Page 46 of Unlocking Melodies

“That's your fourth cup,” Sarah pointed out, refilling it anyway. “And you've adjusted your tie seventeen times. I've been counting.”

“The tie is crooked.”

“The tie is perfect. You're the one that's crooked.” She leaned against the counter, studying me with that particular small-town concern that still felt foreign. “Want to talk about whyyou're stress-drinking my coffee two hours before your actual meeting?”

“Your coffee's better than the inn's,” I deflected.

“Honey, my coffee's better than most things, but that's not why you're here.” She refilled my cup despite her own warning. “Though I appreciate you choosing my place for your family showdown. Better tips than usual today.”

I checked my watch – a nervous habit my father had tried to train out of me years ago. 7:15 AM. Each minute felt like an eternity filled with every possible way this could go wrong.

“You know,” Sarah continued, “when Jimmy's nervous about something, he reorganizes the bar's inventory. Three times, usually. You're starting to remind me of him.”

The comparison made my chest tight. “I'm not nervous. I'm strategizing.”

“Uh-huh. That's why you've been here since before sunrise, wearing what looks like a year's worth of my rent in Italian wool.”

“They're not very subtle, are they?” Sarah nodded toward the growing audience.

“I've seen corporate espionage operations with more finesse.”

“Well, to be fair, Mrs. Henderson did organize this surveillance roster last night at bingo. You missed quite the strategy session.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “There's a roster?”

“Color-coded. Sky helped with the spreadsheet formatting.” She grinned at my expression. “Small towns run on gossip and good coffee, honey. And you're providing both this morning.”

7:45 AM. My father's text felt like it was burning a hole in my pocket. The diner had filled with an unusually well-dressed morning crowd – apparently, news of Harrison Cole'simpending arrival had inspired everyone to break out their Sunday best. On a Thursday.

I was on my sixth coffee when the distinctive purr of a Bentley engine cut through the morning chatter. My father's car – not the corporate fleet vehicle I'd expected, but his personal car. The one he only drove when...

When he wasn't trying to intimidate someone.

Instead, I watched in growing disbelief as my father – wearing a perfectly tailored suit but with his tie loosened like he was actually relaxing – stopped to help Mrs. Henderson gather some strategically dropped crocheting supplies.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Henderson fluttered, clearly not expecting her surveillance prop to become an actual interaction. “Thank you, Mr. Cole. Such a gentleman.”

“Please, call me Harrison.” My father's smile was genuine, not his corporate shark grin. “Is that the Anderson stitch pattern? My mother was quite fond of it.”

I stared as Harrison Cole, terror of Wall Street and destroyer of my college relationships, engaged in a detailed discussion about crochet techniques with Oakwood Grove's gossip queen. He was wearing his vintage watch – the watch my mother had given him on their twentieth anniversary, not the power-statement Rolex he wore to intimidate board members.

“Your father knows about crocheting?” Sarah appeared at my elbow with coffee cup number seven.

“Apparently.” I watched him charm the entire Crocheting circle with what appeared to be genuine interest in their craft project. “Though I'm starting to wonder if he's been replaced by a very convincing robot.”

“Or maybe,” Sarah said pointedly, “there are some things you don't know about him. Just like there are some things he doesn't know about you.”

The bell above the door chimed. Harrison Cole entered Sarah's Diner looking nothing like the corporate titan I'd spent years defending against and everything like the father I vaguely remembered from before business took over our lives.

“Ethan.” He smiled – actually smiled – as he approached my table. “You look well. Small town life suits you.”

I waited for the other shoe to drop, for the shark to emerge from behind this surprisingly genuine facade. But my father just settled into the booth like he belonged there, accepting Sarah's offered coffee with a warmth that seemed to surprise even her.

“Your mother sends her love,” he said casually. “She's quite interested in this town of yours. Particularly its music programs.”

Through the window, I could see Riley abandoned all pretense of casual observation, openly taking notes now. Mrs. Henderson's Crocheting circle had doubled in size, and I was pretty sure Officer Dawn had parked her patrol car at an angle specifically chosen for optimal eavesdropping.

My father followed my gaze, his smile turning amused. “Quite the welcoming committee you've got out there.”

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