CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AMELIA MAKES ICE CREAM FOR the rest of the day. Mixing up new bases, pasteurizing them, letting them steep, putting them in the blast chiller, running them through the Emery Thompson. But unlike when she was blindly trying to replicate Molly’s secret recipes, she feels much more confident, much less stressed. It’s blissful.
Grady brings her lunch—a chicken salad sandwich, a Coke, and a bag of chips from the local deli. And he apologizes to Amelia for springing that Head Girl stuff on her today. “I just knew you were upset because Cate was upset. And I wanted to help you because you’ve done so much to help me.”
“It was a good idea,” Amelia says. “I do want to concentrate on this.”
“Okay, good. If you want some company, I could bring my schoolwork down here.”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
She does enjoy Grady’s’ company, of course. Though they don’t kiss, per Amelia’s decree, they find plenty of times to touch each other, his hand on her knee, her knocking into him. Grady hooking his chin on her shoulder. Amelia likes him, more than she wants to admit to herself.
But the work?
She loves the work.
When Grady heads upstairs to take an online exam, Amelia returns to Molly’s diary. She doesn’t need to find the recipes anymore. And maybe she should feel guilty for continuing to read it. But she doesn’t. She feels only kinship.
July 15, 1945
I sold clear out of ice cream at the Red Cross benefit. The dishes went faster than the girls and I could churn. There was always a line, people waiting for more. And once I ran out, people in town asked if I’d have more for sale at our dairy stand.
I just about sprinted home to Daddy and found him on the porch with his pipe.
He’s been so down lately. He’s struggling with all the work, and the dairy is barely breaking even. He tries to hide it from Mother, but I can see it on him. When I told him about the benefit, he was so proud of me. And he laughed harder than he has maybe all summer when I told him how I raised the prices by another fifty cents for the last ten dishes.
He said the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“Let me help you,” I said. And I told him my plan. That I could sell ice cream at our farm stand. I could bring in money, money we need, using the milk and cream we aren’t selling.
“Could you really churn that much in that little bucket of yours?” he asked me.
“No, but I can get a machine for eight hundred dollars,” I told him. “It’ll churn faster than I ever could. I could make way more, and have more control over it too.”
I saw an ad for them in one of Daddy’s dairy catalogues, and spent more than an hour on the phone with one of the Emery Thompson salesmen, asking him all sorts of questions.
Right away, Daddy said we don’t have that kind of money. I told him we do, because that’s the budget for my wedding. I overheard Mother say so to Mrs. Duluth two weeks ago.
Mother must have been eavesdropping, because she pushed outside in her nightgown and said absolutely not and she forbade me to use my wedding money for anything other than marrying Wayne.
Daddy explained that this was the first he was hearing about it and he hadn’t made a decision yet one way or the other. I let them go back and forth for a while before I finally put my foot down and said if they didn’t let me do this, I would refuse to marry Wayne, I’d become an old spinster and never give them any beautiful grandchildren ( Tiggy’s idea of a last-ditch threat)!
And that was the end of that.
Now I’m in bed, too excited to sleep. It seems almost sinful to be this lucky. So on Sunday, I’m going to put a little something extra in the collection plate and pray a few more rosaries than I normally do. That way, God will know how very grateful I am.
Near the end of the evening, a little before eleven, Amelia has four gallons of strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla completed, as well as several bases of Home Sweet Home steeping. They’ll be ready to put through the machine tomorrow morning.
She goes upstairs to see if Grady can give her a ride down to the stand with the new stock. It’s been quiet, and she wonders if she’s going to catch him asleep on the couch. She actually hopes she will, just to scare him, because it will be funny.
But Grady isn’t asleep. He’s on the floor, with his back up against the couch, his mother’s letters spread out in front of him.
Amelia tiptoes backward, but he looks up. “Hey.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, you’re not.” He beckons her closer. She sits next to him, leans against him.
He has opened every one.
“I was so little when she died,” he tells her. “I don’t have that many memories of her beyond that summer I spent with her here. It’s been nice learning about her, in her own voice.”
“Tell me.”
He does, pointing out some small thing in each and every letter: his mother’s terrific penmanship, how she was funny, quick to make a joke, smart. There’s never a clunky sentence, or a half-formed thought.
Also, she loved her son. Every letter had some proud mention of him—how alert he was as a baby, how early he started to walk, how much he enjoyed being read to at night.
“And I was going to throw these away,” he says, almost in disbelief.
Grady’s mother also dropped plenty of delicate hints of tension in her marriage to Grady’s father, mentioning how hard he worked, how his desire for success often left her and Grady in the shadows. She made excuses as to why plans to visit Molly evaporated for one reason or another—a new acquisition, a meeting that couldn’t be rescheduled. He wanted to give his family the world, provide for them, but it came at a cost.
“I’m nineteen years old. And do you know I’ve barely had one conversation with my dad about my mom? Like, how screwed up is that?”
“It doesn’t sound like he made it easy on you.”
“Oh, he definitely didn’t. Talking about my mom made him uncomfortable, but that shouldn’t have stopped me from doing it. My stepmom wouldn’t have cared. For a while, she was the one who’d remind me when it was my mom’s birthday.” Amelia can see the anger building in him, a little pulsing vein in his neck, fire reddening his cheeks.
He picks up a letter. “He knew my mom was sick when she and I came to Meade Creamery that summer before she died. I thought he didn’t. I thought he found out after and that’s why he couldn’t come with us.”
“Oh, Grady. I’m sorry.”
“I mean, does he regret that? Knowing his wife was sick and not being with her? Not stepping away from work?”
“You could talk about it with him. Tell him what you found. It might start to change things between you and your dad.”
“Maybe,” he says, gathering up the letters, though Amelia isn’t sure he believes it.
Amelia gets a text. It’s Cate.
Are you working late?
No.
Then can you come down for couple of minutes? I can give you a ride home.
On my way!
Grady helps Amelia pack up the Cadillac with the ice cream, and then he drives her down to the stand. Popping open the trunk, he pauses, taking it in.
“Where were those boards you said were rotting?”
Amelia had forgotten about the repairs the stand needed. Things have been so crazy. “Over here.” She has to use the light of her cell phone to show him which ones.
“And there was something else, right?”
“The roof tiles. A bunch of them are loose and broken. But if you do anything up there, please don’t throw any away.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll see.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.” Grady’s phone rings. It’s his dad. He puts it to voice mail. “You sure I can’t drive you home? I really don’t mind.”
“Cate’s got me tonight. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He helps her carry the ice cream inside. All the girls are in the office. Not just the ones on shift. All of them. They’re laughing and talking, though when they see Grady, things get hushed.
“Thanks for the help,” Amelia says.
“Of course.” He looks like he wants to kiss her, and of course she would love him to. Instead, he gives her hand a quick squeeze.
Amelia walks into the office.
Cate says, “Ugh. Is he gone?”
Amelia’s heart lurches, but she tries not to let it show. Though lots of things are changing, Grady is still their enemy. “Yeah. What’s going on?”
“Staff meeting. Girls only.” Cate claps her hands. “Okay, girls! I know we’ve had quite a rocky start to this summer. The ice cream drama, Grady . . . and, of course, Bern’s unfortunate sparkler incident last night.”
At this, all the girls crack up, and Bern acts indignant but then joins in. Amelia smiles, even though she doesn’t know the story.
“But some big, breaking news today. Amelia has taken over ice cream production.” Cate gestures to Amelia, and there’s a smattering of applause. “And”—Cate flicks her hair off her shoulder, so that the Head Girl pin is visible—“I’ll be taking over down here.”
The girls gasp and rush over to Cate, examining the pin on her collar.
Amelia bites the inside of her cheek.
“To me, being a Meade Creamery girl has always been about hanging out and having fun with some of the coolest girls I’ve ever met. Yes, we busted our butts, we earned every penny in our paychecks, but we always had a blast doing it. So much so that it almost didn’t feel like work at all, you know?” Cate sighs wistfully. “But that’s the exact opposite of how it’s felt around here this summer. In fact, I’m kind of shocked that none of you have quit yet.”
A few of the girls laugh nervously, like they’ve been outed. Amelia forces down a swallow, though her throat and mouth are bone dry. Did it really come close to that? Girls quitting? It seems unfathomable to her.
Glancing around, Amelia realizes no one will look at her. Not a single girl.
Maybe she is to blame, Amelia thinks. By leaving them short-staffed all those shifts. By not throwing any parties, planning any adventures. Amelia never showed up with a cool lipstick for everyone to try. She was too busy pestering them to clean.
“But today’s a fresh start.” Cate looks over at Amelia and winks. “Today, we’re taking our summer back.”
Amelia thinks if the fresh start Cate’s promising will help hit the reset button on everyone’s perception of her, then she’s all for it. So when she sees her chore chart crumpled in the trash, Amelia makes herself look somewhere else. Anywhere else.