“How about I wear it on opening day? That way, it won’t get messed up,” Amelia says, hesitating.
With a groan, Cate rises to her feet and takes the pin from Amelia’s hand. “You’re not officially the queen until you put on the crown.” Amelia averts her eyes as Cate examines the pin for a second before she feels a tug on her collar. “There,” Cate says, pleased. “Now it’s official.”
Amelia starts to protest, “It should be you,” the way she has countless times since getting the pin. Cate’s usually good about letting her get this perceived injustice off her chest, and Amelia always feels better afterward. Like she has voiced a truth that, deep down, they both know.
This time, however, Cate shushes her. “Not today, Amelia.” And she guides Amelia back to the mirror. “What do you think?”
Amelia glances over her shoulder at Cate. For the rest of Amelia’s life, she knows she will never find a friend better than Cate Kopernick.
Using Amelia’s braids like handlebars, Cate steers Amelia’s head so she’s facing the mirror. “You look amazing,” Cate says, stepping aside so she’s out of the reflection. “Just like Frankie Ko.”
Amelia laughs, because again, yeah right, until, finally, she looks, focusing not so much on herself as on the pin. Though it’s small, it really does sparkle.
CHAPTER TWO
MEADE CREAMERY DOESN’T LOOK LIKE much, and especially not in the off-season, when the two service windows are boarded up with plywood, the picnic tables are brought in, and a heavy chain closes off the parking lot from the road. Really, the ice cream stand is a glorified shed, a white-shingled miniature of the farmhouse looming in the overgrown fields behind it, electricity zipping in from three thick wires sprouting off a nearby utility pole. But to Amelia, and most other people in town, it’s one of the most special places in the world.
Amelia hops off her periwinkle three-speed cruiser and lifts the chain up and over herself as she passes underneath, then turns at the beep of a horn. A glossy black SUV pulls off the road and parks alongside the chain, roof rack strapped with luggage, a license plate from another state. These vacationers are passing through Sand Lake, headed down Route 68 toward other, larger lakes farther on—ones that permit Jet Skis and speedboats, ones where the waterfront is rented by the week.
The music lowers and the window unrolls, revealing a woman with big sunglasses perched on the top of her head. “Excuse me, sweetie! I know it’s a little early in the morning for ice cream, but we’ve been dreaming about this since last summer!”
Amelia grins. The anticipation is something she feels too. She can’t wait to taste the four made-from-scratch flavors they sell—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and the best-selling, wholly original, nothing-else-like-it-in-the-world Home Sweet Home. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not officially open until Saturday!”
The woman beckons Amelia closer. “Well . . . is there any chance you could make an exception for us? I can make it worth your while.” Her three kids eagerly look up from their phones in the backseat. Same for her husband on his tablet in the passenger seat.
If Cate were here, she would say something crazy, like fifty bucks, just to see what would happen. Amelia shakes her head. “I’m really sorry, ma’am. I would like to help you all out but I just can’t.” And she even adds, “I don’t want to get fired,” as if Amelia weren’t herself Head Girl.
The woman isn’t mad. She nods, understandingly, approvingly even, as if Amelia has confirmed some thought she already held about this place and the girls who work there. “Can’t hurt to ask, right?” she says jovially, before lowering her sunglasses. “We’ll see you girls on Saturday!”
Watching the SUV ease back onto the road, Amelia knows the woman means it, too. From the first week of June until the last week in August, there’ll be a line for Molly Meade’s homemade ice cream, out-of-towners and locals alike, a quarter mile of cars parked half in the rain ditch, stretching in either direction.
There are exactly two days until opening day.
As she turns back to the stand, Amelia’s nerves give way to a new feeling—determination. She notes some of the obvious chores: mowing the lawn, weeding the crevices in the walkway, giving the stand a fresh coat of paint. She has a few hours before the other girls arrive, so she might as well get started. Anything Amelia’s able to tackle on her own will make the vibe more relaxed and be less she’ll have to delegate after everyone gets a blueberry muffin.
Slipping the key out of her pocket, she walks around the side of the stand. It surprises her to find the door already propped open with a brick. A few steps more and she sees Molly Meade’s pink Cadillac parked, the trunk lid lifted. Amelia stops, wipes her hands on her shorts, makes sure her polo shirt is tucked tight into her waistband.
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, hop
ing 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.
Amelia lifts him straight up by the scruff, careful not to disturb Molly’s body. He’s a baby; he fits easily into her hand, and she can feel his tiny bones underneath his fur.
Then she notices a drum of ice cream that Molly must have carried into the stand and set down on the floor before she died. It’s seeping pink across the white penny tile, a strawberry puddle creeping closer and closer to Molly’s dress. With the tip of her finger, Amelia guides the hem so it’s clear of the growing spill. Then, on unsteady legs, she flees into the office, sets the kitten on the desk, and picks up the heavy black handset of the landline.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
Amelia peeks around the doorway and sees the toes of Molly Meade’s slip-ons pointing to the ceiling. She answers, her voice trembling. “I . . . I don’t think this is an emergency, exactly,” she says, trying to clarify. “It was. Only not anymore.”
After hanging up, Amelia debates calling her mom at the bank, but decides instead to text her dad, knowing his phone doesn’t get much reception when he’s fishing in Sand Lake.
Hey Daddy. Molly Meade passed away. I found her when I got to work this morning. I’m okay. Handling things here. Just wanted to let you know.
Next, she calls Cate. “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up,” Amelia whispers.
It takes a few rings. “Hello?” Cate’s voice is groggy, though once Amelia tells her the news, she sounds instantly, fully awake. “Wait, hold up. Are you for real?”
“Yes.”
Amelia hears Cate swallow. “And you’re there with her dead body right now?”
“I’m hiding in the office. I just called the police.”
“Jesus,” Cate says, and lets out a long breath.
Amelia lets out one too, and then notices an envelope on the desk, addressed to her in Molly’s handwriting. “Cate, I should go.”
“Do you need any help? Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I don’t think—”
“What about the other girls? Should I let them know not to come in?”
Amelia doesn’t say what she is suddenly thinking, the ever again part, because it is too sad. “I’ll do it, Cate. You should go back to sleep.”
“Amelia, there’s no way I’m falling back asleep now! Please, I’ve got it. You’re going to have enough to deal with there.”
“Okay. Thank you. You’re the best.”
After hanging up, Amelia carefully opens the envelope.
Dear Amelia,
Happy First Day of Summer.
The walk-in freezer is fully stocked, as are all supplies. I tested the three waffle irons yesterday and found that one wasn’t heating up properly, so I ordered a replacement. Hopefully you can manage with two until then.
Please don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything or have questions. You Head Girls never seem to, but I am here if you do.
And thank you for working so hard for me over these past four years. I always loved seeing your polo tucked in so neatly. It’s a little thing, but it speaks volumes about the kind of girl you are.
Stay sweet,
Molly
Amelia feels the back of her shirt as sirens wail in the distance. Being chosen wasn’t arbitrary or accidental, the way Amelia had assumed. Somehow Molly had known her. Seen her. Believed in her.
The paramedics burst in. Careful to keep the kitten corralled in the office, Amelia slips out and watches as one calls out Molly’s name, as if she might suddenly wake up, while another checks her neck for a pulse. It takes less than a minute before they radio for the coroner.
Amelia slinks backs to the office and closes the door.
A policeman arrives next, and double-checks with Amelia if there’s anyone he should inform that Molly has died. There isn’t, Amelia confirms, assuming his question is more a matter of procedure. Everyone in Sand Lake knows that when Molly’s parents passed away, the farm was left solely to her. Though she had two brothers, she outlived them both. Molly Meade never married, never had kids. There’s no next of kin, no anyone. Aside from the kitten pawing at Amelia’s shoelaces, Molly Meade was alone in the world.
A little while later, the local funeral home arrives, trades some paperwork with the policeman, and takes Molly Meade away.
Then it’s just Amelia.
Underneath the window is a love seat, a floral pattern on sun-bleached goldenrod velvet. Though it’s threadbare in certain places—the center of each cushion, the top of each armrest—Amelia finds it beautiful. It’s like a couch that might be for sale in a fancy shop, purposely distressed in that perfect way.
She lies down on it, her head propped against one armrest, her feet dangling over the other. She wonders how many girls over the years have sat on this love seat. Girls wanting to be consoled over fights with their boyfriends or their best friends or their mothers, girls hoping to spill the beans on terrific first dates, or giving the unvarnished truth of what it was like when they lost their virginity. Girls cooking up plans for a random adventure. Or simply trying to catch a few minutes of sleep during a shift break.
Amelia herself learned many lessons on this couch, like which teachers were good and which to avoid, how to lie to her mom and get away with it, and ways to protect her heart from being broken. Could she have survived high school without them? And what a shame to not have this sacred place to pass that knowledge along.
Not to mention that Amelia planned to spend a big part of this summer on this couch with Cate. Since Amelia was Head Girl, she could ensure they worked every shift together. They’d take their meal breaks here, maybe fit in a quick game of Boggle, depending on how the younger girls were handling the lines. All their plans would have hatched on this couch—what parti
es, what movies, what day trips. They’d include the other stand girls in most of their exploits, but Amelia also hoped there’d be a few special adventures just for the two of them while they still both lived in Sand Lake.
Amelia senses these intangible things, her every hope for her last summer, slipping away as the sun shines through the lace curtains and drifts across the office, landing on the filing cabinet, then the desk, then her feet, then the floor.
A fly hums near her cheek. Another lands on her arm. Another hovers near her ear. She swats them away, rolls off the love seat, and walks back into the main room of the stand. Flies swarm the pool of melted strawberry ice cream on the floor. Quickly, Amelia props open the stand door and aims the office fan to help shoo them out. She fills a bucket with warm soapy water and mops up the pink from the floor.
And then she continues cleaning, as if they were still opening in two days, because it’s easier for her to pretend Molly’s death won’t change anything than to acknowledge that it will. She wipes down the marble counters, and the white subway tile backsplash, and vacuums away the cobwebs. After carrying the rest of the spoiled drums to the dumpster, she takes a second bucket of water outside and scrubs out the trunk of Molly’s pink Cadillac.
By the time she’s finished, she’s sweating through her polo. She knows just what to do to cool down. She heads back into the stand, passing the purple ski jacket that hangs on a hook, and wrestles with the door of the walk-in freezer, trying to break the seal. Where the ski jacket originally came from is a mystery. The girls put it on when the walk-in freezer needs to be reorganized. When it’s too hot to think straight, they’ll go inside for a few seconds without it.
A few tugs and the seal unsticks. An icy fog billows out.
It’s just as Molly said in her letter. There wasn’t one single scoop left to sell at the end of last summer, but the walk-in freezer is completely restocked, save for the few gallons that spoiled in Molly’s trunk. Every shelf is packed tight with cardboard drums of ice cream, maybe a hundred total, each one marked in Molly’s handwriting. Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, Home Sweet Home. Molly’s been at this for weeks, maybe even months, getting her ice cream stand ready for opening day, the way she has every summer since she lost her true love.
Stay Sweet Page 2