Sun Compass

By Susan Egner

In this sequel to "Murano Light," Bates Dodge, now a world-renowned author, is being interviewed by reporter Libby Ross for a feature article. Best friend, Ella Nogosek, also visits and is attracted to Bates' business partner, John Benson, whose tales of Monarch butterfly migrations to El Rosario persuade both women to join the adventure and, along the way, gain new insights about themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Egner
• Release date: Mar 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301302499

Susan Egner

Minnesota Author Susan Egner followed her father’s footsteps into the life of a newspaper reporter before turning her pen to fiction. Her father, Lou Egner, was the well-known photojournalist for the Florida Times-Union and the former Jacksonville Journal. Now married and living in Burnsville, Minnesota, a suburb of Minneapolis, the mother of two and grandmother of four, fondly recalls, “Daddy gave cameras to my two sisters and me when we were still in elementary school saying, ‘Wherever you go, always remember to take your camera.’ He felt a story could unfold anywhere and he wanted us prepared. That training resulted in my writing about female photographers.”Encouraged by friends after hearing the stories she made up for her own children, Egner wrote and published her own children’s book series, Has Anyone Seen Woodfin? She has made multiple guest appearances with costumed characters in seven states and Shanghai, China; appearing in bookstores, elementary schools, children’s hospitals and the Mall of America. Her work was featured as one of ten programming initiatives at a gala event held in Chicago’s Field Museum by PBS affiliate, WYCC.Egner’s previous writing experience also includes writing and editing for the Dakota County Tribune, a weekly newspaper. In addition, she was a freelance writer for the Dayton Hudson Corporation Santa Bear series.Egner made the transition to e-B­­ook publishing in 2012 with her five-star rated novel, Scotoma. A gifted storyteller, Egner’s characters face challenges and often undergo personal transformation as they confront issues in contemporary society. Her stories are about ordinary people who find themselves in adverse circumstances that could face any of us. The choices each makes—and the resulting consequences—weave a tapestry of mystery, intrigue, and romance that will keep the reader wholly absorbed until the last page.Susan Egner proudly supports Operation eBook Drop, which provides free access to uniformed men and women deployed in service overseas. Learn more about Susan Egner on her website, EgnerINK, on Google+, and on Facebook.

Book preview

From the Author

In this first sequel to Murano Light, Bates Dodge is in her second year on Cliffpoint Island in the Apostle Islands archipelago. She had left a successful architectural partnership in Minneapolis to find solace in an enchanting lighthouse on an isolated island. She had also left an illicit love affair with Ben Warren, in hopes of fulfilling her life’s dream of becoming a writer.

Bates immersed herself in island life, eventually researching Cliffpoint’s former lighthouse keeper, Enzo Pastore. Weaving the hardships and endurance of his life into her own heartbreaking love story would result in her first book, an international best seller.

Now famous in her own right, Bates is much sought after by media. Minneapolis reporter Libby Ross is first on the scene. During her two-week, in-depth interview, Bates’ oldest friend, noted orchestra cellist Ella Nogosek, and Bates’ business partner, John Benson, join her. Benson, a butterfly enthusiast, introduces them to the magical and mystifying migration of the Monarch butterfly.

Much like the Monarch is guided on its migration by an internal sun compass, both Libby and Ella are guided in making new choices in life and love. And Ben Warren once again confronts Bates.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading Sun Compass as much as I enjoyed researching and writing it.

To my children,

whose encouragement empowers me to continue writing.

Table of Contents

Sun Compass

From the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

You May Be Interested in These Links

About Susan Egner

Other Books by Susan Egner

Chapter One

Libby stirred her coffee absentmindedly as she stared out the window. It was one of those brilliant winter days with a sky so clear and blue, it guaranteed a frigid temperature. The paradox of cloudless winter weather was that sunshine usually meant colder temperatures. She sipped her coffee slowly, cautious of scorching her tongue; but her mind wandered to other activities taking place right now. She had tried his number three times. No answer. Could he have already left without calling? Left for three months without her?

She stood, carrying her coffee with her, as she walked into her bedroom. She set her cup down on the dresser while she pulled on a velour sweat suit that she had thrown across the chair the night before. The same sweat suit she had worn when she answered the door at nine o’clock.

Well, don’t you look cute, all wrapped up in purple? said Steve, pulling her into an embrace. She liked the way he claimed her whenever they met, wherever they met. The color is good on you, picks up your sapphire eyes, he said.

She laughed. What are you doing here? I thought you had to work.

I needed to see you. I’m leaving town in the morning, and I wanted to see you before I leave.

Leaving town? On a shoot? she asked, as she led him into the living room. She seated herself on the window seat, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, while she waited for him to explain. Behind her he could see a line of snowmobile headlights racing across the frozen surface of White Bear Lake.

It’s a big opportunity, Libs, but a long trip. He held up a paper bag she hadn’t noticed when he walked in. Wine.

Come into the kitchen. You can open it while I get the glasses. She giggled as she slid from the bench and hurried into the kitchen. He was always full of surprises. The bottle of wine suggested another surprise. Even their time together was often a surprise. Though many times they planned their dates ahead of time, more often than not, they were spur of the moment. She liked the spontaneity of their relationship. It always seemed fresh, new and exciting. She handed him the corkscrew as she fetched two Riedel glasses from the hutch in the dining room.

What do you mean, long trip? she asked as she accepted her filled glass.

Just that. I have a chance to tour Mexico.

Wow, what’s the focus? she asked, familiar with the fact that he occasionally traveled. He was a photographer for the local Minneapolis/St. Paul Magazine. Most of the stories were local and he worked regular hours, covering those stories as the photographer. But on rare occasions he would travel to other parts of the state and once she remembered he’d gone to Canada on a story about the Boundary Waters Canoe Area and had been gone two weeks. She’d missed him intensely. The Magazine is sending you to Mexico?

Yes and no, he said, touching his glass to hers. I’ve taken a leave of absence in order to take this trip. Lib, this trip could be my chance to take my pictures national.

She could feel his excitement but sensed an undercurrent in his words.

We were just together yesterday and you never mentioned it.

I know. I should have. I’ve been trying to put it together for a couple of weeks and it just came together today. I didn’t see any point in mentioning it until I was certain it would really happen.

She walked slowly back into the living room, feeling suddenly chilled. She flicked the switch for the gas fireplace. It didn’t add much warmth, and the flames didn’t even remind her of real flames in a wood-burning fireplace; but for the moment, they eased the enveloping cold.

How long?

Maybe three months.

Three . . . months? She could hear herself repeating the words slowly as if she were deciphering a complex, secret code. Will I see you at all during those three months?

It would be a little difficult, Libby. You’re here, and I’ll be several thousand miles away.

I have some time coming to me. I could meet you somewhere for a week or two, here and there. That would be fun, she said, her mind already trying to plan the sequence of trips. After he’d been gone for three weeks, she’d fly down and meet him wherever he was at that time. Stay a week. Then back home for three weeks and return, possibly to a new area, if he was traveling around. She noticed he hadn’t answered. It would be, wouldn’t it?

I’m sorry, honey. It just won’t work this time. I’ll be traveling with writers and photographers from a national magazine, strictly professional. I’ll never get these kinds of assignments if I try to bring my girlfriend along. You know they won’t take my work seriously if they think I have to party at the same time. You understand, he said, holding his hand out in an awkward plea.

Sure, sure, I guess, she said, turning to look out the window, disguising her deep disappointment. She watched the gayety of snowmobile lights as they bounced in the snow, wishing she could feel as gay. He came up behind her and encircled her in his arms.

You’re going to be okay with this, aren’t you?

She huddled into his arms, tipping her head back and turning for a kiss. I just can’t imagine three months without you.

Pretend I’m in the military and received orders. Military wives do it all the time. Sometimes for nine months to a year. Sometimes they can’t even count on a phone call. Just letters, and even that can be occasional.

Are you saying you won’t even be able to call me?

No, no, I’ll call, but it won’t be everyday. I’ll be in some pretty remote areas with no signal for cell phones. Even email will be out of the question, but I’ll send you postcards and let you know where we are and what we’re shooting. He kissed her, taking her wine glass and pulling her to the couch. He set both glasses on the end table.

Soon they were making love and all further questions were put on hold. He had stayed until midnight and then left, saying the magazine’s bus was picking him up early the next day. The group would drive to Little Rock, spend the night, and then on to Dallas, stay a night there, then to Laredo before crossing the border into Mexico. He’d pulled a map from his pocket and given it to her. He had marked his route with approximate dates with a yellow highlighter so that she could follow his progress.

She pushed her nose into the fabric of her shirt and breathed deeply. She could smell his scent and the elusive, pungent scent of sex. They were good together, understanding each other’s needs without words. She let out a long sigh, feeling as if a part of her had been amputated last night and wondering how long it would take to grow back.

Three months. She couldn’t imagine being separated from him for that long. Her days revolved around his phone calls, his visits, his little surprises that she would find in the most unlikely places. Like the times he left tulips under her windshield wiper or Post-it notes on her side window. Sometimes he stopped by her office and left chocolate squares from Ghiradelli on her computer mouse pad. Other times he walked in with big bouquets. She was the envy of the other women who worked for the same county newspaper.

Occasionally they went out for dinner or lunch, but more often he would come to her house and they’d cook dinner together. He’d cook his specialty of crab cakes and coleslaw and she would compete with her champagne mustard chicken and risotto. He often brought her books, mostly about her passion to write fiction, but occasionally about some subject they had been discussing recently.

In the summer they played golf and tennis; but in the winter, they enjoyed more sublime activities like walks through museums or art galleries, or an occasional movie or play at the Guthrie Theater. Then they’d have coffee and talk about the merits of the production. They rarely went to movies or the theater at night. As a matter of fact, she could only remember one time. His job often required his services in the evening and so his afternoons were free. She found ways to slip away from the paper and spend a few hours with him, covering her absence with research for her human-interest articles. Sometimes she actually created articles based on ideas from their times together. She’d write about the unexpected benefits of visiting local museums, art galleries and smaller theater groups. She had a box filled with thank-you notes from many of these establishments whose patronage had increased as a result of her articles.

Now she paced the room, reclaimed her coffee, and walked into her small office adjacent to the kitchen. She listlessly went online, looking for any new emails, trying to figure out how she would fill the void created by Steve’s absence.

She noticed an email from her editor asking her to come in early on Monday, eight instead of nine. She moved the mouse to her file of old emails, clicked on Steve’s name and slowly reread some of the many emails she’d received and saved. Most were funny, many encouraging and a few quite intimate. She smiled. She was behaving like an adolescent. It was his job, his dream assignment. She could respect that, considering her own desire to someday have the freedom to write a book. She’d be okay. She’d concentrate on her work while he was away focusing, in the literal sense, on his.

Chapter Two

Libby walked into Matt’s office at ten minutes before eight on Monday morning.

That’s what I like to see, he said, extending a cup of coffee her way. An employee eager to get to work.

She smiled, took a sip and said, What’s up?

We’ve received some press releases from one of the publishing companies out east about a new author. She’s from Minneapolis but now lives on an island near Bayfield, Wisconsin. I think she might be an interesting story. Ever been to Bayfield?

Never have. Where is it?

Up on the northern tip of Wisconsin, southern tip of Lake Superior. He pulled down a map of the Midwest and pointed to Bayfield. It’s an interesting place, reminiscent of the quaint villages found on the New England coast. I want to run the story this summer, but I want you to go now so you can travel across the lake by car.

Lake Superior freezes hard enough to drive a car across? That giant lake?

It’s because of all the islands, over twenty. She lives on one of them, normally reached by ferry or airboat except for two months in winter when ice roads are plowed.

What’s the author’s name?

Bates Dodge. Sound familiar?

Sure, we did a story on her photography. She owns that company?

Yep. Dodge & Benson, architectural graphics.

"Now I remember. I covered several of the buildings she’s worked on.

When I interviewed her, she didn’t mention anything about writing. Obviously I would have listened with all ears. So is this book about her photography?"

Nope. As I understand it, it’s a fictional novel. Now I’ve got your attention. Isn’t that your secret dream?

Hardly a secret. You and everyone east of the Rockies know about it.

Well, I want you to pack your bags and go visit Bayfield and Cliffpoint Island. Get a feel for the place in winter. If you do it right, I’ll be able to stretch it into three Sunday features: lots of pictures and quotes from the new author. What do you think?

Sounds like fun. Hardly work. I just go up and hang out in a romantic town up on Lake Superior. When do I start?

As soon as you have your things in order. Tomorrow or the next day; suit yourself. Stay a week or two.

How about today? I have all my assignments in for this week’s issue. My personal column is written for the next two weeks. Who will cover my daily assignments?

I’ll put Terry on it. That okay by you?

Sure. Terry will do a good job.

Good. Get packing. It’s about a five-hour drive from here. If you leave today, try to leave early enough to beat the snowstorm coming in. Otherwise you may have to wait a day or two.

I’m outta here. Thanks, Matt, she said, not bothering to mention how much she welcomed an escape from thinking about Steve.

Make me proud, he said as he mocked a salute.

Libby picked up finished articles on her desk and turned them in, explained to a couple of people where she’d be, and headed home to pack. A bubble of excitement welled up within her. Rarely was she given a long assignment and certainly never any that lasted more than two days. She had two weeks to just noodle her way around in northern Wisconsin in a small town and an island community a short distance across the lake. She’d been handed a packet of information as she left. It included a map, reservations at the Old Rittenhouse Inn, a list of restaurants and shops to visit, a ferry schedule to use during her follow-up trip later in the year, and a dinner reservation later in the week at a restaurant called Wild Rice.

* * * * *

Later, as she packed her bag, she realized she hadn’t thought of Steve all day. She wondered if he’d reached Little Rock yet. She wished he’d call, at least everyday until he entered Mexico; but he had said he probably wouldn’t. She muttered to herself that she didn’t understand why he couldn’t make a simple phone call while he was still in the states. She hoped her cell phone worked in northern Wisconsin because the packet of information indicated that few hotels offered phone service, meaning you had to find a public phone. Standing outside in sub-zero weather was not her idea of a fun way to carry on a phone conversation. Anger percolated as frustration took over her thoughts. How could he make love to her last night and not even need to call her today?

Her phone rang. She rushed to grab it for fear she’d miss a call from Steve.

Libby, it’s Matt. How close are you to leaving?

I’m almost packed. I need to shut off my paper, have my mail held, things like that. Why?

The weather station has increased the storm warning for the coming snow. Maybe you should wait until after it hits.

What’s the time frame? she asked.

It’s expected to hit the Twin Cities around six this evening; but it’s a nor’easter and will hit the north shore earlier.

I think I can be ready to leave in an hour. I’ll watch the weather as I travel; and if the snow gets significant, I’ll stop in whatever town I’m in and wait it out. That suit you?

Okay, if you’re sure. Just be careful.

She thought about sitting around all day, waiting for Steve to call and knew she’d rather be fighting the elements than sitting on eternal hold here.

I’ll be fine. I’ll put blankets and other survival gear in the car just in case.

Be sure to take your camera. I’ll send a photographer with you next summer but if you see some interesting winter sights, snap them.

Do you want color or black and white?

Try both, but black and white might make some interesting studies in winter. I’ve got to run, Libby. I have another meeting. Give me a call when you arrive and all checked in.

He disconnected before she had an opportunity to answer. Instead of being offended, she felt gratified that he demonstrated his confidence in her ability. She flew through the remaining tasks and loaded her car. When she hit the garage door opener, the sight outside took her aback: she’d been so busy in her preparations that she had not noticed the mounting storm. Her driveway was already impassable. She trudged back inside, left a message on Matt’s voicemail that she would wait out the storm after all, slipped a CD into her player, and resigned herself to staying home until the storm had dissipated. As she listened to music provided by Steve, her thoughts played over last night.

Chapter Three

They had shared a couple of glasses of wine while he filled her in on his trip. It sounded exciting and his enthusiasm was contagious. Soon she was making suggestions on possible photo shots, reminding him not to forget the women and children. She remembered a photo project she had done at St. Cloud State University. The class assignment had been to shoot street scenes.

At first she had started with the obvious: children boarding a bus, a policeman giving a ticket, and a group of women shoppers. But as she roamed around Hennepin Avenue, she found scenes of street people, many who were homeless, and women plying