Page 7 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

"Keep going," Paul encourages softly, his arm resting behind me on the swing's back, not quite touching but present.

I turn pages, finding entries about our daily rituals—morning walks to the lake, afternoons spent with me painting while she gardened, evenings reading by the fire. In her words, I see myself through her eyes—not the awkward, angry child I remember being, but a girl with "an old soul and keen eyes that miss nothing."

"'Today Violet painted the sunrise,'" I read, my voice steadier now. "'Not the postcard version, but the true one—all messy oranges bleeding into purple, the light breaking through in unexpected places. She sees the world as it is, not as others tell her it should be. This gift will carry her through life, though it may sometimes feel like a burden.'"

I close the journal, overcome. "She understood me better than I understood myself."

"She saw you," Paul says quietly. He reaches out, brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. His fingertip is calloused but gentle against my cheek. "Just as you are."

Birds call from the trees. A breeze carries the scent of pine and warming earth. I should feel trapped here, anxious to get back to my real life in Chicago. Instead, I feel something dangerously close to peace.

"There's something else I want to show you," Paul says finally, standing and offering his hand.

I take it without hesitation, his palm warm and solid against mine. He leads me around the back of the cabin, along a narrow path through blooming wildflowers, to a small shed I hadn't noticed before. Unlike the rustic cabin, this structure is newer, with a sturdy padlock on the door.

"Your grandmother called this her treasure room," Paul explains, producing a key from his pocket. "After the break-in attempt five years ago, we built this together, fireproof and secure."

"Break-in?" I ask, alarmed.

He nods grimly. "Some locals knew Martha had a collection. Nothing came of it—I happened to be nearby." The set of his jaw suggests there's more to that story than he's telling. "After that, we moved everything valuable out here."

The door swings open, and Paul steps aside to let me enter first. Sunlight streams through small, high windows, illuminating what can only be described as a private museum. Glass display cabinets line the walls, filled with antiques: Tiffany lamps, delicate porcelain, vintage jewelry, and art pieces I immediately recognize as valuable. In the center stands a magnificent roll-top desk that my professional eye places in the late 1800s, immaculately preserved.

"Oh my God," I breathe, my appraiser's mind automatically calculating values that quickly soar into six figures. "I had no idea she had all this."

"Most of it came with the cabin when she bought it in the sixties," Paul explains, watching me closely. "The original ownerwas a collector who fell on hard times. Your grandmother kept everything, added to it over the years."

I move slowly through the space, stunned by the quality and condition of each piece. Everything has been meticulously cared for—the silver polished, the wood oiled, the glass gleaming.

"You did this," I say, not a question. "You've been maintaining all of it."

Paul shrugs, but I see the pride in his eyes. "Seemed important to preserve it properly. For when you came."

"For when I came," I repeat softly, the weight of his dedication settling around me like a physical thing. For three years, he's been here, protecting not just a cabin but a legacy. My legacy. Waiting for me with a patience that seems impossible in today's disposable world.

In the corner, a small table holds what appears to be a jewelry box. I approach it, drawn by the intricate inlay of mother-of-pearl and exotic woods.

"This is Swiss," I say, professional interest momentarily overriding emotion. "Late 19th century. The craftsmanship is extraordinary."

"It was her favorite," Paul says, moving to stand beside me. His presence is solid, grounding. "It plays music, but the mechanism is delicate. Here—"

He reaches around me, his chest pressing lightly against my back, his arms encircling but not trapping me as he demonstrates. "You have to lift this hidden latch first, then turn the key twice, not three times, or the spring winds too tight."

His breath is warm against my hair. My own breathing has gone shallow, my body hyper-aware of his proximity. His fingersguide mine to the latch, and the touch sends heat spiraling through me. Together, we open the box, wind the key.

The first notes of a melody I vaguely recognize float into the air between us—something classical and bittersweet. I turn within the circle of his arms to face him, and find his eyes already on mine, intense and waiting.

"Why did you stay?" I whisper. "All this time, maintaining everything, waiting... why?"

"Because from the moment I saw your picture on Martha's mantel, I knew," he says, his voice low and certain. One hand comes up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Some things you just know, Violet."

The music box plays on, delicate and persistent. Outside, birds call. Sunlight catches dust motes floating between us, turning them to gold. Time seems to slow, crystallize around this moment.

I should be afraid of this intensity, this certainty. I should step back, make excuses, maintain the emotional distance I've perfected over the years. Instead, I find myself rising onto my toes, drawn to him like iron to a magnet.

"What do you know?" My voice is barely audible, even to myself.

His other hand slides to my waist, warm and steady. "That you were meant to come back here. That this place has been waiting for you." His gaze drops to my mouth. "That I've been waiting for you."

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