16. Father’s Keeper
Chapter 16
Father’s Keeper
S arah's Diner had never felt so quiet. The usual morning bustle had been replaced by an eerie calm that made every small sound feel amplified – the soft hum of the coffee maker, distant clinks from the kitchen, the rhythmic tapping of Ethan's fingers against his thigh under our table.
I watched another regular peek through the window, then hurriedly walk past. Jake's influence, probably. The sheriff had a way of clearing rooms without saying a word. Even Sarah herself kept finding reasons to reorganize the already perfectly arranged counter, throwing concerned glances my way when she thought I wasn't looking.
The coffee in front of me had gone cold, untouched. My stomach was doing too many acrobatics to risk adding caffeine to the mix. Though watching Ethan pretend he wasn't tracking every movement in the diner while attempting to look casually relaxed was almost entertaining enough to distract me from my nerves. Almost.
His knee brushed mine under the table – an anchor I hadn't asked for but desperately needed. He'd kept his promise to let me handle this, though the tension radiating from him suggested it was taking every ounce of his corporate-trained control.
The bell above the door chimed, and my heart did a complicated gymnastics routine in my chest. But it was just Mrs. Henderson, making what had to be her fifth “casual” pass by the diner. The opera glasses poorly hidden in her purse weren't fooling anyone.
Then the door opened again, and this time there was no mistaking the figure that stepped inside. Gary didn't match whatever image my fractured memory had conjured. Instead of the disheveled desperation I'd half-expected, he wore a suit that, while clearly aged, spoke of deliberate effort. His shoes were polished, his hair neatly combed. He looked like someone trying very hard to make a specific impression.
But it was what he carried that caught my attention – an old photo album, its edges soft with wear, papers threatening to escape from between its pages. Something about it made my throat tight, though I couldn't say why.
I felt Ethan tense beside me, his casual facade cracking slightly. His fingers had stopped their nervous rhythm, now gripping his own untouched coffee cup like it might try to escape. The diner seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Gary scanned the diner like he was casing it – an observation that came from somewhere deeper than memory. He approached the counter with deliberate casualness that felt rehearsed.
“Coffee, black, two sugars,” he ordered, his voice carrying a hint of New York that made something stir in my mind.
“Just like your father,” Sarah looked at Ethan and then immediately looked like she wanted to swallow the words back. Her eyes darted to me apologetically before she practically fled to the coffee maker.
I watched Gary's approach, noting how his confident stride faltered slightly as he got closer. He sat down with the kind of careful movement that suggested he was trying very hard not to spook anyone – probably me.
“You look good,” he said finally, his accent softening with what sounded like genuine emotion. “Healthy.”
“Unlike the last time you saw me?” The words came out before I could stop them, sharp and questioning.
Gary flinched. “I deserved that.” He placed the photo album between us like a peace offering. “Though you might not remember why.”
“That's kind of the problem, isn't it?” I managed a smile that probably looked as strained as it felt. “Memory's a bit spotty these days.”
“Yeah.” His hands trembled slightly as he opened the album. “Maybe that's why... maybe we could...” He stopped, took a breath. “I brought some things you might want to see.”
He pulled out a photo and placed it carefully on the table. Three smiling faces looked back at me – a younger version of myself perched on Gary's uniformed shoulders, who I was guessing was my mother laughing that was caught perfectly by the camera. Central Park sprawled behind us, all autumn colors and perfect moments.
“Your mother,” Gary said softly, watching my reaction. “She always said you got her smile. Her way of seeing the best in people, too.”
“Even when they don't deserve it?” The question came out gentler than I'd intended.
“Especially then.” He tapped the photo where his younger self stood proud in NYPD blue. “I was a good cop once. Before the gambling, before...” He swallowed hard. “Before I forgot how to be a good father too.”
Under the table, Ethan's hand found mine. I squeezed back, grateful for the anchor.
“Why now?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. “Why show up when I can't even remember all the reasons I probably shouldn't trust you?”
“Because maybe that's exactly why I had to come.” Gary pulled out another photo – me at a piano recital, looking terrified but determined. “Because you deserve to know your whole story, not just the parts everyone else thinks you should hear.”
“Even the ugly parts?”
“Especially those.” He met my eyes directly. “I was there, you know. At Rosewood. Not... not properly. But I watched your showcase performance from the back. You were brilliant.”
Beside me, Ethan went completely still. This was new information for both of us.
“You came to Rosewood?” I couldn't keep the surprise from my voice.
“Every major performance.” Gary's smile was sad. “Always stayed in the back, left before you could see me. Figured you were better off without the reminder of what you were working so hard to escape from.”
“So you just... watched? Never said anything?”
“What could I say? 'Sorry for making you work three jobs to cover my debts'? 'Sorry for teaching you to sleep with your wallet under your pillow'?” His bitter laugh held years of self-recrimination. “Some mistakes don't get fixed with words.”
Sarah appeared with fresh coffee, her movements deliberately slow like she was trying not to interrupt. The diner had gone suspiciously quiet – even Mrs. Henderson's surveillance team seemed to be holding their breath.
“But you're here now,” I said after she left. “Trying to... what exactly?”
“To give you back your story.” Gary gestured at the album. “All of it. The good parts, the terrible parts, everything in between. Because maybe...” He stopped, seemed to gather courage. “Maybe knowing where you came from will help you figure out where you're going.”
The sincerity in his voice made my chest tight. Beside me, Ethan's thumb traced circles on my palm – a quiet reminder that I wasn't facing this alone.
“Tell me,” I said finally. “Tell me everything. Even the parts that hurt.”
Gary nodded, pulling out another photo. “It started after your mother died...”
The morning light filtered through Sarah's windows, painting everything in a soft glow that felt at odds with the heaviness of the moment. Gary's coffee grew cold as he spoke, his words painting pictures of a life I couldn't quite grasp but somehow felt in my bones.
“We lived near Riverside Park,” he said, pulling out another photo – a modest apartment building with flower boxes in the windows. “Your mother insisted on those window boxes. Said a home needed growing things.”
Something about that detail made my throat tight. Through the diner's window, I caught sight of my own apartment's flower boxes – a habit I'd started without knowing why.
“Maggie – your mother – she taught piano to half the neighborhood kids,” Gary continued, his voice softening with memory. “Our apartment was always full of music. Sometimes terrible music,” he managed a small laugh, “but she never minded. Said every wrong note was just jazz waiting to happen.”
The image hit something deep – sunshine through windows, the scent of coffee and sheet music, laughter over missed notes. Not a complete memory, but an echo of one.
“That's where you got it from,” Gary said, watching my reaction. “That gift. She could make anyone feel music in their soul. Even tone-deaf Mr. Martinez from the apartment next door ended up playing 'Heart and Soul' at the building's Christmas party.”
I felt Ethan's hand tighten in mine as Gary's voice caught. The warmth of his stories faded as he turned another page in the album.
“It happened so fast,” he murmured, staring into his untouched coffee like it held answers. “One day she was teaching, laughing at Mrs. Cohen's attempts at Chopsticks... and the next...” He swallowed hard. “I couldn't fix it. Couldn't save her. But I could chase that feeling of control at the tables.”
“The gambling,” I said quietly. It wasn't a question.
“Started small. Just poker nights with the guys from the precinct.” His laugh held no humor. “Then bigger games. Higher stakes. Anything to feel like I had some control over something.”
Through the window, I caught Mrs. Henderson hastily wiping her eyes. Even Sarah had stopped pretending to clean the counter, openly listening now.
“You tried to help,” Gary's voice cracked slightly. “God, you were just a kid, but you'd come find me at those casinos. Drag me home. Make sure I ate something besides bar peanuts.”
“Sounds exhausting,” I managed, though the words held less bite than I'd intended.
“You were too young to be that responsible.” He met my eyes directly. “You deserved better. Got yourself through school, into Rosewood on talent alone. I should have been there.”
“But you were,” I said slowly, remembering what he'd said earlier. “Watching from the back.”
“Every showcase. Every major performance.” He pulled out a program – creased and worn like it had been handled often. “You played Chopin that night. Made it sound like a conversation instead of just notes.”
“Why hide?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Why not just...”
“Just what? Show up and ruin another milestone?” Gary's self-deprecation felt familiar somehow. “You were finally free of me, of my mess. I didn't want to drag you back down.”
“So instead you just... watched?”
“Watched you become something amazing.” His smile was sad but proud. “Watched you build a life I couldn't mess up. Until now, I suppose.”
The admission hung between us, heavy with implications neither of us was ready to voice. Outside, the morning crowd had started to gather, though Jake's presence kept them at a respectful distance.
“Tell me more about mom,” I said finally.
“Your mother,” Gary began, his voice softening around the edges, “she had this thing about Sundays. Said weekends needed their own soundtrack.” He pulled out another photo – a sunlit kitchen, my mother mid-spin with a spatula in hand. “Pancakes were her specialty, though 'specialty' might be generous.”
“What do you mean?” I found myself leaning forward, hungry for these details about her.
“Well, there was the blue pancake incident of '98.” Gary's laugh held real warmth. “She got it in her head that regular pancakes were, and I quote, 'an insult to Sunday morning creativity.' Bought every food coloring in the store.”
“Did they at least taste good?”
“They tasted like regular pancakes, just... decidedly blue. But that wasn't good enough for Maggie. Next week it was rainbow pancakes. Then pancakes with music notes drawn in chocolate. Once she tried to make them in the shape of piano keys.”
“How'd that work out?”
“Let's just say abstract art might have been a better description.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, lost in the memory. “But you'd sit there every Sunday, eating whatever experimental breakfast she'd created, telling her they were perfect.”
“She hummed while she cooked,” Gary continued, his finger tracing the edge of the photo. “Different song for every recipe. Said it helped her remember the ingredients. Did the same thing with her students – had a specific tune for each kid. 'Little Tommy plays everything like it's a race, so his song is Flight of the Bumblebee,' she'd say. 'Sarah needs more confidence, so she gets Ode to Joy.'”
“Did it work?” I asked, fascinated by this window into a life I should remember.
“Actually, yeah. She had this gift for matching music to moments. Could walk into a room and just... know what it needed to hear.” He glanced at me. “That's what you inherited from her – not just the talent, but that instinct. The way you understand what people need, even if they don't know it themselves.”
Through the diner's window, I caught Sarah hastily wiping her eyes on her apron. Even Mrs. Henderson had abandoned all pretense of surveillance, openly listening with her opera glasses forgotten in her lap.
“The kitchen was her stage,” Gary said softly. “She'd dance while doing dishes, spin between counter and stove like she was performing at Carnegie Hall. Didn't matter if it was Beethoven or The Beatles – everything was worth dancing to.”
The memory – or maybe just the feeling of it – made my throat tight. “Did she ever finish the dishes, or was there too much dancing?”
Gary's laugh was surprised and real. “You remember that? She'd always say 'dishes are just percussion instruments waiting to happen.' Used to drive me crazy, coming home to find you both using pots and pans as drums instead of actually washing them.”
“I don't remember,” I admitted. “Not really. But something about it feels... right.”
He nodded, understanding. “That's your mother's influence. She always said memories live in more than just our minds. They live in the way we move, the things we love, the music we can't help but make.”
Like muscle memory at a piano, I thought. Like knowing how to make tea when stressed, or humming while working, or putting flower boxes in windows without knowing why.
Then Gary's gaze shifted to Ethan, something knowing in his expression. “Yeah, I knew about you too, Mr. Cole. Kept tabs on both of you over the years.”
The admission made Ethan tense beside me, but Gary's tone held no accusation – just a tired sort of acknowledgment.
“That's not creepy at all,” I managed, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere.
Gary's smile was faint but genuine. “Your mother would have liked him, you know. She always said true talent recognizes itself in others.”
The words made something in my chest twist. Ethan's hand squeezed mine under the table, and I wondered if he was thinking about those piano sessions at Rosewood that I couldn't quite remember.
“The attack,” I said finally, the question I'd been avoiding rising to the surface. “Did you...?”
Gary's expression darkened immediately. "I wish I knew more," he said, though something in his tone felt rehearsed, too careful. "I've been... trying to get clean. Watching from a distance, like always. When I heard what happened..." His hands clenched into fists on the table. "I should have been here. Should have protected you. Again, I failed."
I noticed how he dodged the actual question, slipping into familiar patterns of vague answers and deflection. But pushing him now, in this diner full of people who'd become my family even if I couldn't remember how, didn't feel right.
"You can't protect someone from a distance," I said quietly, letting the evasion slide for now. The words felt significant even though I couldn't quite grasp why.
“No,” Gary agreed, his gaze flickering between Ethan and me. “I'm learning that some things require showing up. Even when you're not sure you deserve to.”
Gary reached into the album one last time, his movements careful like he was handling something precious. The photo he pulled out caught my breath – my mother and me at her piano, both leaning over sheet music, our faces mirrors of pure joy. Something about the image felt real in a way the others hadn't, like a memory I could almost touch.
“You got her heart,” Gary said softly, his voice rough with emotion. “This network you're building, the communities you're helping – that's all her. She always said music was about bringing people together.”
The mention of my venue network made something click uneasily in my mind, but before I could examine it, Gary stood. He straightened his suit jacket – a gesture that felt oddly familiar, like looking in a mirror of nervous habits.
“I'm not asking for forgiveness,” he said, adjusting his cuffs with too much precision. “Just... maybe a chance to do better.”
Beside me, I felt Ethan tense slightly. Something about Gary's polished appearance and carefully chosen words seemed to bother him, though he kept his promise to stay quiet.
At the door, Gary paused. “Your mother used to say music heals what memory can't reach.” His gaze moved between Ethan and me, weighted with meaning I couldn't quite grasp. “Maybe she was right about that too.”
The bell chimed softly as he left. Through the window, I watched him walk away – shoulders straight, steps measured, like each one carried the weight of attempted redemption. Something about his exit felt too choreographed, too perfect, like a performance rather than a genuine departure.
“He's not what I expected,” I said finally, breaking the heavy silence.
“No,” Ethan agreed, but his tone held reservations. His eyes followed Gary's retreating figure with the kind of careful assessment I'd seen him use in business meetings.
I flipped through the album he'd left, stopping at my mother's radiant smile. “You're thinking something.”
“Several things,” Ethan admitted. “The suit, for one and the carefully rehearsed stories”
“You think he's playing an angle?”
“I think...” Ethan chose his words carefully. “I think genuine redemption rarely comes with pressed suits and perfect timing.”
The observation made me look at the morning's events in a new light. Every story, every gesture, every carefully placed photo – it all felt a bit like a production now that I thought about it.
“You noticed how he dodged any real questions about the attack?” Ethan added quietly. “How he kept steering the conversation back to your mother, to memories he knew you couldn't verify?”
“So what do we do?” I asked, looking down at the photo of my mother and me, trying to reconcile the genuine joy in that moment with the uneasy feeling growing in my chest.
“We wait,” Ethan said, his hand finding mine under the table. “And we watch. Because if there's one thing I learned in business – when something seems too perfectly presented...”
“It usually is,” I finished, the truth of it settling like a weight. “Though you have to admire his commitment to the role. The suit alone probably cost more than a gambling addict should be able to afford.”
Ethan's smile was grim. “Exactly. Question is – who's bankrolling this particular performance?”
Through the diner's window, the morning sun caught something metallic – a flash from a car that had been parked across the street all morning. As I watched, it pulled away smoothly, following the same direction Gary had taken.
Maybe some memories were better left buried. The question was – whose memories were we really dealing with?