Stay Sweet(35)

“What an ignorant thing to say. Now, close your eyes. I want you to concentrate on the flavors.”

Grady barks a laugh. “Wow, you’re bossy today.”

“Don’t be sexist.”

His cheeks glow. “Sorry. I was kidding.” He closes his eyes.

Amelia hands Grady the spoon and watches intently, brimming with excitement, as he takes his first lick. “Huh. That’s pretty good.” His eyes flutter open as he takes a second taste. On his third, he cleans the spoon. “It’s, like, infinitely more vanilla-y than the fro-yo place on campus.”

“Duh. Fro-yo is basically frozen chemicals. This is ice cream.” She takes the used spoon from him and tosses it into the garbage can, pleased that his bad mood has already vanished and there are still three flavors to go. “Now, would you please look at this color!” she says, holding up the chocolate. “It’s like tar.”

“Marketing tip. Think aspirational. Tar is not a good descriptor for something you want people to eat.”

“Okay, it’s like”—her eyes brighten—“fudge at midnight.”

“Yes! That! Exactly!”

She hands him the spoon. “Hurry up before these melt.”

This time, Grady closes his eyes and goes right in, taking the whole bite at once. “Whoa. That’s intense. It’s almost . . . bitter.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Not in a bad way. It’s really sophisticated.”

“Next is strawberry,” Amelia says, but Grady shakes his head.

“I want more chocolate.” Peeking at her, he opens his mouth to be fed.

Amelia feels her heart speed up. Ignoring him, she hands him the next spoon. “Our strawberry,” she announces, “is the most beautiful shade of pink. Not pale, like the weak stuff you get from the grocery store. Deep. Lively. Also, you’ll never bite into an icy chunk of strawberry. It’s completely incorporated.”

Grady’s eyes go wide as he tastes. “Holy shit.”

“No cursing in the stand, please. But I know, right?” she says. “And this . . . this is Home Sweet Home,” Amelia says, putting the spoon in his hand. She’s surprised how nervous she feels. She wants Grady to love it as much as she does.

“Ahhh yes. You know, that reporter guy told me this might be the biggest unsolved mystery in Sand Lake,” he says, examining the spoon.

“Last year, a guy offered me fifty bucks to tell him.”

“Did you?” he asks, grinning.

Amelia cocks her head. “Uh, no.” After all, how could she? The only one who knew the recipes was Molly.

And now, Grady.

“Come to think of it,” he says, “I should probably require all the girls to sign NDAs.”

“What’s an NDA?”

“A nondisclosure agreement. It means if they tell anyone our recipes, I can sue them for damages.” He pops the spoon into his mouth.

“That’s a bit overkill, don’t you think? None of us know—”

She quiets, watching Grady’s strange reaction. He blinks a few times, almost stunned by what he’s tasting. Then his jaw sets, his brow furrows, and he forces a swallow after a most unpleasant battle of his will. Once he gets it down, his face is totally unguarded, because he’s been blindsided. He can’t even pretend to hide what he’s feeling—an emotion Amelia never would have expected.

Sadness.

“Hey, Amelia? You ready to paint?”

Amelia spins as Cate enters the office, and she takes a giant step away from Grady; until this moment she hasn’t realized how close she’s been standing to him. Grady hops off the desk and hustles out.

“Market research,” Amelia tells her, answering a question that Cate hasn’t asked in too loud a voice.

Cate cocks her head. “Uh-huh.”

Amelia grabs the Panera bag with the sandwiches, nervously passing Grady on her way outside. She isn’t sure if he looks at her, but she sure as heck doesn’t look at him.

As Cate climbs up the ladder with the paint cans and the brushes, Amelia notices something from her vantage point on the ground. Certain boards—the ones higher up—are peeling white paint faster than others.

“Throw me up the sandwiches!” Cate instructs.

Amelia tosses the bag and climbs the ladder, pausing at the top to inspect that wood. More paint flakes away when she touches it; it’s barely sticking. Underneath, the wood is damp and soft with rot.

“Holy crap, Amelia. You have to see this.”

Amelia hoists herself up and over the lip of the roof.

At first, she thinks Cate is talking about the view. Because, on her tiptoes, she can make out a bit of the lake, see the green trees and the rooftops of a few houses, see up and down Route 68 for miles. She knows in her heart that Sand Lake is the most beautiful place in the world, even though she’s never really been anywhere else.

“Not out there! Look down.”

She does, and at her feet are signatures in pink paint, hundreds of them. The names of the girls who’ve worked at Meade Creamery over the years cover the entire roof. Some are faded, some fresh, and plenty are illegible because the shingles have shifted or chipped, the broken pieces clogging the gutters with last fall’s leaves. She bends down, wishing she had time to put the puzzle back together.