CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THEY PASS THROUGH CITY, INTO country, into city, into country again before they make it to the coast—windows open, radio on low. Every few minutes, a car passes them on the highway, and the driver honks and waves.
“Note to self,” Grady says. “If you ever have to go someplace incognito, do not drive a pink Cadillac.” He looks toward Amelia for a laugh.
The best she can manage is a weak smile.
“You’re regretting coming with me,” he deduces. “Look. If it makes you feel any better, I’m regretting going.” Grady wrings the steering wheel with his hands. Since leaving Sand Lake, he’s only gotten more anxious, not less.
Meanwhile, Amelia is trying her best to preserve what little professional distance remains between her and Grady. She sits up tall in her seat, keeps her hands folded in her lap, eyes on the road. Though she hasn’t technically broken her promise to Cate and the other stand girls—that Grady is off-limits—she doubts a defense of her actions thus far would hold much water in the court of public opinion. Of course, she could say that everything she’s done so far has been for the good of the stand. But even that rings a bit hollow.
“You never talk about college. Where are you going again?”
“Gibbons.”
“That’s right. Are you excited?”
“I guess,” Amelia says. “But I envy you and Cate. You both knowing exactly what you want to do with your life.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I had much of a choice. It was always assumed I’d be going to school to follow in my dad’s footsteps.” Grady adds, “I’m incredibly lucky. It’s like getting handed the keys to a corner office. The only thing I have to do is not screw it up.”
“Good thing you love it.”
“Right. Good thing.” Grady cracks his neck. “Have you registered for classes yet?”
“Not yet.”
“One good thing about being undeclared is that you can take all sorts of classes. My buddy Troy took a course about Food Culture Across the Romance Languages, and the class went out to a new restaurant twice a month. Oh, and Rob took a class called Poetry of the Songwriter, where they listened to music and analyzed the lyrics like poetry. He did his final on Pearl Jam.”
“What about you? What cool classes do the business majors get to take?”
He laughs. “Business school isn’t meant to be fun.”
“Come on.”
“I’m not kidding. I take stats and econ and that’s basically it. All my classes are in these huge auditoriums. They’re so big, the professors don’t even bother taking attendance. You actually don’t have to show up.”
“Seriously?”
“I personally wouldn’t recommend not going.” He props his elbow up on the driver’s-side door. “I pretty much failed out last semester.”
“Are you serious?” Amelia twists her body so she’s facing him.
“I had motivational issues, I guess. But so long as I pass all my online courses, which I’m on track to do, I won’t be too far behind. Then all I have to worry about is my dad.”
“What do you mean?”
Grady flushes. “Umm . . . He’s basically threatened not to pay my tuition for next semester.”
“Would he really do that?”
“He said his investment in me wasn’t looking like a promising return.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, so when the opportunity to run Meade Creamery presented itself, I jumped to take it on. I’m basically using it to prove myself to him, so I can go back to school.”
“What if we don’t find the recipes? What will you do then?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sure he won’t let you not go back to Truman. I mean, he’s seen how hard you’ve been trying. Right?”
“Like I said, my dad and I have a very weird relationship.”
“So why didn’t you reach out when I didn’t come back to the house to make ice cream these last few days?”
“I wanted to, but not because of the ice cream. I . . . missed hanging out with you, Amelia. Plus, I was ashamed of the way I behaved when my dad came to visit.” He shakes his head and lets out a long exhale. “I’m realizing that I’m more like him than I thought.”
Though Amelia isn’t sure exactly what Grady means, she reaches out to touch him, comfort him, but then pulls her hand back at the last second.
If Grady notices, he pretends not to. He keeps his eyes on the road. “We’ll be there soon.”
* * *
A little over two hours later, they arrive at a large iron gate anchored by a stately wall of tall hedges on either side. Grady rolls down his window, leans out of the Cadillac, and punches a code into a sleek little box mounted on a metal pole. After a beep, the gate slowly swings opens.
Grady pulls forward and a thudding fills the car. They are no longer on a paved road. This one is cobblestone and the pavers are beautifully laid, gray and white, in a chevron pattern.
They drive past a few smaller buildings. One or two cottages, and then a big garage with four barn-style doors. The driveway curves and then reveals an enormous house in the distance. It is the biggest, most opulent house Amelia has ever seen.
“This is your beach house?”
“Not mine, my dad’s. And not for much longer. It’s for sale,” Grady explains. “He bought a place in Palm Beach that’s near my stepmom’s family two summers ago. He hardly comes here anymore.”
As they climb the front steps, little motion-sensor lights click on. There are beautiful succulent plants and window boxes bursting with vibrant petunias and dripping in sweet potato vines.
They reach the front door, which is also oversize. Grady takes out his phone and taps some app, and it clicks open.
As they walk in, the lights around them automatically turn on. He types a code into another small panel. Window shades roll up, exposing floor-to-ceiling two-story windows.
Amelia slips off her espadrille wedges, leaving them by the door. It’s a beautiful house for sure, but it has about as much cozy feeling as a hotel lobby. It’s ornate, well decorated, but without a single homey touch.
She follows Grady into the open kitchen, which has a huge island topped by marble—swirling blue like ocean water—and a dining table with twelve chairs, crowned by a driftwood chandelier. Grady opens a cabinet door that camouflages a fridge. Inside, soda cans are lined up, and bottles of Snapple, too. There’s also Gatorade, all orange, the flavor Grady drinks. There aren’t any groceries, but below is a pull-out freezer full of frozen pizzas and burritos.
“Are you hungry?”
Amelia shakes her head no. She can’t believe that the ice cream recipes might be here. This place is so unlike the Meades’ farmhouse in every way.
She turns around and sees watercolor streaks of pinks and blues through the windows, the ocean shimmering, the caps of the waves dusted in the glitter of dusk. Grady pulls open a sliding glass door for her. The air is sticky and salty outside, thick and still hot despite it being evening. There’s an outdoor shower and a hot tub and a wet bar, which they pass to get to the railing. Amelia focuses past the grassy dunes to the beach. No footprints on the sand, the lifeguard chair tipped over, an old man walking a small dog right where the waves break, and pipers poking their long thin beaks into the wet sand.
She has only ever been to the ocean once. Down in Florida, visiting a cousin of her father’s. The waves scared her off from going in deeper than her knees. Aside from that, every summer has been spent swimming in the smooth, still waters of Sand Lake.
“Sometimes you can see dolphins out there,” Grady says, pointing off toward the ocean.
“Grady, this house . . .”
“I know.” Something tightens in his face. “My dad is really good at making money.” His eyes move slowly across the horizon, as if trying to capture something, a panoramic picture. Then he turns his back to the water. “Far less successful at being a dad, unfortunately.” He pushes himself off the railing and heads inside.
“It’s okay. If you need more time.”
“No. I just want to get this over with.”
He leads her back through the kitchen, and then down a staircase. They pass a gym, a home theater. “Her stuff’s in this room.” He takes a deep, shivery breath. And then he shakes out his arms and legs, like an athlete psyching himself up for a race. He doesn’t want to be here, doing this.
Though she feels excited, hopeful that they are so close now, she wishes it wasn’t coming at Grady’s expense.