Stay Sweet(44)

Then she joins Grady, sitting cross-legged on a rug, pulling books out of the bookshelves and fanning through the pages while Grady paws through the drawers of a writing desk.

On the second floor, the air is hotter, drier. By the time she reaches the landing, Amelia can feel the back of her hair sticking to her neck.

Grady quickly reveals what’s behind each of the closed black doors they pass as they make their way down a white hallway. “That’s the guest bedroom, that’s my grandpa’s old room, a bathroom, linen closet.” At the end, the roof is angled, coming down in two sharp peaks, with one door in the center. “That’s Molly’s bedroom.”

Amelia wrinkles her nose. “I thought you said she slept downstairs.”

“She did. This is the one she had when she was a kid. I’m putting you in charge of going through it, for the underwear situation I previously mentioned.”

“Whatever you say,” she says breezily, though excitement is fizzing inside her. She has the doorknob half turned when she hears Grady open a different door.

“But let’s start in here,” he says. “I think this is where we’ve got the best chance.”

The room is small and stuffed to the ceiling. There’s a desk on top of an oblong braided rug, and a fireplace that’s been filled in with red brick. Stacks of cardboard file boxes—the same as the ones Grady had open downstairs—cover every other available bit of space.

“This was her office,” Grady says. “Though I don’t know how she worked in here, seeing as it’s ten degrees hotter than in any other room in the house.”

Amelia approaches the desk and pulls on the lower of the two drawers. It’s packed tight with green folders. She’s not sure she could squeeze in a single piece of paper more if she tried.

“They have to be in here, don’t you think?” Grady says, the desperation in his voice obvious. “I mean, clearly she kept everything.” He wipes his forehead with his sleeve as he walks toward the one window. “Let me try this again,” he says, thrusting his hands upward against the window frame to try and pop it open. The harder he tries, the more embarrassed he gets. “Dammit!”

Amelia comes over with the intention to assist but gets distracted by the perfect view the window provides of the ice cream stand. She checks her watch; it’s already a few minutes before eleven. One of the girls, ant-sized, is sitting on top of a picnic table, waiting to be let in. Cate’s truck isn’t there yet.

Even though it’s hot as an oven, Amelia shivers, thinking about Molly Meade standing in this very spot, looking down at them. It had felt, on some level, like the place belonged to the girls, the Meade Creamery girls, since Molly herself was never around. Now Amelia sees how foolish that was. She’d been watching them the whole time.

“Grady, I’ve got to go and open the stand.”

“Doesn’t Cate have a key?”

“No.” Amelia doesn’t say any more. That Cate hadn’t wanted hers.

“Well, I have to go to the bank, so why don’t I let them in, and give them the heads-up that I’ll need you up here for a couple of hours. On my way home, I’ll swing by Walmart and grab us a fan for up here. I’ll try to be back as quickly as I can.”

Amelia nods. “Okay.”

Grady hurries down the stairs, and a few minutes later, Amelia hears the engine of the pink Cadillac turn over. From the window, she keeps her eyes on Grady, now back to his classic handsome in jeans and a navy-and-green-striped polo shirt, as he races down to the stand and unlocks the door. Cate pulls in right then, ten minutes late, and the two cars pass each other, Cate and Grady pausing to talk for a moment, before Grady pulls onto the road and Cate parks.

Amelia pulls herself away from the window and returns to the job. She opens a closet and finds more boxes, and potentially the promise of slightly better organization. At the very back, on the bottom, is one box marked 1945.

The first year of the Meade Creamery stand.

Amelia wrestles it out, hope fluttering inside her heart. Inside are lots of scraps of paper, old time cards from the punch clock, invoices, a receipt for Molly’s Emery Thompson ice cream maker, which cost her eight hundred dollars. Amelia is surprised it was so expensive—weren’t movies like fifty cents back then?—but clearly the machine was worth every penny.

But no recipes.

Amelia does, however, find a photo—black and white, scalloped edges—of the girls from that first summer, posed in front of the ice cream stand, flexing their scooping muscles, big wide smiles. They must have been excited, on the cusp of something new, lined up in crisp white blouses instead of the modern polos.

Amelia’s phone rings. It’s Cate.

“How’s it going up there?” she asks.

Amelia slumps backward, against the wall. “I don’t know when I’m going to be down today. Do you want me to call one of the other girls? Get someone to cover for me?”

“It’s fine. If we get swamped at lunch, I’ll text you. Where are you right now?”

“Sitting in Molly’s office, sweating my butt off. Hold on.” Amelia puts the phone down and peels off her Meade Creamery polo. It’s way cooler in just her bra.

“Are you having fun? I’d think you’d love going through her stuff.”

“I’m too stressed to enjoy it.” Suddenly the air on the line sounds weird. “Cate?”