And the grown man who had spent years promising himself a future without doing the work required to build it.
I hoped the experience would teach him something.
But I wasn’t going to pay for the lesson.
Dad stopped covering Chance’s debts.
Aunt Wanita told me Mom was furious.
Apparently, she kept asking why Dad couldn’t help one more time.
He kept giving the same answer.
“We don’t have a station to borrow against anymore.”
It wasn’t a complete apology.
It wasn’t even a conversation with me.
But it was the first time Dad had refused to make my brother’s financial problems into everybody else’s responsibility.
The rumors around town gradually changed.
Brandy spoke with a few people who had heard Mom’s version of the story.
She didn’t need to exaggerate.
She simply explained that Chance had promised to use a business he didn’t own to satisfy their divorce settlement.
She also made clear that I’d purchased the station through the bank’s legitimate sale.
The truth moved through Broken Bow more slowly than the rumors had.
But it moved.
Customers returned.
Mr. Ruby’s Buick pulled into pump one again.
He came inside, moving carefully with his cane.
I looked up.
“Morning, Mr. Ruby.”
He nodded.
“Morning, Ian.”
He poured coffee.
Took a sip.
Then made the familiar expression.
“Still terrible.”
I smiled.
“Working on it.”
He placed a dollar on the counter.
Then looked toward the photograph of Dad hanging beside the register.
“Your father used to give me my birthday coffee free.”
I nodded.
“When’s your birthday?”
“March.”
I smiled.
“Then I’ll see you in March.”
He laughed.
Then returned to his Buick.
After that, he came every Monday again.
Brandy returned in October.
She stood near the front window looking at the NOW HIRING sign.
Then approached the counter.
“Is that still true?”
I looked up.
“What?”
“You’re hiring?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
She took a breath.
“I need steady work. The cafeteria reduced hours, and I’m looking for something with a more predictable schedule.”
I considered that.
Then asked whether she’d handled cash registers and inventory.
She gave me a look.
“I’ve worked in a school cafeteria for eleven years. I’ve served hundreds of children in a lunch period and balanced the register afterward.”
I smiled.
“Fair enough.”
We discussed the position.
The hours.
The pay.
The responsibilities.
I checked her references like I would for any applicant.
They were excellent.
Brandy began the following week.
She turned out to be one of the best employees I’d ever hired.
She learned the register quickly.
Remembered customers’ names.
Kept the shelves organized.
And made sure the restrooms were cleaner than they’d ever been.
She also had opinions about the coffee.
Strong opinions.
One morning, she stood beside the machine with her hands on her hips.
“Ian, this coffee tastes like somebody rinsed a toolbox in it.”
I laughed.
“That’s a tradition.”
She shook her head.
“Traditions can be improved.”
Eventually, she persuaded me to replace the old machine.
I agreed on one condition.
We kept the original in the back room.
Not because it worked well.
Because it had become part of the station’s history.
The new coffee was better.
Most customers agreed.
Mr. Ruby said it lacked character.
I told him the old machine was still available if he wanted to make his own.
He declined.
Brandy and I laughed about that for days.
Chance came into the station once while she was working.
He’d stopped for a fountain drink and a bag of chips.
When he saw Brandy behind the register, he froze.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she scanned his purchases.
“That’ll be four dollars and eighty cents.”
Chance took out his wallet.
He looked toward me.
I was standing beside the office door.
He seemed uncertain whether to say something.
Then he handed Brandy the money.
She counted his change carefully.
“Thank you. Have a good day.”
He took the bag.
Then left.
For a long time afterward, Brandy said nothing.
Finally, she looked toward me.
“Well.”
I smiled faintly.
“Yeah.”
She returned to restocking the shelves.
There was no celebration.
No argument.
No need to embarrass him.
The most satisfying part was that the business continued running normally after he walked out.
My life was no longer organized around his problems.
The following spring, I ordered a new sign.
The old one had been part of the station since 1991.
DOYLE’S SERVICE.
Faded red letters.
Painted by my father.
For months, I’d kept it because I didn’t want people thinking I was trying to erase him.
But the business had changed.
The ownership.
The financing.
The responsibilities.
And the person opening the doors every morning.
The new sign was simple.
Black letters on a clean white background.
IAN’S SERVICE.
When the sign company arrived, I stood beside the pumps watching the workers remove the old letters.
For a moment, I felt unexpectedly emotional.
Dad’s name had been up there for more than thirty years.
I had grown up beneath it.
Worked beneath it.
Watched customers come and go beneath it.
Now it was coming down.
I asked the crew to keep the old sign intact.
They placed it carefully in the storage shed.
Then installed the new one.
I stood across the highway afterward, looking at the finished work.
For the first time, the station looked like something I’d built rather than something I’d simply inherited responsibility for.
I took a photograph.
Sent it to Mara.
She replied a few minutes later.
“Looks good. Coffee any better?”
I laughed.
“Come find out Tuesday.”
She sent back a smiling face.
Then my phone rang.
Dad.
I stared at his name for a moment before answering.
“Hello?”
His voice sounded older than I remembered.
“Ian.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He hesitated.
“I saw the new sign.”
I looked toward the canopy.