CHAPTER THREE
AMELIA RUSHES INSIDE, CALLING OUT for Molly.
Once her eyes adjust from the sun, she sees the cobwebs in the corners of the doorway, the floral bedsheet covering the toppings station, and another, different floral bedsheet hanging over the scooping cabinet. Boxes filled with waxed paper sundae cups, plastic spoons, and paper napkins are stacked neatly against the wall near the closed office door.
The stand looks the same as it does at the start of every season.
Another two steps, though, and she discovers one big difference: Molly Meade, in an old peach housedress and the no-name navy canvas slip-ons sold at Walmart for five bucks a pair, is lying on the floor.
Amelia’s hands fly up to her mouth, stifling her scream.
This is the first dead body she has ever seen, and yet Amelia is positive Molly Meade is dead, even as her babysitter first-aid training kicks in and she crouches down and takes hold of Molly’s wrist, hoping for a pulse—but finding skin that is cold to the touch.
Amelia rises back up and steadies herself against the wall and closes her eyes. Her head suddenly feels like an unripe tomato, too light.
Was Molly sick?
Cancer or something?
Or maybe, Amelia wonders, it was her broken heart that finally did her in?
She glances up at the one photograph of Molly in the stand, framed and hanging near the price list. In it, Molly is wearing a fuzzy sweater and a plaid wool skirt, her hair in soft bouncy curls, an army hat jauntily askew on her head, lips glossy and reflecting the autumn sunshine. She has one hand to her forehead in a playful little salute, the other outstretched, showing off an engagement ring. Her knees are turned in, and she’s up on the toes of her saddle shoes in a pool of fallen leaves. She looks like the kind of girl painted on the cockpit of a fighter plane.
Next to Molly stands a young man, movie-star handsome, in his army uniform and trim haircut. Though he is facing the camera straight on, his eyes have drifted left toward Molly, and a wry, flirty smile is spread across his chiseled face.
Her fiancé, Wayne Lumsden.
Amelia has told the story of how Meade Creamery came to be thousands of times, repeating it to every out-of-towner who asks. It feels less like real life than a movie script: teenage Molly making ice cream to cheer up her lovesick friends because nearly every boy in Sand Lake, including her fiancé, Wayne, was off fighting in World War II. When the war ended and Wayne was declared missing in action, no one in Sand Lake thought Molly would make ice cream again. But the next summer, she reopened Meade Creamery with a full staff of girls. And it has been open every summer since, because making ice cream kept her hands busy, her life sweet, and her hope—that Wayne might one day find his way back home—from melting altogether.
A tiny cry startles Amelia as a black-and-white kitten rises sleepily from Molly’s side. He cracks open his glossy red mouth and lets out another cranky mew.
Amelia clicks her tongue. The kitten doesn’t seem to want to leave the bed he’s made in the folds of Molly’s housedress. He’s not a stray—there’s a white plastic flea collar around his neck—but he’s clearly an outdoor cat. Nettles cling to the fur along the ridge of his back where his tongue can’t reach.
Amelia lifts him straight up by the scruff, careful not to disturb Molly’s body. He’s a baby; he fits easily into her hand, and she can feel his tiny bones underneath his fur.
Then she notices a drum of ice cream that Molly must have carried into the stand and set down on the floor before she died. It’s seeping pink across the white penny tile, a strawberry puddle creeping closer and closer to Molly’s dress. With the tip of her finger, Amelia guides the hem so it’s clear of the growing spill. Then, on unsteady legs, she flees into the office, sets the kitten on the desk, and picks up the heavy black handset of the landline.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
Amelia peeks around the doorway and sees the toes of Molly Meade’s slip-ons pointing to the ceiling. She answers, her voice trembling. “I . . . I don’t think this is an emergency, exactly,” she says, trying to clarify. “It was. Only not anymore.”
After hanging up, Amelia debates calling her mom at the bank, but decides instead to text her dad, knowing his phone doesn’t get much reception when he’s fishing in Sand Lake.
Hey Daddy. Molly Meade passed away. I found her when I got to work this morning. I’m okay. Handling things here. Just wanted to let you know.
Next, she calls Cate. “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up,” Amelia whispers.
It takes a few rings. “Hello?” Cate’s voice is groggy, though once Amelia tells her the news, she sounds instantly, fully awake. “Wait, hold up. Are you for real?”
“Yes.”
Amelia hears Cate swallow. “And you’re there with her dead body right now?”
“I’m hiding in the office. I just called the police.”
“Jesus,” Cate says, and lets out a long breath.
Amelia lets out one too, and then notices an envelope on the desk, addressed to her in Molly’s handwriting. “Cate, I should go.”
“Do you need any help? Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I don’t think—”
“What about the other girls? Should I let them know not to come in?”
Amelia doesn’t say what she is suddenly thinking, the ever again part, because it is too sad. “I’ll do it, Cate. You should go back to sleep.”
“Amelia, there’s no way I’m falling back asleep now! Please, I’ve got it. You’re going to have enough to deal with there.”
“Okay. Thank you. You’re the best.”
After hanging up, Amelia carefully opens the envelope.
Dear Amelia,
Happy First Day of Summer.
The walk-in freezer is fully stocked, as are all supplies. I tested the three waffle irons yesterday and found that one wasn’t heating up properly, so I ordered a replacement. Hopefully you can manage with two until then.
Please don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything or have questions. You Head Girls never seem to, but I am here if you do.
And thank you for working so hard for me over these past four years. I always loved seeing your polo tucked in so neatly. It’s a little thing, but it speaks volumes about the kind of girl you are.
Stay sweet,
Molly
Amelia feels the back of her shirt as sirens wail in the distance. Being chosen wasn’t arbitrary or accidental, the way Amelia had assumed. Somehow Molly had known her. Seen her. Believed in her.
The paramedics burst in. Careful to keep the kitten corralled in the office, Amelia slips out and watches as one calls out Molly’s name, as if she might suddenly wake up, while another checks her neck for a pulse. It takes less than a minute before they radio for the coroner.
Amelia slinks backs to the office and closes the door.
A policeman arrives next, and double-checks with Amelia if there’s anyone he should inform that Molly has died. There isn’t, Amelia confirms, assuming his question is more a matter of procedure. Everyone in Sand Lake knows that when Molly’s parents passed away, the farm was left solely to her. Though she had two brothers, she outlived them both. Molly Meade never married, never had kids. There’s no next of kin, no anyone. Aside from the kitten pawing at Amelia’s shoelaces, Molly Meade was alone in the world.
A little while later, the local funeral home arrives, trades some paperwork with the policeman, and takes Molly Meade away.
Then it’s just Amelia.
Underneath the window is a love seat, a floral pattern on sun-bleached goldenrod velvet. Though it’s threadbare in certain places—the center of each cushion, the top of each armrest—Amelia finds it beautiful. It’s like a couch that might be for sale in a fancy shop, purposely distressed in that perfect way.
She lies down on it, her head propped against one armrest, her feet dangling over the other. She wonders how many girls over the years have sat on this love seat. Girls wanting to be consoled over fights with their boyfriends or their best friends or their mothers, girls hoping to spill the beans on terrific first dates, or giving the unvarnished truth of what it was like when they lost their virginity. Girls cooking up plans for a random adventure. Or simply trying to catch a few minutes of sleep during a shift break.
Amelia herself learned many lessons on this couch, like which teachers were good and which to avoid, how to lie to her mom and get away with it, and ways to protect her heart from being broken. Could she have survived high school without them? And what a shame to not have this sacred place to pass that knowledge along.
Not to mention that Amelia planned to spend a big part of this summer on this couch with Cate. Since Amelia was Head Girl, she could ensure they worked every shift together. They’d take their meal breaks here, maybe fit in a quick game of Boggle, depending on how the younger girls were handling the lines. All their plans would have hatched on this couch—what parties, what movies, what day trips. They’d include the other stand girls in most of their exploits, but Amelia also hoped there’d be a few special adventures just for the two of them while they still both lived in Sand Lake.
Amelia senses these intangible things, her every hope for her last summer, slipping away as the sun shines through the lace curtains and drifts across the office, landing on the filing cabinet, then the desk, then her feet, then the floor.
A fly hums near her cheek. Another lands on her arm. Another hovers near her ear. She swats them away, rolls off the love seat, and walks back into the main room of the stand. Flies swarm the pool of melted strawberry ice cream on the floor. Quickly, Amelia props open the stand door and aims the office fan to help shoo them out. She fills a bucket with warm soapy water and mops up the pink from the floor.
And then she continues cleaning, as if they were still opening in two days, because it’s easier for her to pretend Molly’s death won’t change anything than to acknowledge that it will. She wipes down the marble counters, and the white subway tile backsplash, and vacuums away the cobwebs. After carrying the rest of the spoiled drums to the dumpster, she takes a second bucket of water outside and scrubs out the trunk of Molly’s pink Cadillac.
By the time she’s finished, she’s sweating through her polo. She knows just what to do to cool down. She heads back into the stand, passing the purple ski jacket that hangs on a hook, and wrestles with the door of the walk-in freezer, trying to break the seal. Where the ski jacket originally came from is a mystery. The girls put it on when the walk-in freezer needs to be reorganized. When it’s too hot to think straight, they’ll go inside for a few seconds without it.
A few tugs and the seal unsticks. An icy fog billows out.
It’s just as Molly said in her letter. There wasn’t one single scoop left to sell at the end of last summer, but the walk-in freezer is completely restocked, save for the few gallons that spoiled in Molly’s trunk. Every shelf is packed tight with cardboard drums of ice cream, maybe a hundred total, each one marked in Molly’s handwriting. Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, Home Sweet Home. Molly’s been at this for weeks, maybe even months, getting her ice cream stand ready for opening day, the way she has every summer since she lost her true love.
A sadness hangs on Amelia. Though Molly’s ice cream was beloved and though her business ultimately became a success, surely she would have traded everything to have Wayne come home.
“Amelia?”
Amelia steps out of the freezer and sees Cate at the open stand door. Cate’s not wearing her Meade Creamery polo. She’s in a denim mini, a striped tank top, and flip-flops. Her blond hair is wet from the shower, split down the center of her head in a straight part.
“You haven’t answered any of my texts!” she says. “I was worried!”
Amelia pats her empty pockets. “Sorry. I left my phone in the office.”
Cate bites her bottom lip as she tentatively glances around. “Did . . . they take her away already?”
“Yeah, she’s gone,” Amelia says, dazed.
“Come on, then. Let’s get out of here.”
Amelia follows for a step, then stops. “Wait. I can’t leave. The newbies are going to show up any minute to fill out applications.” This happens on the first day back. A handful of recently graduated eighth graders descend, hoping to claim the spots of the departed. Despite her overall nervousness about being Head Girl, Amelia has been looking forward to this part—to trying to find herself and Cate in a pile of applications, giving two new girls the chance to build what she and Cate have with each other.
“So put up a sign.”
“Saying what? That Molly Meade is dead?”
“Um, no! Definitely not. Just . . . keep it vague. No Applications Today, something like that.”
Amelia goes into the office to make the sign. This time, the black-and-white kitten comes right out from under the desk. She makes the split-second decision to take him home with her, even though her mom is allergic.
While Cate struggles to lift Amelia’s bike into the back of her pickup truck, Amelia closes the stand door, clicks the padlock shut, and hangs the cryptic sign. With the slightest hesitation, she pushes her key underneath the door.
She didn’t get to use it, not even once.
On the way to Cate’s truck, the kitten must realize that Amelia is trying to kidnap him, because he stops purring and starts wriggling in her arms. She tries bringing him close to her chest, but he flexes his claws and tears the inside of her arm in four red stripes. As Amelia flinches, the kitten leaps free, crashing through the tall grass of the fields, splintering it until he—like Molly—is gone too.