Unlocking Melodies (Oakwood Grove #3)

7. Echoes of Us

Chapter 7

Echoes of Us

I 'd finally mastered my morning routine at the ranch. Feed Melody (with carefully measured treats), make coffee (strong enough to wake the roosters), attempt to remember which kitchen cabinet I'd reorganized things into yesterday (Past Jimmy's labeling system was still a mystery to Current Jimmy). Everything was going smoothly until Liam appeared with a suspicious-looking cardboard box.

“Found these while cleaning your place back at Nina’s,” he said too casually, setting down what turned out to be old Rosewood Academy yearbooks. “Thought you might want to look through them.”

The timing seemed convenient, given everyone's recent strange reactions whenever Ethan was mentioned. But curiosity won out over suspicion, and I found myself flipping through pages of strangers who were supposedly my classmates while attempting not to spill coffee on what was apparently photographic evidence of my college years.

Then I saw it.

My coffee cup froze halfway to my mouth. The photo captured two young men at a piano - one of them unmistakably me, the other a younger, softer version of the man who'd been haunting The Watering Hole's corner booth. We were both mid-laugh, completely lost in whatever moment the camera had caught.

The caption read: “Musical Prodigies: Ethan Cole and Jimmy Reed perform their original composition at the Senior Showcase.”

Something stirred in my chest - not quite a memory, more like déjà vu without context. Like hearing a song you know you should remember but can't quite place.

I looked up to find Liam watching me with careful intensity. “So,” I said, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere around 'obviously freaking out', “Ethan and I knew each other.”

The snort Liam let out could have won awards for most eloquent non-verbal commentary.

“You could say that.” He settled into the chair across from me. “You told me about how you met him. Practice Room at Rosewood Academy. Late-night piano sessions. You used to talk about those nights sometimes.” He trailed off, clearly weighing how much to share of conversations I couldn't remember having.

“We were friends?” The word felt inadequate even as I said it.

“You were...” Liam seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Close. You spent most nights composing together. He had all this classical training, but you taught him to play by ear. To feel the music instead of just reading it.”

I stared at the photo again. The Ethan there was worlds away from the polished man who'd gotten his car stuck in the mud. His smile was unguarded, real in a way I hadn't seen since he arrived in town.

“What happened?” I asked, though something in me tensed for the answer.

Liam's hesitation spoke paragraphs. “He left after graduation. No explanation, just a letter.”

“A letter?” The word tasted bitter somehow, though I couldn't say why.

“You never let anyone read it.” Liam's voice was gentle. “Just said it was better this way.”

I traced the edge of the photo, trying to reconcile these laughing boys with the careful distance Ethan maintained now. The way his perfect posture seemed to slip whenever he thought no one was watching. The way his eyes followed me when he thought I wouldn't notice.

“Did I...” I started, then reconsidered. “Were we...”

“That's not my story to tell.” Liam stood, squeezing my shoulder. “But maybe ask yourself why just looking at that photo made you forget to drink your coffee for the first time since I've known you.”

I looked down at my now-cold cup, then back at the yearbook. Young Ethan and Jimmy looked so sure of themselves, so completely in their element. Now here we were - him pretending to work while watching me from corner booths, me trying to piece together a life that felt like someone else's puzzle.

“He keeps sending things to help,” I said, thinking of the accounting software, the festival offer. “But he won't actually talk to me.”

“Yeah, well.” Liam's voice held years of history I couldn't access. “Some people find it easier to show they care through grand gestures than simple conversations.”

The morning sun painted shadows across the photo, across those younger versions of us who had no idea what was coming. I wondered if Past Jimmy had known, in that captured moment of laughter, that everything was about to change.

“How do you move forward,” I asked the coffee cup, “when you can't remember what you're supposed to be moving on from?”

“Maybe,” Liam said from the doorway, “that's not the worst thing. Clean slate and all that.”

But the photo seemed to disagree, those captured smiles suggesting that some things weren't meant to be forgotten. Even if all that remained were echoes of feelings I couldn't quite name, carried in muscle memory and coffee preferences and the way my heart stuttered whenever green eyes met mine across crowded rooms.

I closed the yearbook, but the image stayed with me - two boys at a piano, sharing something that looked an awful lot like joy. Whatever had happened after that moment, at least we'd had that.

I was still processing the yearbook revelation when Hank burst into the kitchen, his usual stoic demeanor ruffled.

“That mare of yours is making a break for it. Again.” He gestured vaguely toward the gardens. “Heading straight for the fancy suit taking calls by the roses.”

It took my brain a second to connect “fancy suit” with “Ethan” and by then we were already moving. We rounded the corner to find what had to be the most surreal sight I have ever seen.

“Yes, the quarterly projections are- No, that sound was- I apologize, there seems to be a...” Ethan attempted to dodge Melody's affectionate headbutt while keeping his phone steady. His perfect suit was now decorated with horse hair, and his carefully styled hair was getting thoroughly rearranged by Melody's investigations.

“Looks like she's found her new favorite person,” Liam said with an odd note in his voice, watching Ethan's futile attempts to maintain his composure.

I filed that comment away with all the other pieces that didn't quite fit - a growing collection of hints about a past I couldn't access. The yearbook photo flashed in my mind: those same green eyes, but lighter somehow, freer.

Later, going through the ranch accounts, I found an invoice that didn't make sense - a regular charge for piano tuning.

“Oh, that,” Caleb said when I asked, doing that now-familiar dance of 'how much do we tell him.' “You used to play. Really well, actually. The piano's still in the main house music room.”

I found myself standing in front of a beautiful upright piano before I'd really decided to move. My fingers hovered over the keys, and something strange happened - like my hands knew something my mind had forgotten.

Without conscious thought, I pressed a key. Then another. A melody emerged, something haunting and unfinished, like a question without an answer.

The sound of shattering ceramic made me jump. Liam stood in the doorway, coffee spreading around the remains of his mug.

“That's the piece you and Ethan wrote,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Your showcase piece.”

The melody died under my fingers, but it echoed in my head, demanding attention.

I glanced at my hands, still humming with muscle memory of a song I didn't remember writing. Somewhere in the space between those piano keys and Ethan's hidden smiles was a story my heart seemed to know even if my head didn't.

My new phone buzzed - a message from Nina about the Harvest Festival planning meeting. Normal, present-day concerns that should have been my focus. Instead, I found myself opening a new search.

“Rosewood Academy Senior Showcase performance original composition Ethan Cole Jimmy Reed.”

Because maybe somewhere in the digital echoes of our past was a clue to why he couldn't quite meet my eyes in the present.

I was deep in a rabbit hole of Ethan Cole press coverage (seriously, how many charity galas can one person attend?) when Nina appeared with takeout bags from Sarah's.

“Don't tell me - another business profile about revolutionary market strategies?” She set a sandwich in front of me - apparently Past Jimmy's culinary creation was now part of my regular lunch rotation.

I quickly minimized the browser window, but not before she caught the headline: “Tech Prodigy Ethan Cole Transforms Family Legacy.”

Instead of the teasing I expected, Nina settled into the chair across from me with an unusually serious expression. “You know,” she said carefully, “when you first came to town, right after Liam and Caleb got back together, you were... lost, I guess. Running from something.”

I stayed quiet, sensing this wasn't the moment for my usual deflections.

“Took you weeks to tell me about him. About Ethan.” She twisted a napkin between her fingers. “You said something I've never forgotten. You said sometimes the biggest hearts build the highest walls.”

“Is that why he's here?” I asked. “To break down walls?”

Nina's smile was gentle. “Honey, I think he's here to rebuild them - with you on the same side this time.”

Her words stayed with me through the afternoon, echoing in my head like that unfinished melody. Eventually, I found myself back at the piano, fingers hovering over keys that seemed to hold answers I couldn't quite grasp.

The music came easier this time, flowing from some place deeper than memory. But it still felt incomplete, like a conversation with half the words missing.

A soft noise made me turn. Ethan stood in the doorway, his usual corporate armor cracked by surprise and something raw underneath. For a moment, we just looked at each other - two people who used to share something neither of us fully understood anymore.

“May I?” He gestured to the empty half of the piano bench, and somehow the question felt bigger than just asking permission to sit.

I nodded, shifting to make room. The proximity was strange - both foreign and familiar, like a dream you can't quite remember upon waking.

Our first attempts at playing together were awkward, hands bumping, timing off. But then something clicked. His technical precision found its counterpoint in my more instinctive style. The melody wove between us, building into something that felt like revelation.

His hands moved with absolute certainty, finding harmonies I didn't know I was looking for until he played them. My own fingers followed paths they seemed to remember even if I didn't, adding emotional depth to his structured foundation.

When the last note faded, the silence felt heavy with all the things neither of us knew how to say.

“We wrote this,” I said, not quite a question.

His hands stilled on the keys. “Yes.”

“It feels unfinished.”

“It was supposed to have an ending,” he said softly, and something in his voice made me look at him. His careful composure had slipped completely, leaving behind an expression that made my chest ache.

The moment stretched between us, full of echoes and might-have-beens. Outside, the evening light painted long shadows across the floor. Inside, two people who used to know each other's hearts tried to find their way back through music neither had forgotten.

“I should go,” he said finally, but he didn't move.

“We could...” I gestured vaguely at the piano. “Try to find the ending?”

His smile was quick and painful. “I'm not sure we ever knew how it was supposed to end.”

The weight of the moment was broken by what had to be the most poorly orchestrated casual walk-by in small-town history.

Mrs. Henderson appeared at the window, peering intently at a mailbox she'd already checked four times today. “Oh my! Is that music I hear? How lovely. And completely unexpected. On my fifth trip to check my mail. Which is totally normal.”

She was followed shortly by Riley, notepad in hand. “Fascinating architectural details on this window frame. The craftsmanship is really best appreciated from this exact angle. No other reason I'm here.”

Officer Dawn's patrol car rolled past at approximately two miles per hour, window down to better appreciate the... parking lot security situation?

“Is the entire town taking turns spying on us?” I asked, caught between embarrassment and amusement.

“I believe Mrs. Peterson is next on the rotation,” Ethan said dryly. “She usually brings opera glasses.”

The fact that he'd noticed the town's surveillance schedule made me bite back a smile. Through the window, I caught sight of Nina slipping Liam what looked suspiciously like betting money.

“They had a pool going about the piano, didn't they?”

“Knowing this town? They probably have pools about everything.” His composure was back, but there was something softer in it now. “I believe Sky is running the betting operation out of The Daily Grind.”

“Complete with a color-coded spreadsheet, I'm sure.”

“Naturally. I've seen it. Very professional setup.”

Looking at him now, caught between amusement and exasperation at our impromptu audience, I felt something shift.

Maybe Nina was right. Maybe we didn't need to remember everything to build something new. Maybe some stories were better started fresh, even if they carried echoes of old melodies.

“You know,” I said, turning back to the piano, “I think I have an idea for that ending.”

His surprise was visible for just a moment before his usual mask slipped back into place. But when I started playing - something lighter this time, more hopeful - he joined in without hesitation.

Through the window, I could see our audience growing. The entire quilting society had apparently decided to take up bird watching. In the parking lot. At dusk.

But for once, I didn't mind the attention. Let them watch. Let them see two people finding their way back to something - or forward to something new. Either way, it made for a pretty good story

“I assume you have an exponentially more expensive coffee source than The Daily Grind,” I said, our hands still moving over the keys in easy harmony.

“Lorenzo's Premium Bean Service,” he admitted with a hint of self-deprecation. “They refuse to deliver here. Sky takes great pleasure in reminding me daily.”

“Ah yes, how's your tab doing?”

“Apparently I'm up to three figures. I tried to pay it off and Mrs. Henderson threatened to call my father.”

That startled a laugh out of me. “Being defeated by small-town economics, I see.”

“It's a surprisingly effective system. Though I'm still trying to understand why Buck at the feed store insists I now have credit for three bags of horse treats.”

“Melody's influence, obviously. She's very persuasive.”

“Is that what we're calling her escape artist routine?” His fingers picked out a playful counter-melody to mine. “I had to explain to my board of directors why there were horse noises during our quarterly review.”

“Please tell me someone recorded that call.”

“My secretary has it saved for future blackmail purposes.” He hit a deliberately wrong note, making me grin. “She's quite impressed with the town's surveillance operation, by the way. Wants to hire Mrs. Henderson for corporate intelligence.”

Through the window, the quilting society had been joined by what appeared to be the entire senior bowling league. Someone had brought lawn chairs.

“Should we give them a show?” I suggested, shifting into something more dramatic.

Ethan caught on immediately, his playing becoming comically intense. “I believe this calls for unnecessary flourishes.”

We launched into an over-the-top performance, complete with exaggerated hand movements and ridiculous runs up and down the keys. Our audience ate it up - I'm pretty sure I saw Officer Dawn recording on her phone.

“Your technique is horrible,” he commented, but he was fighting a smile.

“Your creativity is non-existent,” I shot back, adding a particularly flamboyant chord progression.

“I'll have you know I'm considered quite innovative in tech circles.”

“Yes, but can you improvise a jazz arrangement of 'Old MacDonald' while Mrs. Henderson pretends to check her empty mailbox again?”

He accepted the challenge, launching into a surprisingly sophisticated jazz interpretation while I added increasingly ridiculous farm animal themes. Our spectators had given up any pretense of subtlety - someone was selling popcorn.

“I think we've created a monster,” I observed as we finally wound down, both slightly breathless from laughing.

“Sky's going to need a bigger spreadsheet.”

“Nina's going to need more betting money.”

He turned to look at me then, his guard completely down for once. “This is nice,” he said simply.

“Yeah,” I agreed, surprised to find I meant it. “It is.”

The evening light was turning golden, painting everything in warm tones that made the moment feel somehow suspended in time. Outside, our audience was probably starting a whole new round of bets. Inside, two people who were technically strangers but felt anything but were finding their own rhythm.

“You know,” I said, surprising myself with what came next, “I'd like to get to know you better.”

Something flickered in his expression - hope maybe, or fear, or both. For a moment, I thought he might retreat behind that careful corporate mask again.

Instead, he turned back to the piano, fingers finding a gentler melody. “I'd like that too.”

We let the music fill the space between us, neither quite ready to voice the questions hanging in the air. Behind us, Mrs. Henderson's voice carried through the window: “This is better than Days of Our Lives!”

Given what I'd learned today about our history, she wasn't entirely wrong.