The third riddle had undeniably shifted something within Camille. The subtle mirroring of her interactions with Jude had moved him from the periphery of the Maplewood mystery to its very center. Her own growing feelings for him, once carefully downplayed even to herself, now felt impossible to ignore. Coupled with the unsettling awareness of being observed by "The Hollow Heart," a burning curiosity about Jude's past began to consume her.
She found opportunities to engage him in conversation, her questions carefully crafted to skirt around the obvious topic of his photography career while still attempting to glean some insight into the man he was before he became Maplewood's taciturn handyman.
One afternoon, she found him repairing a section of the old stone wall that bordered the inn's property. The sun beat down on his back, and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He worked with a quiet determination, his movements strong and sure.
"It looks like a big job," Camille said, approaching him cautiously.
Jude paused, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "It's old. Needs some attention."
"Like a lot of things around here," Camille observed, a small smile playing on her lips.
He offered a rare, fleeting smile in return. "That's part of the charm, I suppose."
"You seem to have a knack for fixing things," Camille continued, trying to steer the conversation in a slightly more personal direction. "Did you…always work with your hands?"
Jude's expression became guarded. He picked up another stone, his gaze fixed on fitting it into place. "I've done a lot of things." His tone was clipped, offering no further elaboration.
Camille sensed his reluctance but pressed on gently. "Mrs. Gray mentioned you've lived here your whole life. Did you ever…want to leave?"
He finally looked up, his blue eyes direct and intense. "I did leave." The words were stark, devoid of emotion, yet they hung heavy in the air, confirming Mrs. Gray's earlier hints.
"You traveled a lot, didn't you?" Camille ventured, carefully avoiding the word "photography."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "For a while."
"What brought you back?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual.
Jude turned back to the wall, his silence a palpable barrier. After a long moment, he said, his voice low, "This is home."
The finality in his tone discouraged further probing on that particular subject. Camille shifted her approach.
"You seem to know a lot about the local area," she said. "The best hiking trails, the hidden spots by the river…"
"It's a small town," he replied, his gaze still fixed on the stones. "You learn the lay of the land."
"But you see it differently, I think," Camille persisted. "You notice the light, the shadows…the way things are framed." She regretted the almost unconscious use of photographic terminology as soon as the words left her lips.
Jude stilled, his hands pausing in their work. He turned to face her, his blue eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of suspicion in their depths.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice low and cautious.
Camille tried to backtrack, to play it off as a general observation. "Just…you seem very observant. You notice details."
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze intense and unwavering. Camille felt a flush rise in her cheeks under his scrutiny. He seemed to be searching for something in her expression, a hidden motive behind her seemingly innocent questions.
Finally, he turned back to the wall, his reluctance palpable. "It's just…seeing things clearly," he said, his tone dismissive.
Later that week, Camille tried a different tactic. She mentioned the art gallery and the powerful photographs signed "J. Maddox" that had captivated her.
"Those landscapes in the gallery," she said casually as they shared a quiet moment on the porch. "They were really striking. The photographer had a great eye."
Jude's reaction was immediate and visceral. He stiffened, his usual relaxed posture becoming rigid. His gaze, which had been drifting towards the sunset, snapped back to her, his blue eyes suddenly shuttered and cold.
"Don't," he said, his voice sharp, cutting through the peaceful evening air.
Camille was taken aback by his vehemence. "Don't what?"
"Don't talk about that," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He stood up abruptly, his movements stiff and unnatural. "I have things to do."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the inn, leaving Camille sitting on the porch, a knot of confusion and concern tightening in her chest.
His reaction had been more than just reluctance; it was a clear indication of deep pain, a raw wound that she had inadvertently touched. The passion and artistry evident in his photographs were clearly intertwined with a painful past that he was unwilling to confront.
Camille's curiosity remained, but it was now tempered with a newfound understanding of Jude's guardedness. His past wasn't just a story; it was a source of deep discomfort, perhaps even trauma. While the mystery of who he was before he came to Maplewood Hollow still intrigued her, she knew she had to tread carefully, respecting the boundaries he had so clearly established. The whispers of his past hinted at a profound loss or a painful experience, and Camille realized that unlocking those secrets might come at a cost, both to Jude and to the fragile connection that was slowly forming between them.