Wade pulled a crisp, folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “That’s right. Margaret set up a trust. She wants us—you, me, and Denise—to use the bakery profits and the back room to serve free hot meals two nights a week to anyone who walks through that door. Seniors living on fixed incomes, kids needing a safe place to study after school, lonely souls who haven’t heard a kind word all week.”
I scanned the paper, my chest tightening with a rush of profound, aching affection for the woman I had loved and lost. Even in death, Margaret was still organizing our lives, still teaching us how to love better, still making sure nobody in her orbit was left out in the cold.
“Well,” I said, handing the paper back with a slow smile. “I suppose that settles our Friday night plans for the next few decades.”
Breaking Bread and Burning Toast
The transformation of Margaret’s Bakery into Margaret’s Table didn’t happen overnight, but under Wade’s aggressive logistical planning and Denise’s unyielding culinary discipline, the back room was soon cleared out, fitted with long communal wooden tables, and stocked with mismatched chairs donated by half the congregation at Grace Community Church.
By our third month of operation, Tuesday and Thursday evenings had become an institution in our small town.
People began drifting in around 5:00 PM. Old Mr. Henderson, who had lost his wife three years prior and spent his evenings watching television in total silence, arrived early every Tuesday to help set the silverware. A group of high school students, struggling with algebra and low self-esteem, colonized a corner table where Denise fed them pastries in exchange for doing their homework under my somewhat questionable supervision.
