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
I’ve never spent Valentine’s Day alone before. Of course, I’d rather be with Wayne—he went all out last year, candy, flowers, a pair of earrings—but I am excited about going to the movies with Tig. Coney Island with Betty Grable finally made it to Sand Lake.
There’s no pressure. No need for a new dress, to put on makeup or a girdle. We’re going to eat all the popcorn we want.
Hopefully the line will be long enough that I miss the newsreel. If not, I guess I’ll just close my eyes.
Sand Lake used to have its own movie theater? It had to be on Main Street, but where? Amelia’s only ever seen movies at the thirteen-screen megaplex in Beaumont. Amelia loves that theater—they have a whole wall of candy you buy by the pound—but it would be so cool if Sand Lake still had a single-screen theater. In fact, she might prefer it, because she and Cate could walk there, and parking at the megaplex is always a zoo.
She reads on, and winter turns into spring.
April 1, 1945
On Sunday, Holy Redeemer had a tag sale for the war effort. Mother wanted to hunt for things for my trousseau, and I dragged Tiggy along with us.
We’ll receive presents from the guests, of course, but Mother wants to make sure I have the essentials covered, everything Wayne and I will supposedly need to start our lives together when he comes home.
It’s funny. I used to dream about this moment. One of my favorite games to play growing up was “house.” I’d drape two tablecloths over the dining table and then I’d select things of Mother’s as if I were shopping in a department store. I always took the candy dish from the living room, always her apron with the embroidered strawberries, the gold hand mirror on her dressing table, the iron. When Daddy would come in for his lunch, he’d eat his sandwich in there with me, and I’d keep his coffee cup full like a doting wife.
Mother had me by the elbow for most of the afternoon, holding things up for me, asking my opinion, debating what was most essential. I felt as if we were asking for something bad to happen, tempting fate, but to be agreeable, I said yes to everything, which really annoyed her. I’m not sure why. And I don’t know how strong one’s opinions could be about a bathroom scale.
Eventually, things got so uncomfortable between us, Tiggy pretended to have left her purse on one of the tables and the two of us broke away and walked around by ourselves for a while.
I found an ice cream maker, a deep wooden bucket with a metal cap and a large handle you crank in a circle. When I asked Mrs. Finch if it still worked, she pinched my arm and said it takes a lot of cranking, and warned me to go easy on it. I wouldn’t want to surprise Wayne looking like an Atlas Man when he came home.
Tiggy thought my idea of playing around with it was a bit wacky, but the truth
is that I can’t bear the thought of sitting home for one more miserable Saturday night. Our friends have the same trouble. Going out for Coca-Colas or to see a movie only makes us feel guilty that we are here while the boys are over there. I don’t have this problem with Wayne, of course, but everyone’s deathly afraid to be seen by the parents of their sweethearts having anything that resembles fun.
Maybe we can churn away our loneliness. And even if we can’t, at least there’ll be ice cream.
Amelia rubs her fingers across the page, feeling the grooves from Molly pressing her pen tip against the paper, collapsing the distance between then and now.
This is the day when Meade Creamery began.
She can’t turn pages fast enough, reading about those early ice cream nights on the lake, how every week more and more girls showed up. Molly wasn’t thinking about starting a business, only an excuse to be with her friends. It’s amazing how little has changed between then and now. Meade Creamery, in whatever form, has always been a place where girls come together, support each other, thanks to Molly.
Eventually, Amelia reads an entry from May 3, 1945, about a month into Molly’s ice cream nights. Molly writes about a new recipe with unconventional ingredients to substitute for the rationed sugar, and it’s a huge hit with the girls.
This has to be Home Sweet Home.
Amelia’s so close, yet heartbreakingly far. Molly didn’t leave a clue, not a single hint, of what she put in that batch.
She lays the diary down and texts Cate. It’s right around the start of Cate’s shift. How’s it going down there?
Great! I stopped at Rite Aid and bought a lipstick that I saw in Elle. It’s supposedly a “universally flattering pink” so we’re putting it to the test.
Ooooh! Lemme see!
Cate texts Amelia a picture that could be an advertisement, the three girls cuddled together. Cate’s holding up the lipstick tube, and the shade is bright, a couple of notches away from electric. On Mansi, it’s a shiny shade of coral. Bern’s lips look perfectly bee-stung. Cate is prettiest of all, sandwiched in the middle, her blond hair unbraided and mussed, her lips a deep glossy rose.
Amelia feels a sudden ache in her chest.
What brand is it?
She waits a minute for Cate to text back and then goes to the window. The line of customers is long. This gives Amelia an acute sense of dread. The more customers they have, the quicker their ice cream stock will go.
And then, slowly, as if awakening from a dream, Amelia becomes aware of Grady calling her name, his footfalls on the stairs. She has barely a second to hide the diary in her tote bag before he bursts in.
“Amelia! I’ve been shouting—come help me downstairs! And grab every towel you can find in the linen closet.”
“Grady, your feet!”
His black Adidas are covered in thick white glop. Moo jumps down from the desk and licks the footprints he’s left in the hallway.
Amelia does as Grady has asked, filling her arms with towels, and follows him as he speeds back down to the basement, where Molly Meade’s Emery Thompson ice cream machine is spurting like a fountain, a geyser of half-frozen white ice cream spewing out from the top hatch, the spout, pretty much anywhere there’s an opening.
Grady has set an empty cardboard drum underneath the spout, but it has long since filled, and as the ice cream continues to flood out like soft-serve, it splashes down in a frothy white cascade onto the floor.
“Shit! My phone!” he says, slipping as he lunges toward the counter. He fishes a dripping rectangle out of the spillage on the counter, which is oozing down the front of the cabinets and making a pool on the floor.
“Turn the machine off!” she shouts. The spill is icy on her feet. Like stepping into a slushy winter puddle with bare feet.
“I did, but it won’t stop coming!”
Amelia reaches over and pulls the plug. A few more chugs, a few more spews, and the machine comes to rest.
Grady shakes his head, stunned. “I followed the recipe exactly, except I upped the quantities to make three gallons’ worth. But I double-checked my math. I don’t know what happened.”
“Grady! When you freeze something, it expands. Three gallons of liquid in won’t be three gallons of frozen ice cream out!”
After a pitiful breath, Grady takes a taste of the ice cream with his finger. He winces and gags. “That’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Amelia carefully carries the three-gallon drum, full to the brim, over to the sink. She tips it in and runs the hot water.
“Don’t help me clean up. Just go back upstairs and keep looking.”
Amelia swallows. She hasn’t done much today besides read Molly’s diary. “It will go way faster if I help you.”
* * *
It takes the better part of an hour to get the kitchen back to decent shape.
“Is there a manual for this thing?” Amelia asks. “I wonder how you’re supposed to clean it.”
“If there is, I haven’t found it.”
Amelia Googles Emery Thompson, hoping she can find some instructions online.
She finds better. It turns out that Emery Thompson has been making ice cream machines for over a hundred years. And their website is full of useful information: recipes, video demonstrations, and troubleshooting Q&As.
Grady gathers up a full trash bag. “I have to go upload some discussion questions for one of my summer classes, but then I’ll start over.” He shakes his head, like that’s the last thing he wants to do. “My friends rented scooters and are tooling around Milan tonight on a guided street food tour. And instead I’m here, destroying a business that’s been in my family for generations.”
“Why don’t I try making the next batch?”
He looks sincerely grateful. “By all means.” He places a hand on her shoulder and playfully says, “You can’t do worse than I did.” As he lifts it off, his fingers graze her neck every so slightly, and Amelia finds herself holding her breath. She doesn’t exhale until he’s gone.
She sits down on the couch and cues up a video from the Emery Thompson website called Ice Cream 101. Just as it starts playing, she gets a text from Cate.
Hey. Any chance you can come down here for a sec?
Shoot. Terrible timing. Amelia presses Pause and types back Why? Are you slammed?
No. I want you to try this lipstick!
Amelia doesn’t feel like she can tell Cate no. So she slips out and hurries down to the stand.
She’s a few feet from the door when she hears the girls squealing and laughing and singing along to the radio. Amelia’s relieved everything’s okay, though she feels a little pang of jealousy, at how much fun they’re having without her.
But her heart sinks as she steps inside. Cate has the stand radio turned up loud enough that customers have to shout their orders over the music. The trash can is overflowing, the order windows are greasy with fingerprints. No one is looking at her chore chart, that’s for sure.
Amelia could stay down here and clean up the mess before returning to the farmhouse. But she did just promise Grady that she’d get to work on the ice cream. That’s just as important, if not more so, than what’s happening down at the stand. Isn’t it?
Thankfully, none of the girls even noticed Amelia come in.
Or, just as quickly, slip back out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AMELIA TWISTS HER HAIR INTO a tight bun and secures it with an elastic. She selects one of Molly’s aprons, a peach cotton one with tiny embroidered strawberries running along the edges, less for the mess and more for the luck it might bring her.
She begins with a simple batch of vanilla. With the help of the ice cream videos, she can see where Grady’s attempt went wrong, aside from his measuring.
A few places, actually.
He slid in the eggs too fast, into cream that was too hot. And he didn’t allow his base to properly chill before running it through the machine.
Whether she’ll do
any better remains to be seen.
Her hands are shaking as she measures out the ingredients she’ll need, but she’s comforted by the fact that Molly Meade didn’t know what she was doing at first either. Amelia knows this for sure. She read it in Molly’s own words.
Sugar, skim milk powder, and fresh milk go into the saucepan. The last time she touched a whisk, she was making cupcakes for Cate’s birthday from a boxed mix, but she grabs one and has at it while the mixture froths and bubbles.
When she thinks everything is well blended, she whisks hard for another minute longer, just to make sure. Next comes the cream, next one vanilla bean she fishes out from the sticky brown syrup with her fingers. She stares at a thermometer, waiting for the thin red needle to rise until it hits 110 degrees. The eggs get whisked in a separate bowl, and she uses a little dollop of the hot cream mixture to warm them. She slides the eggs in and brings up the heat, then swiftly removes the saucepan from the stove.
One of the videos recommended steeping this mixture—the base—for at least twenty-four hours for maximum flavor, but there’s no time for that. Anyway, this is just a test. She’s pretty sure it won’t be anywhere near good enough.
From another video, she learns that there’s a difference between the two refrigerators in Molly’s kitchen. One is a blast chiller, which cools down the bases after they’ve been pasteurized; the other is a deep freezer, basically a smaller version of the walk-in down at the stand, which hardens the ice cream up after the base is run through the machine. Amelia never knew there were so many complex intricacies to making ice cream. Molly Meade was practically a scientist.
Since Amelia is making a small batch, just to see if she can even do it, she doesn’t think she needs to leave it in the blast chiller for the full hour the video recommends. Instead, she sets an alarm on her phone for thirty minutes. She puts on one of Molly’s old records, the Andrews Sisters, counts the grooves, and lines up the needle with “Rum and Coca-Cola,” a song she knows from the oldies station. She dances while cleaning up her mess, loving the nostalgic crackle it has. The songs after, she’s never heard before. “Let There Be Love.” “I’ll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time.” “Last Night on the Back Porch.”