Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
We have the fresh apple butter today, Arthur, Henry said. I made sure they brought a jar up from the basement.
Bring it on out, Henry, Arthur said. The store-bought stuff doesn’t have any spice to it.
Carter watched them talk, the easy banter of two men who had known each other for twenty years filling the space between the stools.
He realized how much he had missed by staying in the brick office in Decatur, looking at spreadsheets and profit margins on a computer screen.
The numbers were important, but they didn’t show the grease on the stove or the way a regular customer looked when the toast was right.
He made a decision then, one that had been forming since he first sat on the end stool under the faded blue cap.
He would not spend his weeks behind the steel desk anymore.
He would drive the thirty miles to Springfield every Tuesday and Thursday, and he would visit the other three stores on the weekend.
He would wear his regular clothes, and he would sit in the booths, and he would listen.
