Page 4 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

The mushrooms release their earthy perfume as they brown, mixing with the fragrant thyme and wild garlic I'd rubbed into the fish.

With practiced movements, I flip the trout, revealing perfectly crisped skin. Violet watches from where she stands, my flannel still draped over her shoulders, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames.

When everything is done, I plate our meal on Martha's old blue stoneware—plates I've washed and kept dust-free for three years. The colors are striking: golden-brown fish, caramelized mushrooms, and herbs snipped from the garden just this morning.

We settle at the small oak table I've pulled close to the hearth. The firelight casts long shadows across the worn wood, highlighting the grain patterns that tell stories of decades of family meals. Here, in this circle of warmth and light, with the smell of good food between us, the chaos beyond our walls only makes this moment feel more intimate, more protected.

Like we're the only two people left in the world.

"This is delicious," Violet says, surprise evident in her voice.

"Not what you expected from a strange man?" I ask, watching her over the rim of my water glass.

She smiles, more relaxed now. "I think I've stopped expecting anything when it comes to you, Paul."

The way she says my name sends heat through my veins. I set down my glass carefully.

"Your grandmother worried about what would happen to this place," I say, deciding it's time for some truth. "When she got sick, she asked me to look after it until you came."

Violet's fork pauses halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean, 'until I came'? She left it to me in her will. She knew I'd handle the estate."

I choose my words carefully. "Martha believed you'd come back someday. Not just to sell it, but to see it. To remember."

"You make it sound like she expected me to keep it." Violet sets down her fork, her brow furrowing.

"I think she hoped you might." I meet her gaze steadily. "This place meant everything to her. And you meant everything to her."

Violet looks away, emotion flickering across her face. "I can't keep a cabin in the mountains. My life is in Chicago."

"Is it?" I ask quietly.

Outside, the wind howls through the pines.

"There are things you should see," I say finally, standing. "Things she wanted preserved."

Violet watches me with wary curiosity as I move to the far corner of the main room, near the old oak bookcase. I push aside the handwoven rug to reveal the faint outline of a trapdoor set into the floorboards.

"What is this?" she asks, moving to stand beside me.

"Your grandmother's secret," I explain, lifting the hidden door to reveal a cedar-lined compartment beneath. "She called it her treasure chest."

Inside lies a collection of carefully preserved items: leather-bound journals, old photographs in silver frames, small wooden boxes, and an antique jewelry case.

Violet kneels beside the opening, her expression stunned. "I had no idea this was here."

"She added to it over the years," I explain, watching her closely. "Said some things were too precious to risk being overlooked in an estate sale."

Carefully, reverently, Violet lifts out a framed photograph—herself as a child, sitting on the cabin's porch steps with paint-smudged hands and a serious expression as she works on a watercolor.

"I remember this day," she whispers. "I was trying to capture the exact color of the lake at sunset. I was so frustrated because I couldn't get it right."

"Did you ever manage it?" I ask.

She shakes her head, a sad smile touching her lips. "No. Some beauty defies capture."

Thunder crashes directly overhead, making her jump. Without thinking, I place my hand on her shoulder to steady her. She doesn't pull away.

"There's more," I tell her, reaching past to lift out one of the wooden boxes. "Your early sketches. She kept everything you ever sent her."

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