Stay Sweet(5)

Though Molly Meade continues to make the ice cream every summer, nobody in Sand Lake sees much of her anymore, not even the girls who work for her. Molly replenishes the ice cream only when the stand is closed, and if she needs something, she’ll call down and ask to speak with the Head Girl. This is generally regarded by the stand girls as yet another perk. They basically have the run of the place—no adults looking over their shoulders. At Meade’s, the girls are in charge.

Amelia tiptoes over. There’s a fuzz of bright yellow pollen across the hood like an afghan, as if the car hasn’t been driven much all spring. She peeks inside the open trunk and finds it’s in the middle of being unloaded—a lot of empty space on the left and six cardboard drums of Molly’s homemade ice cream on the right, each flavor marked with Molly’s shaky, old-lady handwriting.

Amelia checks her phone for the time. Molly wouldn’t have expected any stand girls to show up this early. Would Molly prefer Amelia make herself scarce until she’s done unloading? Or would she appreciate help carrying in the ice cream drums, which aren’t exactly light? Maybe Amelia should let Molly know that if she needs anything this summer, anything at all, Amelia would gladly be of service. Molly could surely use the help at her age. Though what if Molly found Amelia’s assumption offensive and ageist?

Amelia rubs the back of her neck. She’s been Head Girl for a few hours and she’s already in over her head.

Biting her finger, Amelia decides that, at the very least, she owes Molly a thank you. After all, Molly Meade is inextricably, if indirectly, responsible for the best summers of Amelia’s life.

She reaches in and lifts out a drum of Home Sweet Home, but the cardboard sides unexpectedly flex from the pressure of Amelia’s hands, sending the lid popping off like a cork. A wave of pale yellow crests over the sides of the drum, coating both of Amelia’s hands, and nearly the entire trunk bed, in thick, melted, lukewarm ice cream.

Amelia winces and gags as the smell hits her, an unpleasant sourness spiking the sweet. As if these tubs of ice cream have been sitting out in the sun for hours.

Maybe even days.

Amelia’s heart fills her throat. She glances back to the open stand door as she sets the sticky drum down in the dirt.

Then she runs.





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.