CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AMELIA FOLLOWS THE DRIVEWAY UP to the farmhouse. The sun has started to set, filling the sky with shades of pink, and the damp air has the slightest whiff of honeysuckle. Molly’s Cadillac is parked at the top of the driveway, a week’s worth of crumpled fast-food bags tossed in the backseat.
As promised, the front door has been left open for her, but she still feels the need to knock politely on the screen door as she opens it.
“Look out!”
A hand grabs Amelia’s arm and yanks her inside. She falls into Grady’s chest as the screen door slams shut behind her.
Pushing off, she says, “Jeez, Grady!”
He’s wearing a pair of gray mesh shorts and a Truman T-shirt. It’s the most casually she’s ever seen him dressed, aside from opening day when he overslept. “Sorry.” He crouches down and the black-and-white kitten comes darting over. “Little guy was trying to make a run for it.”
Amelia squeals and takes the kitten into her hands. “I wondered what happened to him! He was with your great-aunt Molly when she passed away.” Amelia twists her arm, but the scratches the kitten gave her have healed.
“He’s my new study buddy. He keeps me from going crazy up here by myself.” The kitten crawls from her arms to his. Grady brings him close and rubs his cheek against the kitten. “Right, Little Dude?”
“You didn’t name him that, did you? That’s a terrible name.” Amelia scratches between the kitten’s ears and he works his head into her palm, purring like crazy. “You should call him Moo. In honor of the dairy.”
“What do you think?” Grady asks the kitten. “Little Dude or Moo?” Moo crawls back into her arms. “Moo it is, then.”
Amelia cuddles Moo for another few seconds before he wriggles to be put down. He starts pawing and mewing and crying at the door. “Grady, you know he’s trying to get outside because he’s an outdoor cat.”
“Yeah, I kind of assumed. But I’m afraid he’ll get run over by a car. It’s safer for him in here with me.” Grady picks up Moo by the scruff of his neck and lifts him so they’re eye to eye. “We’ll both get used to being in captivity, right, Moo?” Then he sets Moo down and uses his foot to nudge the kitten deeper into the house. Then they share in an awkward pause, without Moo as a buffer, and Amelia wonders whether or not things will go back to being contentious between them. “Sorry it’s so hot in here. Turns out Great-Aunt Molly did not believe in air-conditioning. But if I close my eyes”—which he does, to illustrate—“I can almost imagine I’m on a beach in Barcelona with my fraternity brothers.”
It is hot. Stuffy. And though the house appears tidy, Amelia sees hints of Molly’s age. Some cobwebs on the lampshades, dust bunnies where the walls meet the floor; both are likely too faint for old eyes to see.
Amelia follows Grady into the main hallway. Ahead of him, she sees Molly’s kitchen. It’s a classic farm style: white cabinets, big white porcelain sink, a noisy fridge, and a window that frames the back fields. Amelia knew the Meades owned a ton of land, but she’s had no sense of how much until now.
Grady takes a left into the formal living room, with a striped couch, two matching Queen Anne chairs with floral backs, and a coffee table. This seems to be where he is spending most of his time. His laptop is open, perched on a tall stack of college textbooks. Several pairs of his pants are draped over the backs of chairs, his shirts buttoned up on hangers that have been hooked on the fireplace mantel, on the lip of the bookshelves, on the wooden box of a grandfather clock. Molly’s financial records paper the coffee table, three emptied bank boxes’ worth. There’s also a blanket and pillow smushed up on the couch.
“I tried sleeping in the spare bedroom upstairs,” he explains, “but it’s twice as hot on the second floor as it is down here. I can’t get any of the windows to open.”
She walks over to the mantel, where there’s a line of framed family pictures. In a large silver oval is Molly’s high school senior portrait.
Amelia is pretty sure the photograph has been artificially tinted because it has a watercolor-y look. In it, Molly is wearing a red blouse, and her strawberry-blond hair loops in soft bouncy curls over her shoulders. She’s smiling a closed-lipped smile, red and juicy, her shoulders angled ever so slightly, blue eyes sparkling. She is gorgeous.
“Did you know she was elected homecoming queen and prom queen two years in a row?” Amelia asks Grady. “Supposedly a man from Hollywood once slipped Molly’s dad his business card because he wanted to bring Molly to California and put her in movies.” Amelia’s been told stories like these over the years, by the older customers who show up less interested in placing an order than they are in sharing memories of the Meades.
Grady blinks.
“You don’t see it? She absolutely could have been a movie star!” Amelia is suddenly annoyed at Grady for being so handsome. He doesn’t deserve his good looks if he doesn’t care about where they came from.
“It’s not that,” he says, defensive. “I just feel weird calling my great-aunt hot.” He points out another photo, this one of the three Meade siblings standing in height order on the stairs. “I think this guy’s my grandfather,” he says, pointing to the one on the top step, tall and wiry, in slacks and a boxy button-up. “Patrick. I never met him, but I’ve seen his picture. And that’s for sure my dad’s nose.”
“Your nose,” Amelia says.
“You think?” He runs a finger down the slope. “Sometimes I wonder if my dad and I are actually related. Anyway, that would make this other guy my great-uncle Liam,” he says, pointing to the shorter and stockier of the two Meade brothers. “He died in a car accident a couple years after making it back from the war.”
To Amelia, it seems unfair, how much tragedy has befallen the Meades. She scans the other photos. The last one on the right was taken in front of the stand, and it seems to be the most recent. Molly is laughing jovially at the camera. Next to her, a tall woman in cutoffs and a white linen shirt is smiling at a little boy, who’s bawling because he lost the top scoop of his cone.
Grady.
“That’s my mom,” he mumbles.
Amelia leans closer, trying to match this woman up to the one she first saw at Molly’s funeral.
“So, ice cream,” Grady says, backing up.
“Um. Right.”
Grady leads her down a hallway, past the kitchen, to a black wooden door with a glass knob. It opens to a narrow stairway, walls decorated with a dustpan and broom, some shelves of canned goods. He descends first and Amelia follows, every step getting darker until they reach the bottom. Then Grady walks off and a few seconds later flicks a light switch.
Amelia’s hand goes straight to her mouth.
It’s less of a basement and more of a teenager’s hangout from another time. The walls are pasted with faded magazine clippings of fashionable girls in beautiful outfits alongside images of dairy cows, and the juxtaposition of these subjects makes Amelia smile. A few small windows are up near the ceiling, each one with a set of cute, home-sewn curtains made from pink ticking-stripe fabric with white eyelet lace at the hem. There are a couch and a club chair that exactly match the yellow love seat down in the stand, only not nearly as faded and worn.
Most amazing, though, is the kitchen. This part of the basement is like something out of the future: sterile, clean. There are two large industrial freezers and a stainless steel table that wouldn’t be out of place in a doctor’s office. Underneath the table are stacks of nesting bowls, and hanging from S hooks are several sets of silver measuring cups and spoons. Waist-high containers marked as sugar and powdered milk, each with a huge scoop. A stainless steel vat, large, like a witch’s cauldron with general temperature gauges.
Finally, Amelia notices a silver rectangle sitting on a second table all by itself, unsurprising as it isn’t a friendly-looking contraption. It’s about the size of three microwaves stacked on top of each other. There are a couple of unmarked knobs and gauges, and one big triangular spout in front. It’s old. You can tell by the way the metal is stamped with the company name EMERY THOMPSON AUTOMATED MACHINE.
Grady pats the top of the ice cream maker like a used-car salesman. It seems to be in good shape, not a dent or a scratch on it. It’s like peering under the hood of a classic vintage car, all shiny chrome.
Amelia makes a slow spin, trying to take it all in. This was Molly’s sanctuary, but thinking of her working alone down here for so many years tugs at Amelia’s heart.
“So what are we looking at, in terms of restocking?” Grady asks.
“We’re down almost fifty gallons. I’ve got the exact breakdown of flavors here.” She takes out the stock sheet, unfolds it, and hands it to Grady.
There’s an awkward silence as he glances at it. He folds the paper and hands it back to her. “Was there something else?”
This confuses her. Maybe Grady has a photographic memory? “I noticed earlier this week that some of the wood on the back wall is rotten. And there are a lot of broken shingles on the roof.”
Grady yawns and stretches. “I try to stick around here in the mornings, in case my dad calls from New Zealand, but I’ll check on it tomorrow after lunch.”
She takes a moment to steel herself. “There’s one more thing. We need to hire more girls. Three more, to replace Heather and Georgia, who graduated last year, and Britnee, who decided to stay at Sephora.”
“Let’s table that for the time being. I’m still trying to explain to my dad why I agreed to pay you girls so much for scooping ice cream.” He quickly follows up with “I don’t mean you, of course. You’ve been a huge help.”
Agreed? But that’s what they’ve always gotten paid. Amelia shakes her head, tries to refocus. “The problem is that three girls make up an entire shift. Without them in the rotation, the rest of us have only one day off a week.”
“I’m still sorting through Molly’s financial stuff. It’s going more slowly than I expected. Her books are a mess. I don’t know if it’s going to work.”
“Okay, but . . . we’ve always had ten girls on staff. So it obviously does work.”
He gives her a thin-lipped smile. “Anything else?”
Amelia feels unsteady. She was not expecting to be shot down so quickly. She knows Cate is going to be angry. And when Amelia goes over the conversation with her, Cate is going to find a hundred different ways that Amelia could have been stronger, more articulate, more firm.
“All right then . . . ,” Grady says, without waiting for her to answer, and walks toward the stairs.
“Wait a minute.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Grady says, “We can connect tomorrow on anything else you need to talk about, Amelia. I’ve got a paper due for one of my summer classes that needs to be up by midnight.”
Amelia shakes her head, incredulous. “But I need ice cream. Remember?”
Finally, he stops. And when he turns toward her, confusion twists across his face. “So make whatever you need. You’re not going to bother me.”
Amelia nervously laughs. “I don’t know how to make ice cream. Only Molly knows the recipes. Everyone in Sand Lake knows that. Molly . . . and now you.”
Grady presses his palms into his eyes. “Amelia. I’m seriously too tired to be messed with right now. When we first sat down, you told me that you helped her make the ice cream.”
“I never said that.”
“Then you implied it!”
“No. I didn’t!”
“I distinctly remember you saying that, as Head Girl, you were in charge of managing the stock.”
Amelia puts her hands on her hips. “Which is why I am here now, telling you that we need more ice cream.”
“I asked you, What about the ice cream? And you said, What do you want to know? ”
“I never said I helped make ice cream,” Amelia says again, though this time, her voice is shaky. “If you had asked me that specific question, I would have said so.”
Grady bites his fist to muffle a curse.
“Whatever, it’s fine,” she says, uneasy. “I mean, I’m sure I can do it. Just give me her recipes and I’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t have the recipes.”
“You said in the paper that the recipes are the most valuable things you inherited! So go get the recipes you inherited so I can try and figure out how to make ice cream.”
“I meant that in a general sense! How would I know where the recipes are?”
“Have you looked for them?”
He’s pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why would I have looked for them? After our interview, I figured you knew. Either where they were or . . . I don’t know, by heart.” His breathing is getting faster and faster, leaving Amelia to worry that he’s about to hyperventilate. “How much ice cream do we have? How long will it last us?”
“We have about fifty more drums. They could last us another week. Maybe a week and a half if it rains?”
“How can I run an ice cream stand if there’s no ice cream?” He startles, surprised at the volume of his own voice.
Amelia gets a text from Cate.
How’s it going? Can I put out the newbie applications yet?
Amelia doesn’t write back. It’s nine thirty p.m. An hour and a half until closing. It wasn’t busy when she left. Cate and the other girls can hold down the fort.
Something about Grady freaking out makes Amelia feel super calm, like she has to keep it together because he’s losing it. And right now, keeping this ice cream stand open is important to both of them. She convinced the girls to come back. She can’t let them down.
“Okay, there’s no need to panic,” she says. “I’m sure the recipes are here somewhere.”
Amelia wanders over to the kitchen area, thinking they would most likely be kept where the magic happens. Grady lurks not far behind her, more watching over her shoulder than helping. Amelia pulls open the drawers, which contain mismatched, bent silverware. Next she checks the cabinets. Strangely, each one is filled with plain glass vases, the cheap kind that come with floral deliveries. Amelia opens the refrigerator and finds it half full of expired milk and eggs and cream from Marburger Dairy.
Grady’s phone rings. He mutes it, but almost immediately, it rings again.
“Is that your dad? Should you answer?”
“If it was my dad, I’d definitely answer. It’s my friends trying to FaceTime. They got to Amsterdam today, which means they’re high.” He puts his phone down and it starts ringing yet again. “Don’t give me that look. It’s legal there, Amelia.”
“I’m not giving any look!”
Across the room is a large wood cabinet with gold mesh fabric across the front. Amelia walks over. Half the top of the cabinet is lifted up, revealing a record player inside. Amelia peeks inside the other hatch. It’s full of old records. Hundreds of them.
The phone rings yet again. “Ugh. They’re not going to give up.” With a groan, he flicks off his baseball cap and answers. “Yo, dudes. It’s a very bad time for me.”
Five, maybe six guys scream at once.
“You should be here with us, Grady!”
“Dude, screw your dad! Get on a flight!”
“Yeah, tell ol’ Paddy Meade to ease up! He hasn’t canceled your credit cards yet, has he?”
Grady gives a quick glance at Amelia. “I’ll hit you guys up later.” He hangs up and tosses the phone aside. “My friends are complete idiots.”
“Forget them and help me.”
They continue to search the basement, silent and focused. Obvious places are checked again and then checked a third time. When they come up empty-handed, they exchange a brief look and start searching weird places, like inside the books on a bookshelf, underneath the couch cushions.
Amelia does discover a few ingredients that shine a light on Molly Meade’s process—containers of vanilla beans marinating in a dark syrup, gallon jugs of homemade fudge sauce. There are jars of homemade strawberry jam too, maybe a hundred, tucked inside a small cabinet underneath the basement stairs. The lids are marked with the current year, which means Molly prepared them this past spring. “Grady, I think this is how she got the strawberry so perfectly integrated.” This discovery amuses Amelia no end. She sits back on her heels and holds a jar up to the light. It looks like liquefied rubies.
“Amelia, not to be a complete jerk, but the only things I care about you finding are the recipes.” Grady lets his head drop into his hands. “Which are totally not down here.”
She’s disheartened too, of course. In the back of her mind, a niggling thought takes hold, wondering if they aren’t hunting fool’s gold. After all, Molly had been making her ice cream for so long, it’s not like she’d need to consult a recipe. Amelia pushes this thought aside. It’s too early in their search to be pessimistic. Instead, she chooses to hope. Because why would Molly bequeath her stand to Grady without also leaving him her recipes?
Amelia hears three long beeps outside. She checks her phone, shocked to see that it’s already eleven thirty. The stand’s been closed for a half hour. She glances out the basement window and sees Cate’s truck, here to pick her up.
“Grady, I’m sorry but I have to go.”
“Damn. Me too. I haven’t even started my paper yet.”
“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning.”
He beams a grateful smile. “Oh, really? Wow, great, thank you so much.” Then his long legs take the stairs two by two. Amelia follows. “Please don’t tell any of the girls about this,” Grady says. “We don’t want anyone to panic. Or word to get out to the customers. Or that newspaper guy.”
Amelia avoids answering Grady’s request directly, because of course she will be telling Cate. Like, the second she gets outside. But she does want to help him. “I’m sure we’re going to find them tomorrow. We’ve only searched one room. There’s a whole house to go through yet.”
Grady walks Amelia to the door.
Cate calls out her open truck window, “What have you guys been doing up here all night?”
“Amelia’s helping me with some paperwork,” Grady lies, almost too easily.
“Oh? That’s cool.” Cate tosses Grady the deposit bag and the day’s receipts. As Amelia climbs into the truck, Cate whispers, “What the hell, Amelia! I was about to come up and make sure you weren’t being murdered!”
Buckling up, Amelia whispers back, “I’m sorry. I lost track of time,” and she gives Grady a small wave goodbye. Through her teeth, she says, “Just drive and I’ll explain everything.”
Once they’re on the road, Amelia lays it out. “Grady doesn’t have the ice cream recipes. He has no idea where they are.” She tells Cate the whole story, including how she may have potentially, inadvertently misled Grady during their first meeting.
Cate is having none of it. “Amelia, this is so not your fault.”
“You weren’t there, Cate. I could have been more direct. I—”
“Even if you accidentally led him to that conclusion, which I know you didn’t, it’s still Grady’s responsibility to be up to speed on all things Meade Creamery. It’s his fault for assuming. This is his problem. This is his stand. We’re just the employees.”
Amelia knows this is true, even if it doesn’t feel that way. “Well, I don’t mind helping him find them. We’re on the same team.”
“Grady isn’t Molly. He’s not some sad old lady trapped in a farmhouse, making ice cream to ease her broken heart. He’s smart. He’s savvy. If he makes you feel bad or like you have something you need to prove to him, it’s because he’s playing you.”
“Playing me? What do you mean?”
“Let me guess. I bet he dropped his boss routine real quick and acted all grateful and nice to you, so you’d stay up there and help him tonight.”
“He was grateful,” Amelia says. Though how can she be sure it wasn’t also, simultaneously, a guilt trip? She doesn’t even know the guy. Not really. But she’s nervous when she admits to Cate, “I told him I’d go back tomorrow morning to help him look some more.”
At this, Cate is silent, but when she reaches the next stop sign, she puts her truck in park and turns to face Amelia. “I’m not saying don’t help him find the recipes. Just remember you don’t owe him anything. At the end of the day, this is his problem to solve. Don’t let him use you.”
Amelia fiddles with the flower pin on her collar. She knows that Cate is probably right. This is Grady’s problem. And hopefully, sooner rather than later, he will solve it.