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Then a customer walked in, saying there was a problem with the country-diner discount voucher the inn had given out.
He'd seen the inn online and driven three hours from the state capital with his wife and kid.
"The diner owner says the inn's voucher doesn't count. If we want to eat, it's full price."
"He even said we were cheapskates. Said if we had no money, why go traveling at all."
That was Miles's country-style diner.
Miles's diner was less than two hundred meters from the inn, in what used to be his family's disused pigpen.
Three years ago he lost his job, and I told him he might as well fix the place up and open a diner, and I'd send inn guests his way.
He had no money. I lent him twenty thousand.
He was afraid to try it, so I drew up the menu for him.
Later the business took off, his roast chicken with mushrooms became the signature dish, he bought a new house, expanded the place, and made good money every year.
I walked up to the diner door. Miles was leaning against the frame, picking his teeth.
"Miles, what's the deal with the voucher?"
Miles glanced at me, the toothpick still in his mouth, and didn't move.
"Oh, that. I did the math. Twenty percent off leaves nothing in it for me. Not worth it."
"Last month you said the deal was fine."
"Last month was last month."
He spat the toothpick on the ground.
"Now? That inn of yours won't be open much longer."
I clenched my fist.
"Miles, we agreed on this. We were in it together…"
"In it together, my foot. If I make money, that's my own doing."
His voice rose.
"That inn of yours, a thousand a night, raking it in, and we never saw a drop of it."
"I'm a local trying to make a little off your food, and I'm supposed to give you twenty percent off?"
A few customers at the nearby tables looked over.
I didn't say anything more.
As I walked out of the diner, my phone buzzed.
It was a message from Rufus James, the only mountain-goods seller in the village who hadn't raised his prices, a man in his sixties who didn't talk much.
"Owen, Rick went to the power company this afternoon."
"Said he's going to have the meter on your old house checked. Watch yourself."
I put the phone back in my pocket and stood on the village road, new-renovated country courtyards on both sides.
"East Village Welcomes You," read the slogan painted on the wall.
The locals said it was thanks to Owen putting the place on the map that they could all live off tourism now.
But at four o'clock that afternoon, the inn's power went out.
The guests cursed. No water, no electricity, how were they supposed to stay?
I refunded and compensated every one of them.
Ethel went to check the meter box. The switch had been pulled from the outside, and a new lock hung on it.
"Rick did this."
She said it through gritted teeth.
"The power company said Rick came in this morning with the property deed to report a problem, said the old house's wiring was worn out and had them cut it off."
My phone rang. A message from Paul in Willow Hollow.
"Mr. Yates, we finished pulling the weeds around the five old houses for you!"
"Come whenever you like."
I typed two words.
Soon.
I set the phone down, leaned back in the rattan chair, and stared up at the dead light overhead.
Ethel suddenly spoke.
"Owen, I'm sorry."
I turned to look at her.
"My folks came to me last night too. Said Rick put the word out—anyone who helps you again can forget about holding their head up in this village."
"They all live here. I don't dare…"
"It's fine."
I answered.
"Go on home. You don't need to come in tomorrow. I'll pay your wages through the end of the month."
Ethel walked away with her head down.
I sat alone in the inn as it went dark.
The shadow of the pomegranate tree in the yard stretched long, exactly like when I first arrived three years ago.
There was no power back then either, and it was just me sitting here too.
The difference was, back then I had a contract in my hand, and I thought a contract could protect me.
My lawyer friend called.
"Owen, no problem. We can file the case."
