making.” My boss laughed nervously—until a seventy-four-year-old farmer walked in wearing a suit, placed a folder on the counter, and said, “Son, we need to discuss your lease.” What happened next revealed a promise my former boss had kept secret for fifteen years.
“Bev, I’m going to be straight with you.”
My new boss, Chad Whitmore, stood in the doorway of the back office at Gus’s Diner.He wore an expensive sleeveless vest and had the kind of perfect smile that belonged in a toothpaste advertisement.
I was still holding
