He belonged to a local classic-car club for more than twenty years.
Every September, we hosted breakfast.
Mustangs.
Corvettes.
Camaro muscle cars.
Old pickups.
They’d fill our driveway and continue along the private gravel lane behind the house.
Robert loved those mornings.
After he died suddenly from a heart attack, I stopped hosting them.
Eventually, I stopped calling his friends altogether.
The gravel lane grew weeds.
The garage stayed quiet.
And the driveway that had once been filled with engines, coffee and laughter became empty.
Linda saw unused asphalt.
I saw Robert.
