11. Like Father, Unlike Son
Chapter 11
Like Father, Unlike Son
M y father's text arrived at exactly 11:47 PM, because Harrison Cole believed in psychological warfare through precise timing.
Fatherly Figure
Will be there for breakfast. 8 AM. Sarah's Diner seems appropriate.
Which is how I found myself at Sarah's at 6:57 AM, wearing a suit that cost more than most cars and trying not to visibly panic while the morning regulars pretended not to watch me slowly lose my mind.
“That's your fourth cup,” Sarah pointed out, refilling it anyway. “And you've adjusted your tie seventeen times. I've been counting.”
“The tie is crooked.”
“The tie is perfect. You're the one that's crooked.” She leaned against the counter, studying me with that particular small-town concern that still felt foreign. “Want to talk about why you're stress-drinking my coffee two hours before your actual meeting?”
“Your coffee's better than the inn's,” I deflected.
“Honey, my coffee's better than most things, but that's not why you're here.” She refilled my cup despite her own warning. “Though I appreciate you choosing my place for your family showdown. Better tips than usual today.”
I checked my watch – a nervous habit my father had tried to train out of me years ago. 7:15 AM. Each minute felt like an eternity filled with every possible way this could go wrong.
“You know,” Sarah continued, “when Jimmy's nervous about something, he reorganizes the bar's inventory. Three times, usually. You're starting to remind me of him.”
The comparison made my chest tight. “I'm not nervous. I'm strategizing.”
“Uh-huh. That's why you've been here since before sunrise, wearing what looks like a year's worth of my rent in Italian wool.”
“They're not very subtle, are they?” Sarah nodded toward the growing audience.
“I've seen corporate espionage operations with more finesse.”
“Well, to be fair, Mrs. Henderson did organize this surveillance roster last night at bingo. You missed quite the strategy session.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “There's a roster?”
“Color-coded. Sky helped with the spreadsheet formatting.” She grinned at my expression. “Small towns run on gossip and good coffee, honey. And you're providing both this morning.”
7:45 AM. My father's text felt like it was burning a hole in my pocket. The diner had filled with an unusually well-dressed morning crowd – apparently, news of Harrison Cole's impending arrival had inspired everyone to break out their Sunday best. On a Thursday.
I was on my sixth coffee when the distinctive purr of a Bentley engine cut through the morning chatter. My father's car – not the corporate fleet vehicle I'd expected, but his personal car. The one he only drove when...
When he wasn't trying to intimidate someone.
Instead, I watched in growing disbelief as my father – wearing a perfectly tailored suit but with his tie loosened like he was actually relaxing – stopped to help Mrs. Henderson gather some strategically dropped crocheting supplies.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Henderson fluttered, clearly not expecting her surveillance prop to become an actual interaction. “Thank you, Mr. Cole. Such a gentleman.”
“Please, call me Harrison.” My father's smile was genuine, not his corporate shark grin. “Is that the Anderson stitch pattern? My mother was quite fond of it.”
I stared as Harrison Cole, terror of Wall Street and destroyer of my college relationships, engaged in a detailed discussion about crochet techniques with Oakwood Grove's gossip queen. He was wearing his vintage watch – the watch my mother had given him on their twentieth anniversary, not the power-statement Rolex he wore to intimidate board members.
“Your father knows about crocheting?” Sarah appeared at my elbow with coffee cup number seven.
“Apparently.” I watched him charm the entire Crocheting circle with what appeared to be genuine interest in their craft project. “Though I'm starting to wonder if he's been replaced by a very convincing robot.”
“Or maybe,” Sarah said pointedly, “there are some things you don't know about him. Just like there are some things he doesn't know about you.”
The bell above the door chimed. Harrison Cole entered Sarah's Diner looking nothing like the corporate titan I'd spent years defending against and everything like the father I vaguely remembered from before business took over our lives.
“Ethan.” He smiled – actually smiled – as he approached my table. “You look well. Small town life suits you.”
I waited for the other shoe to drop, for the shark to emerge from behind this surprisingly genuine facade. But my father just settled into the booth like he belonged there, accepting Sarah's offered coffee with a warmth that seemed to surprise even her.
“Your mother sends her love,” he said casually. “She's quite interested in this town of yours. Particularly its music programs.”
Through the window, I could see Riley abandoned all pretense of casual observation, openly taking notes now. Mrs. Henderson's Crocheting circle had doubled in size, and I was pretty sure Officer Dawn had parked her patrol car at an angle specifically chosen for optimal eavesdropping.
My father followed my gaze, his smile turning amused. “Quite the welcoming committee you've got out there.”
“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 information sharing. 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.
"I was wrong," he admitted quietly. "When I came to campus that day, I was so focused on what the board would think, on protecting the company's image, that I forgot to see what was right in front of me - how happy he makes you."
He smoothed the program carefully. "That's why we came to your showcase that night. Your mother and I watched you perform together, saw how beautifully you played. How perfectly you complemented each other."
My world tilted slightly. The program's date stared up at me – the night everything changed. "But you were supposed to be in Tokyo. The merger..."
"I moved the meetings." He smiled slightly at my shock. "Your mother insisted. Said some things were more important than business." His expression turned wistful. "She was right, of course. She usually is."
"But the board members..."
"Were concerned about potential scandal, yes." He sighed, looking suddenly older. "I should have made it clearer that their opinions weren't mine. Should have told you that watching you play with Jimmy that night was the happiest we'd seen you in years."
I stared at the program, remembering that night – the music we'd created, the joy we'd shared, the fear that had driven me to walk away. "You never said anything."
"No, I didn't. One of many mistakes." He traced the program's edge. "I thought I was protecting you from the board's prejudices by staying silent. Instead, I made you think you had to choose between your happiness and your heritage."
I tried to process this revision of my carefully constructed narrative – my parents at the showcase, my mother tracking Jimmy's career, my father carrying a program that represented everything I thought he'd disapproved of.
“The property acquisitions,” I started.
“Are meant to protect his work here, not destroy it.” My father set his coffee down. “The board's old guard is finally gone. It's time to rebuild some bridges. Starting with the one I helped burn eight years ago.”
Outside, Mrs. Henderson's surveillance team had given up all pretense of subtlety. Several of them were openly taking notes. Riley had apparently requisitioned the diner's patio furniture for a better view.
“They care about him,” my father observed. “This whole town does.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He stood, straightening his loosened tie. “Then they'll understand why Cole's new cultural development initiative is choosing Oakwood Grove for its pilot program. Focusing on youth music education and community arts preservation.”
I stared at him. “You're not here to shut down Jimmy's programs.”
“No.” His smile was genuine. “I'm here to fund them. Properly this time, without letting other people's prejudices get in the way.” He squeezed my shoulder – a gesture so unexpected it left me speechless. “Some endings do need rewriting, son. Even mine.”
“Jimmy came to see me, you know. Just before the attack.”
The words hit like a corporate ambush, casual and devastating. My father watched my reaction over his coffee cup with the same careful attention he usually reserved for acquisition targets.
“He was looking into investment opportunities for local music venues,” he continued. “Trying to create a network of independent spaces. Rather brilliant business model, actually.”
I tried to process this information through what felt like static in my brain. “Jimmy worked with you?”
“He never told you because he thought you'd try to protect him from me.” Harrison's smile held an irony that made my chest tight. “Just like you never told me about him because you thought you were protecting him. You Cole men and your defense mechanisms.”
The door chimed before I could respond. Jimmy walked in for his shift, stopping short when he saw us. The moment crystallized – Jimmy looking between Harrison Cole and his son, a flicker of something crossing his face that wasn't quite recognition but wasn't quite nothing either.
To my complete surprise, my father stood and said simply, “It's good to see you recovering, Jimmy. That business model of yours is still sound, whenever you're ready.”
Jimmy's polite confusion – the same expression he'd given me that first day back – seemed to pain my father almost as much as it did me. “Thank you, Mr. Cole,” he replied with that careful distance that felt wrong in every possible way. “Though I'm afraid I don't remember the business model you're referring to.”
As Jimmy headed to the back office, Harrison sighed. “You know, he refused to take investment money directly from Cole Industries. Said he needed to do it his own way.” He gave me a pointed look. “Reminded me of someone else I know.”
“Dad...”
“Let's step outside.” He left a tip that probably made Sarah's week and led the way to the street, where Mrs. Henderson's surveillance team had evolved into what appeared to be a full town meeting.
“I'm not here to cause trouble, Ethan.” He watched Jimmy through the window with an expression I'd never seen on his face before. “When I heard about the attack, about his memory loss... I wanted to make sure you were both okay.”
The simple admission rocked my carefully constructed worldview. “The board–“
“Is concerned about your extended absence, yes. But as your father rather than CEO?” He turned to me, his corporate mask completely gone. “I think you're exactly where you need to be.”
The acceptance in his voice floored me. Eight years of assumptions crumbled as he added, with a hint of amusement, “Though you might want to tell Sheriff Jake and Officer Dawn they can stop tailing my car. Small town surveillance isn't quite as subtle as they think.”
Right on cue, Jake's patrol car rolled past at what had to be the slowest legal speed possible.
My father reached into his car and pulled out a folder. “You should see these.”
Inside were detailed business plans in Jimmy's familiar handwriting – proposals for preserving independent music venues, protecting small towns from aggressive development, creating sustainable arts communities. Each page showed a vision I'd never imagined, a fight I hadn't known he was fighting.
“He was building something remarkable,” Harrison said quietly. “While you were creating tech empires, he was creating communities.” He watched Jimmy through The Watering Hole's window, where he was now helping Nina sort through vinyl records. “Maybe instead of protecting him from our world, you should have let him show you his.”
The words settled like weights in my chest. Every page in the folder showed a Jimmy I'd never fully understood – someone who fought for small town souls while I fought for market share.
“You didn't leave to protect him from me, son.” My father's parting shot landed with surgical precision. “You left to protect yourself from changing.”
I watched his car pull away, the familiar Bentley looking strangely at home on Oakwood Grove's main street. Through the window, Jimmy was laughing at something Nina had said, his smile real and unguarded in a way that made my chest ache.
All this time, I'd cast my father as the villain in our story. The corporate titan threatening Jimmy's world, the force I had to protect him from. But standing there with Jimmy's vision in my hands, watching him build something beautiful even without his memories, I realized the truth:
The real villain had been my own fear. Fear of choosing a different path, of letting go of the carefully constructed future I'd hidden behind. Fear of becoming something other than what I thought I had to be.
My phone buzzed – probably Mia with more crisis updates. But for once, the corporate emergencies felt distant. Instead of checking it, I found myself walking into The Watering Hole, Jimmy's folder heavy in my hands.
“Everything okay?” Nina asked as I settled at the bar. “Your father seemed... different than expected.”
I watched Jimmy sort through vinyl records, his hands moving with the same confidence they found on piano keys – muscle memory leading him home even when his mind couldn't remember the way.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “I think maybe everything's exactly how it needs to be.”