“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.”
Two days afterward, I went to the bakery. Its manager welcomed me at the entrance.
“So you’re Tommy.”
“That’s me.”
After scrutinizing my face, Denise started laughing.
“Margaret wasn’t exaggerating about your ears.”
I sighed. “Wonderful. My reputation arrived before I did.”
Inside, customers ordered coffee as staff carried freshly baked pastries. Denise escorted me behind the counter and pointed to the menu. Halfway down, bold lettering announced:
“TOMMY’S TERRIBLE TOAST.”
I stared at it. “What on earth?”
Denise smiled. “It’s one of our bestsellers.”
The description beneath the name read:
“Sweet cinnamon toast inspired by the only boy who could burn bread and still convince Maggie to kiss him.”
Embarrassment warmed my cheeks. “She named a pastry after me?”
“Years ago.”
Denise offered me a serving. It was wonderful, with none of the burnt flavor of my youthful attempts.
“Margaret invented this?”
“Yes. She said the original was considerably less edible.”
I laughed so hard I cried. Then Denise pointed out a framed photograph behind the counter: Margaret and me when we were 17. Beneath it, Margaret had written:
“Some people are worth waiting for. Others should stay away from the stove.”
I gazed at our young faces, moved that she’d remembered my disastrous cooking across more than four decades of separation.
Unfortunately, inheriting a bakery involved far more than enjoying pastries. I had absolutely no experience owning a business. My first meeting with Denise and Wade covered employees’ wages, suppliers, equipment repairs, and taxes.
“Would it help if I prayed over these?” I asked.
Wade grinned. “Only if your prayers include bookkeeping.”
Although I joked with them, I was genuinely worried about destroying what Margaret and Kade had spent years creating.
For several days, selling seemed the safest choice. Then I reread her letter and noticed words she’d written on its reverse side.
“Tommy, don’t let fear make your decisions. You’ve always been braver than you think.”
I resolved not to rush. Wade guided me through the finances while Denise explained daily operations. I introduced myself to every employee and learned their names. Gradually, the bakery felt less intimidating.
I also learned something meaningful about Margaret: for years, she’d quietly sent leftover bread to a nearby community center. I wanted to honor that generosity rather than merely preserve her name on a storefront.
Our church had discussed offering community meals but lacked a workable plan. Perhaps the bakery’s kitchen could provide the answer.
One morning, I presented my idea to Denise.
“What if we prepared meals for older people living alone?”
She considered the logistics. “We could use the kitchen during quieter hours. But we’d need volunteers, supplies, and a proper budget.”
I contacted the church board, recruited volunteers, and began coordinating what we would need. Wade calculated expenses, and Denise designed a manageable menu. We encountered difficulties immediately: volunteers had unpredictable schedules, the initial meals cost too much, and feeding 30 people was much harder than arranging a casual potluck.
Still, we persisted. Our congregation raised money for ingredients. Denise organized kitchen time, and I arranged deliveries. We called the initiative “Margaret’s Table” and scheduled its first lunch for what would have been her 64th birthday.
I arrived on opening day wearing an apron. Denise took one look at me and appeared alarmed.
“You’re not cooking, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Thank goodness! We don’t have enough insurance.”
We laughed, and the volunteers began serving. That afternoon, we provided 32 meals. Frank, an older gentleman, told me he hadn’t eaten lunch with company for three weeks. Dorothy explained that she’d come mainly for conversation, though the cinnamon rolls would certainly bring her back.
Wade helped serve and clear trays. When lunch ended, I discovered him looking thoughtfully at his mother’s photograph.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “Mom would’ve loved this.”
“She would’ve complained about my apron.”
Wade laughed. “Definitely.”
Just then Denise arrived with a little wooden box.
“Margaret asked me to give you this when the time was right.”
I stared at it. “Another surprise?”
“She said you’d probably complain.”
Inside lay one more letter. Clearly, my wife hadn’t intended to limit herself to a single farewell.
Continue reading on the next page ↓
