Unlocking Melodies (Oakwood Grove #3)

9. Crisis at the Hole

Chapter 9

Crisis at the Hole

S mall towns, they run on routines. Every Friday night at The Watering Hole meant Piano Bar Night, which apparently was such a big deal that we had a waiting list longer than my list of things I couldn't remember. Not that I was keeping an actual list. Okay, maybe I was, but only because Past Jimmy's obsession with organizing things had apparently rubbed off on Current Jimmy.

I was in the middle of my new favorite activity – pretending I totally knew what I was doing while mixing drinks – when Nina's phone call changed everything. Her increasingly dramatic side of the conversation drew everyone's attention, especially when she started making promises that sounded suspiciously like bribery.

“Frank, honey, what if I got Dylan to clean your gutters? No? What about Mrs. Henderson's famous pot roast?” A pause. “Well, yes, I know your cat is more important than our piano night, but– Frank? Frank!”

She lowered her phone with the kind of defeated look that usually preceded someone asking me to do something I definitely wouldn't want to do.

“Don't even think about it,” I warned, already backing away from the bar.

“Jimmy...” Nina's voice had that dangerous mix of pleading and determination that usually ended with me agreeing to things Past Jimmy would have handled effortlessly.

“Whatever it is, no.” I focused very intently on wiping down an already spotless glass. “I'm just starting to get the hang of the drink orders. Mostly. Sort of.”

“Old Frank threw out his back.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“Trying to rescue Mr. Whiskers from the Thompson's maple tree. Again.”

“Again?”

“That cat has issues.” She waved off the feline drama. “But that's not the point. The point is, it's Piano Bar Friday.”

I looked around at the rapidly filling bar, noting the expectant faces of regulars who clearly considered this a highlight of their week. Mrs. Henderson's entire coffee club had claimed their usual table, all of them pretending not to watch Ethan's conspicuously empty corner booth while sharing what looked suspiciously like betting slips.

“Nina, I can't–“

“You can. Your hands remember, even if you don't.” She gestured toward the baby grand piano that dominated one corner of the bar – a beautiful instrument that I'd been carefully avoiding since discovering my muscle memory was better at music than my actual memory.

“That's not–“

“Mrs. Henderson already told everyone you're filling in.”

I nearly dropped the glass I was still obsessively cleaning. “She what?”

“Oh yes.” Nina's smile was pure evil. “Called everyone in her phone book. Which, by the way, is everyone in town. And possibly several neighboring towns.”

As if summoned by her name, Mrs. Henderson materialized at the bar. “Jimmy, dear! So wonderful of you to step in. I've already told the bridge club, and Sarah's spreading the word at the diner, and I believe Riley's planning a special feature for the paper...”

“I haven't agreed to anything!” But even as I protested, I could feel the weight of expectations settling around me like a familiar coat – one that technically belonged to Past Jimmy but somehow still fit.

Officer Dawn chose that moment to appear, supposedly for a routine security check that absolutely wasn't timed to coincide with this crisis. “Everything alright here?”

“Jimmy's saving Piano Bar Friday,” Nina announced before I could object.

“Excellent! I'll just stick around. For security purposes, of course.” Dawn settled at the bar with a poorly concealed grin. “Town safety and all that.”

The regular crowd was filtering in now, and every single one of them seemed to know about my impending musical debut. Or re-debut. Whatever you called performing something you technically knew how to do but couldn't remember learning.

“I don't even know what songs–“

“Your old setlist is still in the piano bench,” Nina cut me off smoothly. “And before you ask, yes, you had backup setlists organized by genre, tempo, and 'likelihood to make Mrs. Henderson cry happy tears.'”

Of course I did. Past Jimmy's organizational skills were simultaneously impressive and annoying.

Sky appeared with what they claimed was “emergency performance coffee” but was probably just an excuse to witness my impending public humiliation. “I've got five bucks on you playing that sad song you wrote about–“

“Not helping!” Nina interrupted quickly, shooting them a look I definitely needed to investigate later.

The piano seemed to watch me from its corner, keys gleaming under the vintage stage lights like they knew something I didn't. Which, given my current situation, was probably true of most inanimate objects in my life.

“What if I mess up?” I asked quietly.

Nina's expression softened. “Then you mess up. But honey, that piano's been waiting for you. Maybe it's time to stop avoiding the things that scared Past Jimmy too.”

“Past Jimmy was scared of pianos?”

“Past Jimmy was scared of feeling too much.” She squeezed my arm. “Current Jimmy seems braver.”

Her words hit something deep in my chest, but before I could examine that too closely, the reality of what I was about to do slammed into me like a runaway horse. The last time I'd touched piano keys was at the ranch with Ethan, and that memory was still too new, too confusing, wrapped up in feelings I couldn't quite understand. My hands started to shake as I approached the piano, each step feeling like a mile.

The movement by the door caught my eye – Ethan had just walked in, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw me at the piano. Our eyes met across the room, and suddenly I couldn't breathe properly. There was something in his expression, something that made my chest tight and my pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with performance anxiety. I looked away quickly, but I could still feel his presence like a physical thing.

Nina appeared beside me, squeezing my shoulder as I sat at the bench. “Just close your eyes and let your hands remember,” she whispered, and there was something in her voice – a knowledge or understanding that made me wonder just how much of my past she wasn't telling me.

I stared at the keys, pristine white and black stretching out before me like a road I couldn't quite remember taking. My fingers hovered uncertainly, and for a moment, pure panic threatened to overwhelm me. What if I couldn't do this? What if Past Jimmy's muscle memory had expired like old milk?

But then I started playing – something simple, something my hands seemed to know even if my brain was completely out of the loop. The first few notes were shaky, hesitant, like trying to speak a language I'd learned in a dream. But then... then something clicked.

It was the strangest sensation, like my hands were having a conversation my mind wasn't invited to. They moved across the keys with increasing confidence, finding melodies I didn't know I knew. The usual Friday night bar chatter died away until all I could hear was the music and my own heartbeat.

In that quiet, something shifted. A fragment of memory flashed through my mind – not whole, not clear, but undeniably real. A different piano, bigger, grander. The same nervous energy thrumming through my veins. And a voice, warm and familiar.

Just play like no one's watching.

The fragment disappeared as quickly as it came, but others followed. The rich smell of expensive coffee, so different from The Daily Grind's practical brew. Laughter bouncing off high ceilings, echoing in a space that felt both foreign and familiar. The solid presence of someone else on a piano bench, our shoulders touching as we played.

None of it made sense – just sensations, feelings, moments without context. Like trying to read a story with half the pages missing. But each fragment seemed to pull me toward the corner of the bar where Ethan sat, his green eyes fixed on the piano with an intensity that should have been unnerving but somehow wasn't.

My hands found a melody I hadn't known I was looking for, something that felt important, unfinished. Like a conversation interrupted mid-sentence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ethan lean forward slightly, his usual perfect posture forgotten. The movement triggered another flash – the same reaction but years ago, in a different room, when we'd first figured out this particular harmony.

Wait. We?

The thought jolted me, but my hands kept playing, apparently unbothered by my mental crisis. They knew this song, knew exactly where each note should fall, even if I didn't. Even if I couldn't remember learning it.

Without conscious thought, my hands shifted into that unfinished piece from the ranch – our piece, I realized with a jolt that somehow didn't interrupt my playing. The melody felt different here in the bar's intimate atmosphere, more raw and exposed, like reading someone's diary out loud. The notes carried all the questions I couldn't voice, all the half-memories that kept slipping through my fingers.

I risked a glance at Ethan and immediately wished I hadn't. He was gripping his glass like it was the only thing keeping him anchored, those green eyes holding something that made my chest ache.

The sight triggered another flash: that same intense expression, but younger, softer somehow. Morning light streaming through tall windows, casting shadows across a face that looked at me like I was something miraculous. The phantom feeling of someone's shoulder pressed against mine, warm and solid and real.

The memory slipped away before I could grab it again, but the emotion lingered, weaving itself into the music. My hands knew this story even if my mind didn't, translating that nameless ache into melody. Each note felt like a question I didn't know I was asking, each chord progression a conversation I couldn't quite remember having.

The burst of applause startled me so badly I nearly fell off the bench. Right. Audience. Somehow I'd forgotten about the several dozen people watching this apparently very public musical identity crisis. Nina was practically vibrating with vindicated joy, and Mrs. Henderson was doing that thing where she pretended she wasn't crying while simultaneously texting everyone in her contact list. Which, knowing her, probably included several people who didn't actually own phones.

“Honey, that was...” Nina started, then stopped, apparently running out of words, which was a minor miracle in itself.

“Just like old times!” Mrs. Henderson announced, dabbing at her eyes with what looked suspiciously like a betting slip. “Though you usually save that particular piece for more private performances...”

Nina shot her a look that could have frozen hell, which definitely went on my list of things to investigate later. If I ever finished the current list of mysteries, which seemed about as likely as Sky serving regular coffee without commentary.

Even Jake, who'd materialized at some point with his usual impeccable timing, looked impressed. “Not bad, Reed. Not bad at all.”

But it was the quiet tension radiating from Ethan's corner that captured my attention. Something significant had just happened, even if I couldn't quite grasp what. The music had unlocked something – not quite memories, but feelings that felt older than my amnesia, deeper than conscious thought.

I was immediately swarmed by the regular crowd, their enthusiasm both touching and slightly terrifying. Everyone seemed to have a story about Past Jimmy's performances, each one making Current Jimmy increasingly suspicious that I'd been some kind of small-town piano vigilante.

“Remember when you played for Sarah's proposal?”

“Oh, and that time with the flash mob!”

“What about the Christmas thing with the mechanical bull?”

I nodded and smiled through their stories, but my attention kept drifting to the corner booth. Empty now, I realized with a start. Through the window, I caught movement in the alley – Ethan pacing like a caged lion, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair with complete disregard for whatever it cost to maintain that deliberate dishevelment.

“Jimmy?” Nina's voice pulled me back to the present. “You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Maybe I had. Or maybe I was the ghost – haunting my own life, catching glimpses of a past that felt like someone else's memories. The piano hummed behind me, keys still warm from playing a story I didn't know I knew.

“I'm fine,” I lied, because what else could I say? Sorry, just watching my apparent billionaire friend have a breakdown in the alley while trying to process memory fragments that feel like scenes from a movie I can't remember watching?

But Nina, being Nina, heard everything I wasn't saying. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, “our hearts remember things our heads aren't ready for yet.”

I watched Ethan through the window, his perfect suit rumpled now, his corporate mask completely shattered. He looked more real like this, more like the boy from my fragments of memory. More like someone who might have once sat beside me at a piano at midnight, creating something that even amnesia couldn't quite erase.

“Yeah,” I managed, my hands still tingling with phantom melodies. “I'm starting to get that.”

The crowd finally thinned around midnight, leaving behind the usual debris field of empty glasses and probably several updated betting pools. I started my end-of-night routine – or at least, what I'd pieced together of it from Nina's instructions and Past Jimmy's obsessively detailed notes. The piano stood silent now, but I could still feel its presence like an unfinished conversation.

I was collecting tips from the jar (apparently Past Jimmy had quite the following – or maybe people just felt sorry for the amnesiac bartender-turned-reluctant-pianist) when I noticed it. A napkin, tucked carefully underneath, the kind of high-quality paper that definitely didn't come from our supplier. On it, in elegant handwriting that probably cost more to learn than my monthly rent.

Some endings need to be rewritten. -E

“Found his note, I see.”

I jumped, nearly dropping the tip jar. Nina had that look again – the one that said she knew way more than she was telling. Which, to be fair, described most of my interactions these days.

“How did you–“

“Honey, I've been watching you two dance around each other for a while now.” She started wiping down the bar with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Though I have to say, tonight's performance was a bit more dramatic than usual. Mrs. Henderson's already updated three different betting pools.”

“Of course she has.” I stared at the napkin, tracing the precise loops of Ethan's handwriting. “Nina, when I was playing, I started remembering things. Not clearly, but...”

“Sometimes the heart remembers what the mind forgets, honey.” She said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather rather than dropping philosophical bombs about my amnesia.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Her smile was gentle but knowing – the kind that made me wonder if she'd been taking lessons from Mrs. Henderson in cryptic small-town wisdom. “It means exactly what it needs to mean.” She paused in her cleaning, studying me with unexpected seriousness. “And sometimes that's exactly what needs to happen.”

“You know, it's really unfair that everyone in this town seems to know more about my life than I do.”

“Not more,” she corrected. “Just different parts. We all have pieces of your story that you told us, Jimmy. But the most important parts?” She nodded toward the napkin still in my hand. “Those are starting to write themselves again.”

I looked down at Ethan's message, thinking about the way the music had flowed tonight, the way memories had surfaced not as clear pictures but as feelings, sensations, moments that seemed to center around the man who'd watched me play with such carefully hidden pain.

“I still don't understand what happened between us,” I admitted.

“Maybe you don't need to understand yet.” Nina squeezed my shoulder. “Maybe you just need to let yourself feel it first. The understanding can come later.”

The napkin felt weirdly heavy in my hand, like it carried more weight than just Ethan's elegant scrawl. Some endings need to be rewritten. Was that what was happening here? Were we somehow getting a second chance at a story I couldn't even remember properly?

“You know what's really annoying?” I tucked the napkin carefully into my pocket. “Past Jimmy would probably know exactly what to do with all this.”

Nina's laugh was warm and real. “Oh honey, Past Jimmy was just as confused as you are. He just hid it better.” She started gathering empty glasses. “Though he didn't have nearly as many people betting on his love life. Sky's spreadsheet has gone completely viral in the senior community.”

“Wonderful. Nothing like having your emotional crisis tracked in Excel format.”

“PowerPoint, actually. Mrs. Henderson insisted on pie charts.”

I groaned, but something in my chest felt lighter. Maybe Nina was right. Maybe understanding could wait. Maybe for now, it was enough to let myself feel the music, the memories, the way my heart seemed to know things my mind had forgotten.