With only days available, organizing a hospital wedding was a challenge. I contacted the county clerk, arranged the marriage-license documents, and coordinated a modest ceremony with hospital staff. My friend Pastor George offered to officiate.
I wore my ordinary church suit, the only decent suit I owned, and purchased two simple bands from a flea market. Margaret’s ring featured a small pink heart. She laughed so enthusiastically upon seeing it that Helen came to investigate.
“Tommy! A flea-market wedding ring?”
“It was the nicest one I could find!”
Margaret admired her hand. “It’s perfect and my favorite ring in the world! If anyone asks, tell them it’s a rare Italian design.”
“Is it?”
“No, you fool! But nobody needs to know!”
Three days after she proposed, we married in her hospital room. Wade stayed beside his mother as George conducted the service. When George asked whether I accepted Margaret as my wife, she couldn’t resist interrupting.
“Make him promise to wash the dishes too!”
The room filled with laughter. Then George asked Margaret for her answer. She turned toward me.
“I do, Tommy.”
Those simple words meant more to me than I could express.
During the precious days that followed, we prayed, held hands, and revisited memories of our youth. Five days after the ceremony, Margaret died while I held her hand. The little ring with its pink heart remained on her finger.
I was heartbroken, but I also felt profoundly grateful to have found her again. For those few days, I’d truly been her husband.
After her funeral came Wade’s envelope and the words that nearly knocked me off my feet. Margaret’s first line read:
“Tommy, congratulations! You’re now the owner of the business I spent 30 years building. Please sit down before you embarrass yourself.”
Apparently, she knew exactly how I’d react.
“What business?” I murmured.
Wade helped me onto a bench. “Keep reading.”
I continued with the next sentence.
“You’re now the proud owner of my bakery. And before you panic, the muffins are already trained.”
I looked up at Wade. “Your mother owned that bakery?”
He nodded. The business Margaret had named was among the county’s busiest bakeries, famous for cinnamon rolls that attracted Saturday lines. I’d personally eaten there dozens of times without suspecting any connection to her.
“She never told me!”
“Mom said she wanted you to marry her, not her cinnamon rolls.”
I laughed, then turned back to her letter.
“Kade helped me start the bakery. Wade has his own career, and Denise, our manager, knows the business better than anyone. I’ve arranged everything with my son. He’ll explain the details.”
Still bewildered, I asked, “Why would she leave me a bakery?”
Wade directed my attention to her final instruction.
“Tommy, there’s something waiting for you at the bakery. Ask Denise about the toast.”
“The toast?”
He burst into laughter. “Oh, you’re going to love this.”
Continue reading on the next page ↓
