Page 44 of Grumpy on the Mountain
For the next few minutes, I point out cabins and houses scattered throughout the valley. Each one represents weeks or months of my life, pieces of my soul hammered into wood and stone and dreams made as I tried anything and everything to forget my previous life of blood, death and trauma.
"See that one with the wraparound porch?" I ask, indicating a cabin perched on a distant ridge, barely visible from here. "That's the Reilly place. Nora is a retired librarian, wanted a house that felt like it had stories written into the walls. Took me three weeks just to get the porch railing right, but when I did, she cried."
"It's beautiful," Molly murmurs.
"And see the one with the stone chimney next to it? Built that for the Sullivans last spring. Mike's a chef, wanted a kitchen that could handle serious cooking. The island is carved from a single piece of timber. It took four guys and a crane to get it in there, but when his wife saw it..." I trail off, remembering Helen Sullivan's tears of joy. "She cried. Happy tears."
Molly turns in the circle of my arms to face me, her eyes bright with something that makes my chest tight. "You know you're amazing, right? You don't just build houses, Beau. You build homes. Dreams."
I look away from her eyes before I say something stupid.
Because most people see the craftsmanship, the technical skill of what I do.
But this woman sees the heart of it.
Sheunderstandsit.
A gust of wind reminds us both that we're standing on a freezing cold mountain, and Molly shivers.
I reluctantly step back, immediately missing her warmth.
"Come on," I say, fighting the urge to pull her close again. "Let me show you the rest."
Back in the truck, Molly doesn't return to her original position by the passenger door.
Instead, she slides across the bench seat until she's sitting right next to me, her thigh pressed against mine from hip to knee.
It's then that I decide on taking the scenic route through town just to prolong how close she is to me.
Back down in the town, we drive through the small residential neighborhoods where most of my work is concentrated, winding through streets lined with cabins and cottages that range from rustic to elegant but all share a certain harmony with their mountain setting.
Molly asks thoughtful questions about design choices, building materials, the challenges of constructing in mountain weather and terrain.
"How do you decide what each house should look like?" she asks as I point out a contemporary cabin with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the forest like living art.
"I listen to what the owner wants," I say simply. "People think I'm just a grumpy asshole, but maybe I just like to listen. Then the trick is building something that enhances what's already there instead of fighting against it."
"That's beautiful," she says, and there's something wistful in her voice. "I've never had work that felt that... purposeful. That connected to something larger."
Her admission tugs at something deep in my chest. "What kind of work did you do? Before..."
"Before Riley." She's quiet for a long moment, staring out at the passing houses. "Event planning. Corporate stuff. Serving customers at cafes. I've done just about everything." She laughs,but there's no humor in it. "I was good at whatever I did, but it never felt real. Like it mattered."
"What would you want to do? If you could choose anything."
The question seems to surprise her.
"I... I don't know." She looks at me and shakes her head. "Isn't that pathetic? I'm twenty-seven years old and I have no idea what I want to do with my life."
"It's not pathetic," I say firmly, changing gears to stop at the traffic signal in the center of town. "It's just delayed. There's a difference."
She glances at me and shakes her head. "When did you become so wise?"
"Must be all that mountain air. And time spent brooding by myself."
Her laugh is bright and genuine, filling the truck cab with warmth. "Right. Your mysterious mountain man mystique."
"I prefer 'ruggedly handsome hermit,' thank you very much."
