Page 57 of Unlocking Melodies

“The whole town's here, aren't they?” Ethan asked quietly as we settled in.

“Pretty sure Mrs. Henderson has a group text going.” I watched Riley pretend to be fascinated by the menu while clearly taking notes. “Though I have to admire their commitment. The Crocheting circle usually meets on Thursdays.”

“Dedicated surveillance requires flexibility,” Ethan said solemnly, then ruined it by fighting back a smile.

“You'd think they'd have better things to do than watch us eat pasta.”

“Clearly you underestimate the entertainment value of watching me try not to embarrass myself in front of you.”

The casual honesty caught me off guard. Before I could respond, Tony reappeared with wine we definitely hadn't ordered, announcing it was “From Mrs. Henderson's private collection. For romance!”

Through the kitchen window, I could see Maria giving us a thumbs up. And Mrs. Henderson's newspaper was definitely getting damp from the tears she wasn't even trying to hide.

“So,” I said, raising my glass, “to failed cooking attempts?”

“To new recipes,” Ethan countered softly, and something in his voice made my chest tight.

The entire restaurant held its breath as our glasses clinked.

The initial awkwardness melted faster than Tony's famous garlic butter. Ethan launched into what I assume was meant to be an impressive wine order in Italian, complete with perfect pronunciation and probably several references to vintage years. Tony listened with polite attention before announcing, “We have red and white. Both good. You want?”

Instead of being embarrassed, Ethan laughed. “White, please. And maybe we don't mention this moment to my Italian sommelier.”

“Your secret safe with me,” Tony winked. “Though maybe not with Mrs. Henderson.”

Our observer squad had evolved into an art form of pretending not to watch us. Through the window, I could see Riley attempting to look professional while definitely taking photos with his phone.

But somehow, none of it mattered. We fell into easy conversation about everything and nothing.

When our hands brushed reaching for the bread basket, neither of us pulled away immediately. The contact sent warmth up my arm that had nothing to do with Tony's perfectly heated focaccia.

“This town,” Ethan said softly, “is something special.”

“It grows on you,” I agreed. “Like a very persistent, very nosy form of ivy.”

His laugh made me want to keep saying things to cause it. We traded stories through dinner - his dry observations about corporate absurdities matching my tales of small-town chaos. He had a way of seeing humor in everything, hidden under that polished exterior.

"You know," he said, his voice softening with memory, "you used to do this at Rosewood too. Find ways to make serious moments lighter."

“You keep telling me that. That must means it is true.” I leaned forward, eager for these glimpses of my past.

“Cause it is absolutely true. Like this one time during finals week - I was stressed about this massive performance piece, practically living in Practice Room C. You showed up at midnight with terrible coffee and started playing Disney songs in a classical style until I had to laugh." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "You said Mozart probably would have appreciated The Little Mermaid."

"Please tell me I wasn't always that ridiculous."

"Oh, you were worse," he grinned. "Once you convinced the entire music department to play 'Happy Birthday' in different keys simultaneously because you thought the chaos would be 'harmonically interesting.' It was not."

Something about the way he told these stories made them feel real - not like facts I should remember, but like moments I could almost touch. His expressions, the warmth in his voice when he talked about our shared past, made the memories feel closer somehow.

"Did it work?" I found myself asking. "Making you laugh during finals?"

His smile turned softer. "Every time. You had this gift for knowing exactly when people needed to stop taking themselves so seriously. Still do, apparently."

Somehow Ethan managed to thank our audience for their "enthusiastic support" while suggesting maybe we could use some privacy for our post-dinner walk. Even Mrs. Henderson couldn't argue with his diplomatic phrasing, though she definitely had Riley note down which direction we headed.

The evening wrapped around us like a perfect movie scene. Festival preparations had transformed the town square with string lights that turned everything magical. Our footsteps echoed on old brick pathways that had seen generations of stories like ours.

“I found my old business proposals today,” I said as we passed the gazebo. “Past Jimmy had some pretty big plans.”

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