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.
“You know I live in a barn,” Cal reminded Owen.
“My barn isn’t as fancy as your barn. It’s a shop. With a bed in it. But my house trumps your house.” Then he grinned.
“What do you do with all those bedrooms?” Sully asked.
“Nothing except when I rent it out. In a few years I might sell it. I don’t know. I like the location. And sometimes my sister and her kids come. Plus, I have friends...”
“You do?” Sully asked.
“Well, yeah. Some. Not too many. I don’t want too many. How many have you got?”
“About six,” Sully said, smiling. “And a town. Plus the Jones clan intermarried with some of my friends so now I have a big family, and I never saw that coming.”
“Neither did the Jones clan,” Cal said.
“Is your whole family here now?” Owen asked Cal.
“All but my parents and my sister Sedona—she’s still back east, but she turns up regularly for visits. Sierra and Connie are neighbors now. Dakota just took a teaching job right smack between Boulder and Timberlake, so we see him and Sid a lot. Sid’s brother and his wife live in town. It’s a complicated web. I could make you up a chart.”
“Is there going to be a test?” Owen asked. But he was thinking he had far fewer connections, and