Page 29 of Unlocking Melodies

“Yeah, no. We don't take those.” They gestured to a sign: “Cash Only (Yes, Really).”

“I don't carry-“

“Put it on his tab,” Mrs. Henderson called from her corner. “Like everyone else.”

“I don't have a tab.”

“You do now, dear.” She turned to her friends. “Did I mention he runs six miles every morning? In those lovely shorts...”

My phone buzzed again. Mia:

Mia

Also, your father's planning a surprise visit. Tried to stop him but you know how he is. Might want to figure out your cover story.

Shit.

The inn's front porch promised better WiFi and a break from the coffee shop's running commentary. What I got instead was a masterclass in small-town surveillance techniques.

Sloan from the hardware store managed to walk past three times in twenty minutes, each time finding a new reason to adjust his tool belt while sneaking not-so-subtle glances my direction. The local patrol car drove by with such regularity I could have timed my emails to it.

I was in the middle of a video call with our Tokyo office when movement caught my eye. Jimmy, walking a horse along the ranch's fence line in the distance. My hand went automatically to straighten my tie - a gesture caught by both my Japanese partners and, more alarmingly, the entire senior coffee club who had mysteriously relocated to the diner's front porch.

“Such nice weather for sitting outside,” Mrs. Henderson called over, failing spectacularly at casual observation. “Don't you think, dear?”

I muttered something about connectivity issues and ended the call.

The diner seemed like a safe retreat. I was wrong.

“Well, look who finally decided to try our local cuisine,” Sarah said, appearing at my table with a menu and a knowingsmile that made me wonder if there was some sort of town-wide group chat about my movements.

“Just a coffee, please.”

“After Sky's artisanal masterpiece? You need real food. You're getting the special.”

The “special” turned out to be some kind of gourmet grilled cheese that looked nothing like any grilled cheese I'd ever seen. Sarah watched me examine it with barely concealed amusement.

“Jimmy created that,” she said, pulling up a chair without invitation. Apparently personal space was another big-city concept that didn't translate here. “Three AM inspiration. He was convinced that grilled cheese had untapped potential.”

I stared at the sandwich, trying not to think about Jimmy awake at three AM, experimenting in this very kitchen.

“The caramelized onions were controversial,” Sarah continued, settling in like we were old friends. “But he insisted they added 'depth and character.' Started this whole thing where customers would bring him random ingredients to try. The jalapeño-pineapple incident was... memorable.”

“He doesn't remember any of this,” I said quietly, poking at the perfect golden crust.

Sarah's expression softened. “Maybe,” she said with the air of someone imparting great wisdom, “some things are worth learning twice.”

The words hit like a board meeting ambush, leaving me momentarily defenseless.

“You know,” she added, standing to refill my coffee, “even with his memory gone, he still gravitates toward the same things. Same coffee order, same way of helping people, same terrible jokes.” She gave me a pointed look. “Some things stick around, even when we think they're gone.”

I took a bite of the sandwich to avoid responding. It was, annoyingly, perfect.

“Though speaking of things sticking around,” she glanced out the window where the coffee club had now been joined by what appeared to be the entire quilting society, “you might want to vary your walking route. Mrs. Henderson's got your schedule down to the minute.”

“Does everyone in this town report my movements?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Only the ones who care about Jimmy.” She patted my shoulder as she passed. “Which is everyone. Welcome to small-town life, Mr. Cole.”

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