The Country Guesthouse (Sullivan's Crossing #5)(3)

To climb steep hills
requires slow pace at first.

—William Shakespeare



1


Owen and his Great Dane, Romeo, walked around the lake and up the road to Sully’s store. Sully was sitting on the porch with his son-in-law, Cal Jones. His little granddaughter was sitting on the porch steps. The moment three-year-old Elizabeth saw them, she clapped her hands and yelled, “Womeo!” The Great Dane paused, turned his big head to look up at Owen. “Okay,” Owen said. Romeo took off at a gallop, looking like a pony, loping across the yard to his welcome party. Sully’s yellow Lab, Beau, met Romeo at the porch steps and the two dogs treated themselves to a trot around the yard.

Owen leaned his walking stick against the porch, doffed his backpack and ruffled Elizabeth’s hair as he took the steps.

“Hey, neighbor,” Sully said. “How’s the shootin’ today?”

“I only see the good stuff if I leave the camera at home,” Owen said. He shook Sully’s hand, then Cal’s. “Looks like the campground’s filling up.”

“It’s always spring break somewhere,” Sully said. “At least I get the outdoorsy types instead of the drink-till-you-puke types.”

Owen laughed. “Good planning, Sully. Is it too early for a beer?” he asked, looking at Cal’s beer.

“I hope not,” Cal said. “Maggie’s in Denver. I’m holding down the fort with Elizabeth’s help.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Owen said.

“That’s nice, but unnecessary. Now that Elizabeth can actually talk, nothing is sacred.”

“What’s a sacwed, Daddy?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Cal said.

Owen got himself a cold bottle of beer from the cooler inside, left a few dollars on the counter and wandered back onto the porch. He sat down, stretched out his very long legs and took a long pull on his beer. Romeo and Beau wandered back to the store porch. Romeo treated Elizabeth to a full face wash, cleaning her off with a few hearty licks. She squealed with delight and said, “Oh-oh-oh-oh, Womeo! I love you, too.”

The men all laughed. “Why can’t the weather be like this all year?” Owen asked.

“Because we need that snowpack,” Sully said. “Don’t need those summer fires, though. You just coming home or you getting ready to go away again?”

“I’ve been back a week,” Owen said. “Next is Taiwan in about a month, but they’ve been having some serious weather issues right where I plan to shoot. I’m keeping an eye on that.”

Owen, a photographer, was a freelancer. When he was younger he did a lot of portraits, school pictures, weddings, family Christmas cards, that sort of thing. When he was in his thirties he began doing more artistic photographs and sometimes more political photos—war-ravaged villages, citizens of impoverished countries, the poverty or decadence in his own country, as well as interesting or beautiful landscapes, mountains, wildlife. Then he wrote accompanying essays or blogs for his photos and became something of a travel writer, with a twist. He would expose the blunders, chaos, humor and turmoil in his own little world of professional photography, and he became famous—reluctantly. He snuck into the kitchens of five-star hotels, backstage at concerts, into locker rooms at sporting events and behind the scenes at dog shows—anything that seemed interesting and where he could potentially expose a secret or insight or revelation. A few books of his collected photos and essays were published and, for some crazy reason, people bought them.

What he was most interested in was art and travel, experiencing other cultures. And solitude—he always traveled alone.

“I’m spending a couple of weeks in Vietnam in July. I love Vietnam,” Owen said.

“I can’t remember loving it,” Sully said.

“Exactly what my dad said.” Owen laughed.

“It’s so polite of you to remind me I’m old enough to be your father,” Sully said.

“Old enough to be mine, too,” Cal said. “Oh, that’s right, you kind of are. By marriage.”

“Where’s Helen?” Owen asked.

“Some kind of writing convention in New York.”

“And you never go along?”

“Not to these book things,” Sully said. “She’s better off without me. She and the writer friends whoop it up. I don’t have the wanderlust like you and Helen. And someone has to be around here to mind the store. I can’t see renting out my place like you do yours.”

“That doesn’t always work out so great,” Owen said. “There are times it’s a little awkward. Sometimes a trip gets canceled and I end up being on the property. But that’s only happened twice. The Realtor who manages the rentals around here always contacts the guests and offers a refund or another place, but if they want the house, I just stay in the barn and they mostly ignore me.” He took a drink of his beer. “I should probably sell the house and move into the barn. It’s really all I need.”

“Why’d you build that big house, then?” Sully asked.

“I like that house,” Owen said. “I also like the barn.”

The barn had been converted into a studio and guesthouse. There was a bedroom and kitchenette behind the studio. The light was good. He had all his camera equipment set up there, plus shelves for his favorite books. There was a bigger library in the main house—Owen loved books. He took people in very small doses and liked his own company. He was drawn to nature, travel, reading, quiet and his work. He blew up and transferred his pictures onto canvases, mounted them himself, carted them around to a variety of galleries and gift shops, and the last few years he had been contracted to provide his photos to hotels, restaurants and private buyers.