Stay Sweet(48)

But no, Daddy says my job is to be a comfort to Mother.

I would really like nothing more. Except Mother steeps herself in her sadness like her tea, never lifting the bag out, letting the hot water go black and bitter and cold. I don’t blame her. She has so many worries. My brothers and Wayne. The business. Daddy. Me.

The only time she is happy is when she’s making wedding plans for Wayne and me. Tiggy thinks I’m a fool because I’ve let her take the reins on pretty much everything, but if I didn’t, I don’t know if she’d ever smile.

Amelia turns the page, intending to read the next entry, but her eyes can’t quite focus. Her Molly Meade history lesson will have to wait until tomorrow.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


AMELIA’S NOT SURE IF IT’S an omen or a sign or what, exactly, but she skids her bike to an abrupt stop about halfway between the stand and the farmhouse, sure as anything that Molly Meade is gazing down on her right this moment.

The wild grasses on this stretch of the driveway grow nearly as tall as Amelia, and as dense as a thicket on both sides. Blossoming among the tall grass are hundreds of wildflowers in a rainbow of colors and textures and sizes. This, she’s seen many times over the years, but never as it is in this moment.

It’s just after seven, and the morning dew still clings to everything, a sparkling coat refracting the sunshine like the dust of a thousand diamonds.

Goose bumps prick on her arms and legs.

Amelia sees now why Molly brought flowers for the girls each and every time she brought new ice cream down to the stand. How could anyone pass this and not try to capture some of the beauty? Of course, by the time the girls rolled into work at eleven, the dew had long disappeared, and they were left with pretty blooms arranged for them in a mason jar—a simple thank-you from their boss.

She puts down her kickstand and walks toward the brush, finding the most beautiful flowers and pinching their stems. She makes a bouquet of pink and yellow cone flowers, and foxtail lilies and bee balm. It’s too much to hold and try to steer her handlebars, so she leaves her bike where it is.

She doesn’t bother turning on the lights. She finds the mason jar on top of the filing cabinet, fills it with water, and arranges the bouquet inside. On the back of a paper napkin, she writes,

Have a great day, girls!

Xox,

Amelia

Grady has left the inside door of the farmhouse open, and Amelia steps though the screen door gingerly, careful not to let Moo out. There’s music coming up through the floor.

She descends halfway to the basement and sees Grady at the sink, one of Molly’s frilly aprons tied around his waist. The record player is spinning, the volume turned up loud; some old crooner is singing in rich tones that fill the basement.

Grady hasn’t heard her come in, so she watches from the stairs. He’s shimmying, dancing in a modern way, almost a pop and lock, to the old music. It is, quite frankly, adorable. She bets Grady would be a fun date at a dance. Hardly any boys from her high school danced at prom. Never to any fast songs, and even for the slow ones, they had to be dragged to the dance floor.

Grady’s got a big stock pot on Molly’s stove, the blue gas flame turned up high. There are grocery bags at his feet, filled with gallons of milk and cream. Amelia watches as he cracks an egg and slides it into the smoking cream stew.

He is making ice cream.

The record ends and the needle begins to click as it continues to spin. Grady looks up from his pot, wanting to change it, but his hands are full. Amelia decides then to reveal herself, and takes a couple of steps down.

“Nice apron,” she teases.

“I’m hoping it will bring me luck.”

“When did you get all this stuff?”

“I drove to Walmart after I dropped you off last night,” he says, and Amelia flushes, realizing just how persuasive she’d been last night. “Thought it’d be nice to take a break from the bookkeeping this morning and do something fun.”

“You don’t find bookkeeping fun? I figured that was mandatory for a business major.”

He pulls a face. “Um, no. No one does.” He holds up his phone. “Now, this is a recipe for the ‘Perfect Vanilla’ ice cream, according to the New York Times. Figured that’d be a good place to start. I mean, if it’s in the newspaper, it’s got to be fact-checked.”

Amelia leans over the side of the big stock pot as Grady cracks another egg. It is filled to the brim. “Should it be bubbling that much?”

“Shit.” Grady turns down the flame.

“I’ll head back upstairs and keep searching.”

“Great.” He licks the back of a spoon and smiles, proud of himself. “Maybe I’ll get good at this and I can create a brand-new flavor! We can launch it this summer. Come up with a cool name.”

“I admire your confidence,” Amelia says.

Moo follows Amelia up to the second floor. The letters Grady found yesterday sit unopened on the mantel. There’s a big stack of boxes still to go through, but Amelia lies down on the braided rug, kicks off her Keds, and begins to read Molly Meade’s diary, planning to read one or maybe two entries before she gets started.

An hour later, she’s read though Christmas, then New Year’s, and is approaching Valentine’s Day.

February 13, 1945