One particular Saturday in late October, as the morning chill began to bite at the windows, Wade stepped out of the office holding a steaming mug of black coffee and a fresh pastry. He walked over to the mantelpiece, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside Margaret’s photograph.
“Think Mom knew we’d end up doing this together?” Wade asked quietly, watching me adjust a stray daisy stem.
I smiled, my eyes lingering on Margaret’s calm, knowing smile in the photograph. “Your mother knew more than she ever admitted, Wade. She planned every single piece of this chess game years before we even knew we were playing.”
Wade chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. He glanced down at the small laminated sign near the register that advertised my culinary disaster. “She’d probably be furious that we’re still selling Tommy’s Terrible Toast.”
“Furious?” I raised an eyebrow. “She’d be charging royalties. She always knew a good gimmick when she saw one.”
Wade pointed a finger at my plate, where a particularly dark, suspicious-looking slab of toast sat next to my scrambled eggs. “Another piece of toast, Pastor?”
“Of course,” I replied without hesitation. “Someone has to keep the local fire department in business.”
Wade burst out laughing—a rich, booming sound that echoed off the vintage copper pots and filled every corner of the bakery.
I laughed right along with him.
Margaret and I hadn’t gotten the lifetime together we had dreamed of when we were teenagers at prom in 1958. Life had taken us on wildly different detours, through marriages, losses, careers, and decades of silent wondering. We had only found our way back to each other when our hair was silver and our steps were slow.
But looking around the bakery—at Denise kneading dough with fierce dedication, at Wade managing a legacy of community service, at the empty seats waiting for the lonely and the hungry to arrive—I realized something profound.
