilacs from the bushes massed along the porch railing and towering at the corners of the house in colors from white through lavender all the way to dark purple. The guy with the mower looked up and touched the brim of his cap. Casey grinned at him and gave a little wave as Bradley climbed out the driver's side door, still grumbling.

He crunched to the trunk, his loafers—"Italian. Handmade for me in a village outside Naples."—skidding a little in the gravel. Casey couldn't help feeling a tad smug over his trainers, which, along with his well-worn jeans, T-shirt, and faded red hoodie, had seriously offended Bradley when he'd double-parked in front of the apartment this morning. "You could have dressed up a little for our first date."

Casey had rolled his eyes. "It's not a date. You're making a completely unnecessary drive. I was perfectly happy to take the train and catch an Uber from the station in Merrilton."

But Uncle Walt had said it would make him feel better to know that Casey had made it there safely, so he'd given in. Now he wished he'd stood his ground, because over six hours of Bradley Pillsbury—if you counted lunch and two stops for lattes—was way more than enough.

Bradley unloaded Casey's luggage and slammed the trunk. "I'm surprised at your uncle."

Casey didn't answer. He'd learned by now that Bradley didn't require a response—he'd supply one himself regardless of whether Casey said anything or not. Besides, he'd just noticed a bird's nest tucked under the front porch eaves. A swallow swooped past him and perched on its edge, greeted by the frantic peeps of the babies inside.

So different from New York.Even if a swallow had nested outside his building, Casey wouldn't have been able to hear them over the noise of traffic and the gabble of endless crowds rushing, rushing, rushing, yet never seeming to be satisfied with their destination.

"Considering your pedigree," Bradley said, setting Casey's bags next to the porch steps, "he could have enrolled you in a culinary institute in Manhattan with no difficulty at all. Add in my connections, and—"

"I've already attended"—and failed—"Manhattan schools. Twice. Uncle Walt and I discussed it, Bradley. This is my choice."

Bradley gazed at a spot over Casey's left shoulder. Would it kill him to look me in the eye? "You realize that the distance will be quite inconvenient for me to visit you regularly?"

Oh, I certainly do.In fact, Casey was counting on it. "You definitely shouldn't inconvenience yourself, Bradley. In fact"—Casey picked up his suitcases—"I can take it from here."

"Don't be ridiculous." Bradley looked around, probably expecting a bellhop to materialize along with a valet. "Just look at this place. I doubt there's a decent latte closer than Merrilton. In fact, you ought to stay there instead. I'll lease a car for you and you can drive out here for your lessons while staying in marginally civilized lodgings."

"No." Casey might have trouble saying no to Uncle Walt, but Bradley was another story. "For one thing, I can't drive, so leasing a car would be useless. For another, the proximity to the classroom is one of the selling points of this place. For a third—" Casey smiled as he turned in a circle, checking out the other houses along Main Street, all different, all idiosyncratic, all set behind deep, emerald-green lawns. "—I like it here."

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.

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.