CHAPTER TWO
MEADE CREAMERY DOESN’T LOOK LIKE much, and especially not in the off-season, when the two service windows are boarded up with plywood, the picnic tables are brought in, and a heavy chain closes off the parking lot from the road. Really, the ice cream stand is a glorified shed, a white-shingled miniature of the farmhouse looming in the overgrown fields behind it, electricity zipping in from three thick wires sprouting off a nearby utility pole. But to Amelia, and most other people in town, it’s one of the most special places in the world.
Amelia hops off her periwinkle three-speed cruiser and lifts the chain up and over herself as she passes underneath, then turns at the beep of a horn. A glossy black SUV pulls off the road and parks alongside the chain, roof rack strapped with luggage, a license plate from another state. These vacationers are passing through Sand Lake, headed down Route 68 toward other, larger lakes farther on—ones that permit Jet Skis and speedboats, ones where the waterfront is rented by the week.
The music lowers and the window unrolls, revealing a woman with big sunglasses perched on the top of her head. “Excuse me, sweetie! I know it’s a little early in the morning for ice cream, but we’ve been dreaming about this since last summer!”
Amelia grins. The anticipation is something she feels too. She can’t wait to taste the four made-from-scratch flavors they sell—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and the best-selling, wholly original, nothing-else-like-it-in-the-world Home Sweet Home. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not officially open until Saturday!”
The woman beckons Amelia closer. “Well . . . is there any chance you could make an exception for us? I can make it worth your while.” Her three kids eagerly look up from their phones in the backseat. Same for her husband on his tablet in the passenger seat.
If Cate were here, she would say something crazy, like fifty bucks, just to see what would happen. Amelia shakes her head. “I’m really sorry, ma’am. I would like to help you all out but I just can’t.” And she even adds, “I don’t want to get fired,” as if Amelia weren’t herself Head Girl.
The woman isn’t mad. She nods, understandingly, approvingly even, as if Amelia has confirmed some thought she already held about this place and the girls who work there. “Can’t hurt to ask, right?” she says jovially, before lowering her sunglasses. “We’ll see you girls on Saturday!”
Watching the SUV ease back onto the road, Amelia knows the woman means it, too. From the first week of June until the last week in August, there’ll be a line for Molly Meade’s homemade ice cream, out-of-towners and locals alike, a quarter mile of cars parked half in the rain ditch, stretching in either direction.
There are exactly two days until opening day.
As she turns back to the stand, Amelia’s nerves give way to a new feeling—determination. She notes some of the obvious chores: mowing the lawn, weeding the crevices in the walkway, giving the stand a fresh coat of paint. She has a few hours before the other girls arrive, so she might as well get started. Anything Amelia’s able to tackle on her own will make the vibe more relaxed and be less she’ll have to delegate after everyone gets a blueberry muffin.
Slipping the key out of her pocket, she walks around the side of the stand. It surprises her to find the door already propped open with a brick. A few steps more and she sees Molly Meade’s pink Cadillac parked, the trunk lid lifted. Amelia stops, wipes her hands on her shorts, makes sure her polo shirt is tucked tight into her waistband.
Though Molly Meade continues to make the ice cream every summer, nobody in Sand Lake sees much of her anymore, not even the girls who work for her. Molly replenishes the ice cream only when the stand is closed, and if she needs something, she’ll call down and ask to speak with the Head Girl. This is generally regarded by the stand girls as yet another perk. They basically have the run of the place—no adults looking over their shoulders. At Meade’s, the girls are in charge.
Amelia tiptoes over. There’s a fuzz of bright yellow pollen across the hood like an afghan, as if the car hasn’t been driven much all spring. She peeks inside the open trunk and finds it’s in the middle of being unloaded—a lot of empty space on the left and six cardboard drums of Molly’s homemade ice cream on the right, each flavor marked with Molly’s shaky, old-lady handwriting.
Amelia checks her phone for the time. Molly wouldn’t have expected any stand girls to show up this early. Would Molly prefer Amelia make herself scarce until she’s done unloading? Or would she appreciate help carrying in the ice cream drums, which aren’t exactly light? Maybe Amelia should let Molly know that if she needs anything this summer, anything at all, Amelia would gladly be of service. Molly could surely use the help at her age. Though what if Molly found Amelia’s assumption offensive and ageist?
Amelia rubs the back of her neck. She’s been Head Girl for a few hours and she’s already in over her head.
Biting her finger, Amelia decides that, at the very least, she owes Molly a thank you. After all, Molly Meade is inextricably, if indirectly, responsible for the best summers of Amelia’s life.
She reaches in and lifts out a drum of Home Sweet Home, but the cardboard sides unexpectedly flex from the pressure of Amelia’s hands, sending the lid popping off like a cork. A wave of pale yellow crests over the sides of the drum, coating both of Amelia’s hands, and nearly the entire trunk bed, in thick, melted, lukewarm ice cream.
Amelia winces and gags as the smell hits her, an unpleasant sourness spiking the sweet. As if these tubs of ice cream have been sitting out in the sun for hours.
Maybe even days.
Amelia’s heart fills her throat. She glances back to the open stand door as she sets the sticky drum down in the dirt.
Then she runs.