Chapter 8 - THE EMPTY CHAIR
William had returned to the hospital.
His condition had worsened.
Emily visited every day.
She brought cinnamon rolls he was not supposed to eat.
He ate them anyway.
One afternoon he handed her a set of keys.
“What are these?”
“A storefront.”
She glared.
“I told you—”
“Not for you.”
William smiled.
“For someone else.”
The building sat three blocks from a homeless shelter.
He wanted Emily to open a training kitchen where people recovering from homelessness could learn baking, food service and business skills.
Emily stared.
“Why me?”
“Because Rose told me to help someone when helping earned me nothing.”
“But this earns you something.”
“What?”
She squeezed his hand.
“Peace.”
William looked away.
“Maybe.”
They named it Rose’s Table.
William donated the building anonymously.
Emily supplied the recipes.
Margaret supplied unsolicited criticism.
Within six months, twelve people had jobs because of it.
William lived long enough to attend opening day.
Barely.
He sat beside the oven wearing Emily’s father’s old navy sweatshirt.
She had given it to him.
“You look ridiculous,” she said.
“It’s vintage.”
“It has a bleach stain.”
“Character.”
He watched the trainees working.
Then whispered:
“I think I finally paid her back.”
Emily shook her head.
“You still don’t understand.”
“What?”
“Nobody pays for kindness here.”
William laughed.
May you like
And Emily knew Rose would have too.
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