Page 10 of Baker
“It’s beautiful land, really. I’ve been around the world a couple of times over and have photographed some of the most gorgeous landscapes and animals in existence, but for some reason, I never looked in my own back yard. Which is odd because I grew up watching Marty Stouffer. He was the one who made me want to capture wildlife on film at a young age. My dad bought me a used Nikon for my tenth birthday after I used up every roll of film for his Kodak instant camera, taking shots of a cluster of swallowtails drinking out of a mud puddle.”
I chuckled softly and quietly sipped. Sitting here with him was relaxing. He had a nice way of spinning a yarn.
“And the rest is history as they say,” I chimed in and he nodded.
“I suppose. Went to college, got a degree in photography, and set out to make a name for myself. My first stop was in Myanmar. I had nothing but my camera, my bachelor’s degree, and a backpack with my clothes and passport. I spent three months there sleeping in the jungles and helping locals out with food and medicine. Man, there aresomany ways to get sick in the jungle during the rainy season. Mosquitoes big as softballs.” I smiled around a bite of oats, honey, and raisins. “It was worth it, though, because I ended up with some shots of red pandas that sold for some pretty decent money. I even managed to pick up some Burmese along the way. After I sold those images, I moved on to Thailand and stayed there for about a year. Met a glorious man named Kiet, and we had a mad affair.”
Ah okay, so he was into men. Good to know. The mad fuck in the barn still had possibility.
“You’ve seen a lot of the world,” I commented and washed down the sticky oats with some cold water.
“I have, but it’s nice to be back home. I’ve not been in America for close to eight years.”
I wondered what he was hiding from but kept my question to myself. I wasn’t my grandmother. My cell vibrated in my back pocket. We both fell silent. I debated long and hard about ignoring it, but Granny could need me for something. It was a reflex to think that way, even though there were four people in the house with her right now. The text was short and concise.
Bella give me her phone. Come back home. We need to talk. Your granny.
“Trouble?” Hanley softly asked as I read what was probably the first text message Eleanor Alice Bastian had ever sent in her life.
“I’m needed at the house.” I popped the last bite of granola bar into my mouth as I rose. Prissy tossed her head at me. She would have to wait until tomorrow for a ride. “Thanks for the snack and the ear.”
“Anytime. I’ll probably see you around here and there. Thanks again for your permission to shoot on your land. You should hear from my publisher in the morning. They’re pretty generous about paying a nice fee to landowners when I venture onto private property.”
“Oh, well, that’s nice.”
“Yeah, you have some great land here. I can’t wait to explore it more closely.”
I nodded since I didn’t know what to say in reply. Requesting a hot screw in the hayloft seemed kind of pushy. “Night then,” I finally settled on before I left the stable and the far-too handsome photographer. The house was dark on the second floor, but the kitchen light was on. I blew out a hearty breath and trudged forward to get what I assumed would be an earful.
***
The house was silent when I slipped in the back door.
Toeing off my boots, I heard Granny humming in the kitchen. Rolling my head in a circle like a boxer about to touch gloves with his opponent, I strolled into the kitchen to find Granny making yet another pot of coffee. She looked at me and motioned to the now empty table.
“They’ve all gone to bed upstairs,” she informed me as she made her way from the coffeemaker to the fridge. I was sorely tempted to make a snide comment about there being a hotel in town but bit it back. Instead, I waited by the pot until there was enough brown liquid to fill a mug, then turned to see Granny holding a plate with the last slice of cake covered in seal wrap.
“What’s that?” I asked and got a look.
“Why it’s carrot cake, Studebaker.” She placed it on the table, lowered herself to her favorite chair—it had a thick cushion that padded her backside—then tapped at the tabletop with a finger.
“I knew it was cake,” I said as I moved to join her, pushing the pretty cloth placemat aside not to leave a coffee ring on the gingham material. “I was wondering why you didn’t feed it to one of the others.”
“Because I’m not going to punish you by withholding your favorite dessert over a temper tantrum.”
“Never stopped you when I was a kid, and it wasn’t a tantrum.” I removed the cling wrap and used the spoon in my coffee to cut off a moist bite.
“What would you call it, then?” Oh, she was feeling her oats tonight. The stern set of her lips was a dead giveaway that she was put out with me.
“Exiting a tense situation to gather my thoughts.” I shoved the cake into my mouth and nearly fainted at the deliciousness resting on my tongue.
“Back in my day, they called it storming out with a wild hair up your ass.” She stole my coffee to wet her whistle. I rolled my eyes. “So, now that you’ve made your brothers—”
“Half,” I said around the mouthful of homemade cream cheese icing and cake. “Half-brothers. I think that’s a pretty big distinction to make.”
“Why?” She sat back to fold her arms over her yellow robe.
“Why what?” I spooned up more cake even though I’d just had a granola bar. I was an adult. I could have two desserts.
