CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
AMELIA STANDS AT THE OFFICE window, watching as Grady speaks with a local Realtor and another man drives a stake into the rain ditch running alongside Route 68, a FOR SALE sign. Grady turns and walks into the office.
“I need to go out for a while, but I left the front door open if you need to get in.”
“Thank you,” Amelia says coldly.
“Amelia . . .” But Grady doesn’t say anything more. Because what is there to say?
Once he’s gone, Jen knocks on the door. “Amelia? Someone’s asking for the Head Girl outside.”
Amelia stands up, straightens her shirt.
There’s someone at the left service window. An old lady with a cane, dressed up in Sunday clothes, buttons and stockings.
Amelia walks to the window, unhooks the latch, and slides it open. “Can I help you?”
The old lady doesn’t answer her. Instead, she looks past Amelia into the stand and clicks her tongue. “Not a thing has changed.”
Not yet, Amelia thinks.
“I used to work here a long time ago.”
“Oh. Well, welcome back.” Amelia leans forward on her elbows, forcing a smile to her face. “I’m Amelia.”
“I’m Theresa Wolff, but the girls used to call me Tiggy. I was Molly’s best friend.”
Amelia’s mouth drops open. Tiggy? She’s always assumed Tiggy was dead.
“Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to meet you.” She reaches out for a handshake. Tiggy’s skin is loose and cold, and though Amelia tries to hold her gently, she clings to her with excitement. But as she lets go, that excitement gives way to dread. Amelia worries that Tiggy might not know that Molly has died. That she’ll have to be the one to break the news. She forces a swallow. “I’m not sure if you heard, but—”
“Oh yes. My granddaughter sent me the obituary. I got ill and couldn’t make the funeral. If I hadn’t promised my friends here the best ice cream they ever tasted, I don’t know if I could have gotten a ride out today.” Amelia didn’t realize before, but Tiggy’s brought a nurse with her, a short man with dark hair and a mustache who is carefully and gently assisting her. And there’s a white transport van from a nursing home parked off to the side, near the picnic tables, where a woman is standing watching them. She waves when she sees Amelia looking.
“I figured this might be the last summer of Home Sweet Home. Can I have a small cup?” Tiggy shuffles backward a little so she can take in all of the ice cream stand.
Amelia grabs her scoop and opens the dipping cabinet. Even though Tiggy asked for a small, she gives her two big scoops, and makes chocolate sundaes for both Tiggy’s aides.
Tiggy tries to pay, but Amelia waves her off. “On the house,” she declares. “And Tiggy, I hope you don’t taste a difference. I’ve been making the ice cream myself since Molly passed.”
Tiggy closes her eyes and takes a lick off the top. “It’s like I’m seventeen again.”
“I’m so glad.”
“And you’re Head Girl?” Tiggy asks.
“I am.”
“Where’s your pin?” Tiggy asks, suspicious.
“Oh,” Amelia says, looking down at her collar. “I guess I forgot to put it on.”
This is a lie. But Amelia didn’t feel right, putting it on after firing Cate. As if that were the reason she’d done it, simply to take the power back.
“What a shame,” Tiggy says.
Amelia thinks at first that Tiggy is referring to her missing pin, but then she feels something on her shoulder. Tiggy has lifted her cane and stuck it inside the stand. It rests on Amelia’s shoulder, as if Tiggy were setting up a trick shot on a pool table. Turning slightly, Amelia sees that Tiggy’s got the rubber tip lined straight up with the photo of Molly and Wayne.
“Yes, it’s very sad,” Amelia agrees.
“Sadder than you know,” Tiggy answers cryptically.
Except Amelia does know. She’s read Molly’s diary, cover to cover.
“Well . . . ,” Amelia says. “I’m glad you decided to come to visit. You heard right, I’m afraid. This is going to be the last summer of Meade Creamery.”
“Well, you ought to take that picture down, now that Molly’s gone.”
“Do you want it? Nobody will mind if you take it.”
Tiggy laughs heartily. “Me? Want that? Lord no.” She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is behind her. “Molly would kill me for telling anyone this, but I never forgave that son of a bitch.”
Amelia’s eyes go wide. And Tiggy’s eyes, old and watery and cloudy as they are, twinkle. She leans in close. “Have you ever held on to a secret for so long that you nearly burst?”
“Yes,” Amelia answers without hesitation. The fact that she is in possession of Molly Meade’s diary.
For Tiggy, this seems to be the right answer. “The story of this place, of those two right there, it’s not what you think it is.”
Amelia feels unsteady. She knows the story. She knows it straight from Molly’s own pen. So what could Tiggy be referring to?
Tiggy shakes her head, puts a finger to her lips. “I’ve already said too much. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But I’ve always hated that she kept his photo hanging up, after everything that happened.”
“She did it because she missed him,” Amelia answers automatically. “Because when she was making ice cream, it was as if . . .”
Amelia’s rote performance comes to a halt as she sees Tiggy rolling her eyes, almost bored. “Yes, yes, dear. I know that story.”
That story. As if there were another one.
“We didn’t know her,” Amelia says apologetically. “Not really.”
“People knew what she wanted them to know. Being a war widow is very good for business.”
It feels almost crazy to say out loud. “So . . .Wayne didn’t die in the war?”
Tiggy looks around again, the secret almost on the tip of her tongue. “Aw, heck. I might not live to see another summer, and what good is a story this delicious if you don’t share it?”