Unlocking Melodies (Oakwood Grove #3)

12. Bench Marks

Chapter 12

Bench Marks

S pring in Oakwood Grove was apparently a big deal. The whole town had burst into technicolor like someone had cranked up nature's saturation settings, and everyone seemed determined to spend as much time as possible admiring it. Even the ducks at the park pond looked smugly pleased with themselves, like they'd personally arranged the perfect weather.

I'd escaped to the park with my laptop and a growing identity crisis, courtesy of my email's drafts folder. Past Jimmy had been busy, it seems – the documents I'd found outlined plans so ambitious they made Current Jimmy feel like an underachiever. A network of independent music venues. Preservation initiatives. Community arts programs that could reshape small-town culture.

“Who were you?” I muttered to my screen, scanning proposals that read like they'd been written by someone who actually knew what they were doing. The confidence in every line made me wonder if amnesia had taken more than just memories – maybe it had stolen some essential part of who I used to be.

The duck pond seemed like a good place for an existential crisis. Private, quiet, with just enough ambient quacking to keep me from spiraling too deep into self-doubt. At least, that was the plan until I realized I wasn't alone.

On a nearby bench sat the last person I expected to see in a public park just before lunch on a Tuesday. His designer suit looked bizarrely out of place among the ducks, jacket discarded beside him like even expensive Italian wool had given up on maintaining appearances. He was frowning at a leather folder with the kind of intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs.

My first instinct was to retreat. Our interactions lately had been... complicated. Between piano performances and his father's surprise visit (which was still the talk of Mrs. Henderson's various social circles), there was enough unresolved tension between us to power a small city.

But curiosity won out over common sense. Before my brain could talk me out of it, I heard myself say, “This bench taken?”

He startled so badly he almost dropped his folder, papers scattering like startled ducks. “I was just, uh... reviewing quarterly projections.”

“At the duck pond?” I moved to help him gather the scattered papers. “Is this some new corporate meditation technique? Hostile takeovers are more effective with waterfowl witnesses?”

“The inn's WiFi is down,” he muttered, somehow managing to look both dignified and completely flustered. “Something about Mrs. Henderson's bridge club overwhelming the network again.”

“Ah yes, the infamous Thursday tournament. I hear their online Scrabble games can crash systems three towns over.”

A duck waddled over to investigate the commotion, eyeing his probably-worth-more-than-my-car shoes with worrying interest. “What are you actually reading?” I asked, watching him try to subtly move his feet out of beak range. “Must be riveting if it's got you hiding out here with the local wildlife.”

“Just... stock reports. Market analyses. Very boring corporate things.” He shuffled the papers with suspicious haste.

“Right. Because nothing says 'routine business review' like looking at papers like they might bite you.” I settled onto the bench beside him, more amused than I probably should have been by his obvious discomfort. “You know, for a billionaire, you're surprisingly bad at casual deception.”

That startled a laugh out of him – quick and genuine, nothing like his usual careful responses. “I've been told my poker face needs work.”

“By who? The ducks? Because I hate to break it to you, but they're terrible at keeping secrets. Just look at that one – totally gossiping about your shoes to his friends.”

The duck in question was indeed engaged in what looked like a very judgmental examination of his footwear. “These are Italian leather,” he told it with dignity that was somewhat undermined by having to tuck his feet under the bench.

“I'm sure that's very impressive in corporate circles, but I don't think water birds care much about designer labels.”

He was fighting a smile now, his mysterious papers temporarily forgotten. “I'll remember that for my next pond-side business meeting.”

“Please do. Also, maybe consider less fancy shoes for your future encounters with judgmental waterfowl.”

The duck's dramatic exit was followed by an equally dramatic attempt at casual bench-sharing. We did this awkward dance of trying to maintain proper distance while not looking like we were trying to maintain proper distance. The result probably looked like two people participating in some bizarre sitting-down version of musical chairs.

A group of ducks waddled past, eyeing us expectantly. “Oh right,” I said, remembering one of the many Jimmy Facts? (yes it is trademarked because I wanted to) I'd collected. “Apparently I feed them regularly. Another thrilling detail about myself I learned from the town gossip network.”

“You do?”

“According to Mrs. Henderson, I have a whole feeding schedule. That one,” I pointed to a particularly demanding duck who was giving us the stink-eye, “is Mr. Quackers. He only eats organic feed.”

The laugh that burst out of Ethan was nothing like his usual controlled responses – it was startled and real and somehow familiar. “You named a duck Mr. Quackers?”

“Hey, Past Jimmy named a duck Mr. Quackers. Current Jimmy just has to live with the consequences.” The judgment in his tone should have felt weird, but instead it was almost... comfortable? “Besides, have you seen him? He's clearly a Mr. Quackers. Look at that waddle. That's a duck with an MBA in bread-based economics.”

The spring breeze carried the scent of blooming things, making everything feel softer somehow. Our conversation drifted to safe topics – the unseasonably warm weather, the upcoming town festival (which apparently required seventeen different planning committees, because small towns take their celebrations very seriously).

But something about the peaceful setting and the way Ethan's perfect polish had crumbled made me brave. Or maybe just reckless.

“Your father's visit caused quite a stir,” I said, watching his reaction carefully.

His expression did something complicated – like several emotions were competing for control of his face and none of them were winning. “I spent years casting my father as the villain in our story,” he said finally. “Turns out I might have been wrong about that. Among other things.”

His eyes flickered to my laptop, then back to his mysterious folder. Something passed between us – an understanding or recognition that felt bigger than the moment.

“Can I tell you something weird?” I found myself saying. “I keep finding these pieces of my past life – emails, plans, projects. Things that show who I used to be. And everyone keeps telling me about Past Jimmy – what he liked, how he felt, what he was building here.”

“But?” Ethan's voice was soft, encouraging.

“But it's like reading someone else's diary. Like watching a movie about my life where everyone knows the plot except me.” I gestured helplessly at my laptop. “I know these things happened. I can see the evidence. But I can't...”

“Feel it,” he finished quietly. “You only know it happened because people tell you it did.”

The perfect understanding in his voice made me look at him sharply. For a moment, he wasn't the polished CEO or the careful stranger – he was just someone who somehow knew exactly what I meant.

Mr. Quackers chose that moment to make another pass, clearly offended by our lack of proper duck-feeding etiquette.

“He's very demanding for someone who wears the same outfit every day,” I observed, grateful for the break in tension.

“Says the man who apparently has a color-coded feeding schedule for water fowl.”

“At least I'm not the one wearing Italian leather to a duck pond.”

His smile was different now – softer, more real. Like maybe he was tired of maintaining careful distances too. “You used to do this at Rosewood too,” he said, so quietly I almost missed it. “Find ways to make serious moments lighter.”

The casual mention of our shared past should have felt heavy, loaded with all the things I couldn't remember. Instead, it felt like someone pointing out a habit I didn't know I had – like when Nina mentioned my coffee preferences or Liam commented on my music techniques.

“Did it work?” I asked, surprising myself. “Making things lighter?”

His look held years I couldn't access, memories I couldn't touch. “Sometimes. Sometimes it just made everything more...”

“Complicated?”

“Real.” He watched Mr. Quackers harass a jogger with surprising tactical precision. “You had this way of making everything feel more real.”

I didn't know what to do with that – with the weight of his words or the way they seemed to resonate with something deeper than memory. So I did what apparently both Past and Current Jimmy do best: deflected with humor.

“Well, right now the only thing feeling real is Mr. Quackers' judgment about our lack of snacks. I think he's organizing a protest.”

Ethan's laugh carried echoes of other laughs I couldn't quite remember, but the sound felt right anyway. Like maybe some things didn't need memory to be true.

The moment stretched out, filled with duck splashes and distant playground squeals. Spring had brought out what seemed like half the town's children, their laughter carrying across the park like windchimes. It should have felt awkward, this silence between us, but somehow it didn't.

“At Rosewood,” Ethan said finally, his voice quiet enough that I had to lean in slightly to hear him, “you used to say that music was the only thing that made complete sense.”

The words settled somewhere in my chest, familiar even if I couldn't remember saying them.

“You still play the same way, you know.” He traced invisible patterns on the folder in his lap. “Even without remembering learning how. Some things...” His hand made a vague gesture that somehow encompassed everything we weren't directly saying. “Some things stay in your bones.”

I thought about my hands finding melodies my mind didn't know, about muscle memory that survived whatever scrambled my brain. About the way my heart did that stupid racing thing every time Ethan walked into a room, despite having no conscious memory of why it should.

Before I could examine that particular revelation too closely, chaos erupted by the pond. Mr. Quackers, apparently tired of our snackless existence, had decided to lead what could only be described as a duck uprising. His target was some poor jogger's breakfast sandwich.

“Oh god,” I muttered, watching the scene unfold. “He's actually organized a tactical strike. Look at that formation.”

“Did you teach them that?” Ethan asked, watching in fascination as Mr. Quackers coordinated what appeared to be a pincer movement. “Because this level of strategic planning seems personal.”

The absurdity of it hit us both at once. Ethan's laugh burst out unexpectedly. The sound hit something in my memory, not quite solid enough to grab but definitely there. A feeling more than an image: happiness, safety, the kind of joy that comes from sharing something genuine with someone who gets it.

The intensity of it made me grip the bench edge, wood grain pressing into my palms like an anchor to the present.

“Are you...” Ethan noticed because of course he did, his amusement shifting instantly to concern.

I shook my head, trying to hold onto the feeling even as it slipped away. “Just... fragments. Like catching the end of a song you used to know. You can hum along but you can't quite remember all the words.”

I expected him to press for details – everyone always did, hungry for signs that Past Jimmy might be emerging from wherever he was hiding. Instead, Ethan just nodded, his understanding somehow more affecting than any eager questions would have been.

“The last time we were honest with each other,” he said carefully, like he was handling something that might shatter, “we were sitting on a bench. Different bench, different lifetime.”

He didn't elaborate. I didn't ask. Something about the admission felt too delicate for questions, like those soap bubbles kids were blowing nearby – beautiful but likely to pop if examined too closely.

By the pond, Mr. Quackers had successfully claimed his prize, leading his feathered troops in what could only be described as a victory parade with half a sandwich as their spoils of war.

“Your duck is a criminal mastermind,” Ethan observed, but his voice held that same careful gentleness.

“I clearly had questionable taste in mentees.” I watched Mr. Quackers share his bounty with his conspirators. “Though I have to admire his leadership style. Very inclusive.”

“Using humor to deflect serious moments,” Ethan said softly. “That hasn't changed either.”

The comment should have felt like an accusation, but instead it felt like recognition. Like someone pointing out a favorite song you'd forgotten you knew how to sing.

“Does it bother you?” I asked, surprising myself. “That I can't remember... whatever that bench moment was?”

His smile held something complicated – sadness and hope and maybe a little fear. “What bothers me is that I wasted eight years being afraid of moments like this.”

The admission hung between us, as delicate as those soap bubbles floating past. Part of me wanted to ask what he meant, to demand explanations for all these hints and half-memories that everyone seemed to know about except me.

Instead, I watched Mr. Quackers organize his troops for what appeared to be another tactical bread acquisition. Sometimes understanding could wait. Sometimes it was enough just to sit on a bench with someone who knew your past but was willing to let you find your own way back to it.

The sun began its descent, turning everything golden and soft. One of those perfect spring evenings that made Oakwood Grove look like it belonged on a postcard, all warm light and long shadows and ducks plotting their next tactical sandwich acquisition.

Neither of us moved to leave. Something had shifted between us, subtle but significant, like a key change in a familiar song.

A splash interrupted whatever heavy moment might have followed. Mr. Quackers had apparently decided we'd had enough serious conversation, landing between us with all the subtlety of a feathered wrecking ball. Water droplets scattered everywhere, including on Ethan's probably-costs-more-than-my-car suit.

“Well,” I said, watching him try to maintain dignity while being sprinkled by pond water, “at least Mr. Quackers remembers me. That's something, right?”

“Your duck,” he said with fond exasperation, “has absolutely no respect for Italian wool.”

“Of course not. He has an MBA in bread-based economics, remember? Designer labels mean nothing to him.”

The sunset painted everything in soft focus, making even Mr. Quackers look briefly majestic before he ruined it by trying to eat Ethan's shoelaces. In that golden light, with ducks plotting around us and unspoken things settling into comfortable silence.

“We should probably rescue your shoes,” I said, watching Mr. Quackers employ increasingly creative tactics. “Before he adds designer footwear to his criminal empire.”

“Probably.” But neither of us moved. The moment felt too delicate to break, like those last rays of sunlight turning the pond to gold.

A breeze carried the scent of spring and distant music from someone's car radio. Mr. Quackers, having failed in his footwear acquisition mission, settled for judging us silently from his new perch on the bench back.

“You know,” I said, surprising myself with the honesty, “I spend so much time trying to remember who I was that sometimes I forget to figure out who I am now.”

Ethan's smile held something I couldn't quite name but somehow recognized anyway. “Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Sometimes who we are now is better than who we're trying to remember being.”

As if to punctuate his point, Mr. Quackers chose that moment to demonstrate his approval by attempting to nest in Ethan's perfectly styled hair.

“Oh sure,” Ethan said with dignity that was somewhat undermined by having to dodge duck feet, “now he likes me.”

“What can I say? You've been approved by the local wildlife. That's practically a citizenship requirement in Oakwood Grove.”

His laugh felt like a new song starting – one we might both be ready to learn, even if we couldn't quite remember the old ones. And maybe that was okay. Maybe some things were better written from scratch anyway.

Mr. Quackers settled between us like he belonged there, clearly considering himself the supervisor of whatever was happening on this bench. The sunset painted everything in possibilities, and for once, I didn't mind not knowing exactly what came next.

Sometimes new memories were better than trying to chase old ones. Sometimes a sunset and a criminal mastermind duck and a laugh that felt like coming home were enough to start with.