Page 65 of Unlocking Melodies

The admission hung between us, heavy with implications neither of us was ready to voice. Outside, the morning crowd had started to gather, though Jake's presence kept them at a respectful distance.

“Tell me more about mom,” I said finally.

“Your mother,” Gary began, his voice softening around the edges, “she had this thing about Sundays. Said weekends needed their own soundtrack.” He pulled out another photo – a sunlit kitchen, my mother mid-spin with a spatula in hand. “Pancakes were her specialty, though 'specialty' might be generous.”

“What do you mean?” I found myself leaning forward, hungry for these details about her.

“Well, there was the blue pancake incident of '98.” Gary's laugh held real warmth. “She got it in her head that regular pancakes were, and I quote, 'an insult to Sunday morning creativity.' Bought every food coloring in the store.”

“Did they at least taste good?”

“They tasted like regular pancakes, just... decidedly blue. But that wasn't good enough for Maggie. Next week it was rainbow pancakes. Then pancakes with music notes drawn in chocolate. Once she tried to make them in the shape of piano keys.”

“How'd that work out?”

“Let's just say abstract art might have been a better description.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, lost in the memory. “But you'd sit there every Sunday, eating whatever experimental breakfast she'd created, telling her they were perfect.”

“She hummed while she cooked,” Gary continued, his finger tracing the edge of the photo. “Different song for every recipe. Said it helped her remember the ingredients. Did the same thing with her students – had a specific tune for each kid. 'Little Tommy plays everything like it's a race, so his song is Flight of the Bumblebee,' she'd say. 'Sarah needs more confidence, so she gets Ode to Joy.'”

“Did it work?” I asked, fascinated by this window into a life I should remember.

“Actually, yeah. She had this gift for matching music to moments. Could walk into a room and just... know what it needed to hear.” He glanced at me. “That's what you inherited from her – not just the talent, but that instinct. The way you understand what people need, even if they don't know it themselves.”

Through the diner's window, I caught Sarah hastily wiping her eyes on her apron. Even Mrs. Henderson had abandoned all pretense of surveillance, openly listening with her opera glasses forgotten in her lap.

“The kitchen was her stage,” Gary said softly. “She'd dance while doing dishes, spin between counter and stove like she was performing at Carnegie Hall. Didn't matter if it was Beethoven or The Beatles – everything was worth dancing to.”

The memory – or maybe just the feeling of it – made my throat tight. “Did she ever finish the dishes, or was there too much dancing?”

Gary's laugh was surprised and real. “You remember that? She'd always say 'dishes are just percussion instruments waiting to happen.' Used to drive me crazy, coming home to find you both using pots and pans as drums instead of actually washing them.”

“I don't remember,” I admitted. “Not really. But something about it feels... right.”

He nodded, understanding. “That's your mother's influence. She always said memories live in more than just our minds. They live in the way we move, the things we love, the music we can't help but make.”

Like muscle memory at a piano, I thought. Like knowing how to make tea when stressed, or humming while working, or putting flower boxes in windows without knowing why.

Then Gary's gaze shifted to Ethan, something knowing in his expression. “Yeah, I knew about you too, Mr. Cole. Kept tabs on both of you over the years.”

The admission made Ethan tense beside me, but Gary's tone held no accusation – just a tired sort of acknowledgment.

“That's not creepy at all,” I managed, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere.

Gary's smile was faint but genuine. “Your mother would have liked him, you know. She always said true talent recognizes itself in others.”

The words made something in my chest twist. Ethan's hand squeezed mine under the table, and I wondered if he was thinking about those piano sessions at Rosewood that I couldn't quite remember.

“The attack,” I said finally, the question I'd been avoiding rising to the surface. “Did you...?”

Gary's expression darkened immediately. "I wish I knew more," he said, though something in his tone felt rehearsed, too careful. "I've been... trying to get clean. Watching from adistance, like always. When I heard what happened..." His hands clenched into fists on the table. "I should have been here. Should have protected you. Again, I failed."

I noticed how he dodged the actual question, slipping into familiar patterns of vague answers and deflection. But pushing him now, in this diner full of people who'd become my family even if I couldn't remember how, didn't feel right.

"You can't protect someone from a distance," I said quietly, letting the evasion slide for now. The words felt significant even though I couldn't quite grasp why.

“No,” Gary agreed, his gaze flickering between Ethan and me. “I'm learning that some things require showing up. Even when you're not sure you deserve to.”

Gary reached into the album one last time, his movements careful like he was handling something precious. The photo he pulled out caught my breath – my mother and me at her piano, both leaning over sheet music, our faces mirrors of pure joy. Something about the image felt real in a way the others hadn't, like a memory I could almost touch.

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