He’d suffered a stroke alone in the apartment above the diner.
When I arrived for work the next morning, the grill wasn’t on.
That was how I knew something was wrong.
For thirty-eight years, Gus had always arrived before me.
I went upstairs.
Found him sitting in his recliner.
And called for help.
The whole town attended his funeral.
His children, Gus Jr. and Patty, flew in from Phoenix.
They hadn’t lived in Millbrook for years.
After the service, Gus Jr. approached me.
“Dad talked about you a lot,” he said.
Then he explained that he and Patty planned to sell the diner.
They had no interest in running it.
A young businessman from Des Moines had already made an offer.
I asked whether Gus had left any instructions.
His son shook his head.
“Everything went to us. Why?”
I thought about that old promise.
Then I said, “No reason.”
