“Wade,” I smiled, stepping out from behind the counter and extending a hand. Instead of shaking it, much to my surprise, he stepped forward and gave me a brief, stiff hug—the kind men give when they aren’t quite sure what to do with their arms. “Welcome back. How was the flight?”
“Turbulent,” Wade muttered, setting his bag down by a wooden booth. He looked around the bakery, taking in the flour dust, the vintage copper pots hanging from the ceiling, and the large framed black-and-white photograph of a younger Margaret standing proudly in front of the ovens in 1984. “She really loved this place, didn’t she?”
“It was her heart outside of her chest,” I replied softly, walking over to join him. “She built it from the ground up with Kade—your father—before he passed. And then she kept it running as a sanctuary for anyone who needed a warm place to sit.”
Wade shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, staring up at the photograph of his mother. For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the display refrigerator.
“She left me a letter too,” Wade said quietly, his voice losing its corporate polish. “In my hotel room in Chicago, waiting for me when I got back from a board meeting. She told me I was working myself into an early grave, just like my grandfather warned me I would. And then she told me to come down here and help you turn this bakery into a non-profit community kitchen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A non-profit community kitchen?”
