Page 47 of Unlocking Melodies

“They're not usually so...”

“Strategic?” He sipped his coffee appreciatively. “I don't know. That surveillance rotation is quite impressive. Very well coordinated.”

I stared at him. “You noticed that?”

“Son, I've been orchestrating corporate takeovers for thirty years. I know coordinated surveillance when I see it.” He nodded toward Sarah, who was definitely not hovering nearby just to refill coffee. “Though I have to say, the small-town version is much more entertaining than our usual corporate spies.”

Outside, Mrs. Henderson's Crocheting circle had started what appeared to be a complex relay system of informationsharing. My father watched them with what looked suspiciously like admiration.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “your mother would love it here.”

And just like that, my carefully prepared defenses cracked. Because this wasn't the father that I'd been preparing to face. This was someone else entirely – someone who commented on coffee quality and appreciated good surveillance techniques and maybe, just maybe, had come here for reasons I hadn't anticipated.

“You have to try the apple pancakes,” my father said, studying Sarah's menu like it was a fascinating merger proposal. “Your mother would love these, Ethan. Reminds me of that little place in Vermont where we used to stop on ski trips.”

I stared at him over my eighth cup of coffee, trying to reconcile this relaxed, nostalgic version of Harrison Cole with the corporate titan I'd been defending against for weeks.

“The décor is fantastic,” he continued, admiring the vintage signs on the walls. “Authentic 1950s Americana – you don't see this level of preservation often anymore.”

Sarah beamed at him, completely won over. “Most of it's original. Been in my family three generations now.”

“The attention to detail shows. Reminds me of when your mother and I used to go antiquing, Ethan. Remember that summer in the Berkshires?”

I did remember, though I'd filed those memories away with other pre-corporate-empire moments that didn't fit my narrative of my father. My carefully constructed defenses felt increasingly useless against this father who remembered family vacations and appreciated vintage diners.

Movement outside caught my attention – Jimmy walking Melody past the window. My heart did its usual uncomfortable flip, but it was my father's reaction that threw me completely.

“He always did love animals,” Harrison said softly, watching Jimmy share an apple with the horse. The genuine affection in his voice made me choke on my coffee. “Careful, son. That's at least your ninth cup.”

“How do you...” I started, then realized my father had probably been monitoring my coffee intake since arriving. Some habits died hard.

“Know about Jimmy's love of animals?” He smiled slightly. “Or know how many coffees you've had?”

“Either. Both.”

“I do pay attention, Ethan. More than you might think.” He turned to Sarah. “These pancakes are exceptional. Would it be possible to get the recipe? My wife would love to try recreating them.”

I watched in bewilderment as my father – who once made a junior executive cry for bringing the wrong type of sparkling water to a meeting – chatted with Sarah about butter-to-flour ratios and the importance of fresh apples.

“Should we move to The Watering Hole?” he suggested after breakfast. “I hear they have an impressive vinyl collection. And we should support local businesses.”

The walk there felt surreal. His father strolled through Oakwood Grove like he belonged, greeting Mrs. Henderson's not-so-subtle surveillance team with genuine charm. He even stopped to admire the town's vintage architecture, commenting on preservation techniques with knowledge that seemed suspiciously well-researched.

Nina's initial arctic welcome thawed considerably when my father spotted her jazz collection.

“Is that an original pressing of 'Blue'?” He moved closer to examine the record. “I saw the artist perform this live. Your mother was there too, Ethan – our third date. She knew every song by heart.”

I watched Nina's protective instincts war with her obvious appreciation for anyone who knew their jazz history. My father won her over completely by sharing stories about the golden age of Blue Note Records, displaying knowledge that definitely wasn't in any corporate briefing.

“Your father's full of surprises,” Nina murmured as she passed me, carrying what appeared to be their fourth conversation about vintage vinyl.

That was an understatement. I felt increasingly off-balance watching him charm the very people I'd been trying to protect from him. He navigated the space with genuine interest, none of his usual corporate calculation visible.

Finally, Nina left us alone with our orders. My father had another coffee and I had some water.

"Dad, why were you so hard on Jimmy when you first met him in Rosewood?” The question spilled out before I could stop it. "You barely gave him a chance."

My father's expression shifted, regret softening his usual corporate mask. He pulled something from his jacket – an old program from the Rosewood Academy showcase, worn at the edges like it had been handled often.

---