There are a few polite chuckles.
“I’d heard countless sad stories of men at war, of people lost and hurt and killed. In a way, this seemed almost sadder. That these two youngsters, in the prime of their lives and very much devoted to each other, were about to be ripped apart.” He takes a sip of water. “When Mrs. Meade brought out a chocolate cake, I was trying to come up with an acceptable excuse to pass on having a slice. But then Wayne pulled a diamond ring out of his pocket and asked Molly for her hand in marriage. Molly said yes immediately. And a melancholy night became one of celebration.”
Amelia can see it playing in her head like a movie: Young Molly, her handsome boyfriend down on one knee, maybe even in his uniform. Her laughing and crying. Him sliding the ring onto her finger, shaking her father’s hand.
At this, her mouth drops open. The photo hanging in the stand—of Molly and Wayne, her hand outstretched, fall foliage around them—was likely taken that day. Amelia takes a tissue from her purse and dabs her eyes.
“Now, Wayne, as you know, never made it home from the war, may God rest his soul. But God did not forsake His lovely child, Molly. Instead, the Lord bestowed on her the gift of making ice cream, which comforted her through this profound loss. He works in mysterious ways, and this, I promise you, is one of them. Despite her own suffering, Molly continued to do His work, bringing joy into the lives of countless others for all these years. And for that reason, I have faith that—”
The church doors open suddenly and three people hurry up the aisle, a man and a college-age boy, both in tailored navy suits, and a woman in a black dress and a chunky strand of pearls. Amelia has never seen them before.
Father Caraway clears his throat to refocus the churchgoers and gestures at the sky as he resumes. “I have faith that, because of her service, the Lord has rewarded Molly by reuniting her with her true love Wayne, up in heaven.”
* * *
After the memorial, Amelia exits the church and exchanges a couple of quick texts with Cate, who says she can be there in fifteen minutes. As Amelia slips her phone into her purse, the boy in the suit passes her at a quicker pace than the other people emerging into the sunlight. He’s on his phone, urgently tapping away with one hand, while the two people Amelia assumes are his mother and father trail behind him, speaking quietly with each other.
She keeps the boy in the corner of her eye, looking but trying not to be obvious about it. Amelia doesn’t often see boys wearing expensive suits. It’s the color—a deep, almost velvety blue—that gives it away. And it fits him perfectly. It suddenly strikes her how frumpy the guys looked at senior prom, rented tuxes too tight across their shoulders, dress shirts not pressed. Also, this boy’s shoes are cool. Whiskey-brown wing-tip oxfords that he’s threaded with bright orange laces. The leather is rich and shiny—not a scuff on them.
The boy looks up from his phone and scans the crowd. When his eyes land on her, Amelia smiles a polite smile. This is apparently enough of an invitation for him to walk over.
“Hey,” he says. Like they know each other.
“Um. Hello.”
Amelia hates that her cheeks are heating up. He is that handsome. Tall and lean, but still muscular, like the boys who become lake lifeguards. He’s tan, with freckles, and his hair is brown, cut tight to the sides and left a little long on top, enough for it to roll into a soft curl. Father Caraway would definitely call him “movie-star handsome.”
He undoes the button of his suit jacket with one hand. “Sad, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Did you know her well?”
“I was one of the girls who worked at her ice cream stand.”
“I figured,” he says, lifting his chin, apparently pleased with himself. He glances around. “Are any of the other girls here too?”
“No. Only me.” Amelia presses her lips together. “I’m sorry. Have we met before?” she asks, knowing they haven’t. She would have remembered. But it seems like the most polite way to find out who, exactly, he is.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh. Well. So . . . how do you know Molly?”
“She was my great-aunt, my grandfather’s sister.” He holds out his hand. “Grady Meade.” Sheepishly, he adds, “I feel terrible that we were late to this, but we got held up with some legal paperwork.”
“Oh my gosh! Wait. Really?” She cups his hand in both of hers. “We didn’t know Molly had any living family!” A few people look toward them, and Amelia quickly dials back the enthusiasm in her voice to something more funeral appropriate. “I’m Amelia Van Hagen. I’m so so so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” He glances down at his hand, still wrapped inside hers. “Thank you.”
Blushing, she quickly releases him. “I was the one who found her. And . . .” Amelia momentarily second-guesses saying the next part. But if it were her relative, she’d want to know. She lowers her gaze respectfully to the sidewalk. “I don’t think she suffered. She looked peaceful. Like she just needed a nap.” Her eyes begin to tear up and she fishes a fresh tissue from her purse.
He is taken aback by her emotion. “Um. Thanks. I’ll make sure to pass that along to my family.”
Amelia dabs at her eyes, recovering. “You’re welcome.”
Grady Meade scratches his head. “Can I ask you something, Amelia?”
“Of course.”
“Are you one of the girls who broke into the ice cream stand on Thursday night?”
The directness of his question leaves Amelia feeling wobbly. No lies come to mind despite how desperately she tries to conjure one. “We . . . we didn’t mean any harm. I promise. We wanted one last taste of her ice cream.”
He leans in conspiratorially. “Hey, look. No worries. I totally get it. I haven’t been out of high school that long. Me and my buddies used to pull the same kind of pranks. This one time, on Mischief Night, we broke into the cafeteria after hours and stole a box of five hundred frozen chicken fingers and Super Glued them onto the statue of our school’s founder. The whole next day, Halloween obviously, he looked like he was getting eaten alive by birds.”
For Amelia, there is no relief in being let off the hook. Rather, she is desperate to explain herself. Taking ice cream wasn’t some juvenile stunt. They did it because the stand meant so much to them. They had only wanted to say goodbye.
She struggles to say as much, but Grady waves her off. “For real, though, I’m hoping one of you girls has a key to the stand. I haven’t been able to find one at the farmhouse.”
“I do. I don’t have it with me right now, but I could run home and get it. I don’t live far.”
Grady seems to consider this, until he spots his mom and dad climbing into a black Mercedes. “We have to get back to our hotel. Can you drop by the stand tomorrow?”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
“Great. Let’s say eleven o’clock.” Grady types this into his phone, returns it to the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket, and walks away. As an afterthought, he looks back and adds, “Thanks.”
Cate pulls up to the corner in her pickup truck. “Who was that?” she asks as Amelia climbs in. “And you’ll have to speak up, because I’ve suffered permanent hearing loss from four back-to-back children’s birthday parties.”
Amelia watches Grady slip into the black Mercedes. “He’s a relative of Molly Meade. Her brother’s grandson.”
“What? No way!” Cate cranes her neck to see him better.
“Yes way.” Amelia rubs her temples. “They were the ones up at her house that night. And by the way, he totally knows we broke in.”
“Eek.”
“He wants me to show up at the stand tomorrow and give him my key.”
“Why are you bummed? He’s cute!”
Amelia slumps in her seat. The idea that anyone would think badly of her is one thing. The reality that a descendant of Molly Meade thinks she would do something as disrespectful as stealing ice cream from a dead woman’s
stand is almost too much to bear.
“Do you think that’s all he wants? For me to return the key?”
Cate shrugs. “I mean, I guess there’s a chance he could ask you out. But it’s not like he lives around here, does he? So what would be the point?” She checks her mirrors and drives off. “Is that what you were thinking?”
It wasn’t. But the truth—that Amelia was hoping there might still be a chance for the ice cream stand—feels too embarrassing to admit.
CHAPTER TEN
AMELIA BARELY SLEEPS. BY MORNING, she’s trying to focus on the one silver lining in this terrible misunderstanding—that Molly Meade has family who will take care of her estate now that she’s gone. That she wasn’t as alone as everyone in Sand Lake assumed. Amelia is still mortified by what Grady must think of her and the girls for doing what they did, stealing ice cream from his great-aunt. Though, thankfully, he was cool about it, she feels their actions have tarnished the entire stand girl legacy, made them appear childish, immature. In this way, handing over her key to Grady almost feels like appropriate penance.
She pours herself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, and though she should be looking over the materials from the bank before tomorrow’s interview, she instead turns on the small flat-screen on the kitchen counter. She loves watching game shows. Her secret talent is guessing the prices of supermarket items, and breakfast cereal is her specialty. It’s always more expensive than contestants assume it’ll be. She’s leaning against the counter, watching as a man celebrates winning his-and-hers Jet Skis, when her phone buzzes with a text from her dad.
Did you see the big news in today’s paper?
Dad starts every day by reading the Sand Lake Ledger even though it’s barely a real newspaper and doesn’t offer much beyond high school sports scores, garage sale listings, and the local police blotter. Amelia spots it on the kitchen table, exactly where he left the copy with Molly’s obituary for her a couple of days ago.
She carries her cereal bowl over. The newspaper is unfolded to a huge color photograph taking up the front page. It’s of Grady Meade, smiling broadly in front of the Meade Creamery stand, hands clasped behind his back, feet spread shoulder width apart. He’s wearing the same deep blue suit he had on at the funeral yesterday, but his tie has been loosened, his pants rolled up just above his ankles, and he’s changed out of his wing tips and into a pair of black Adidas soccer flats. His sunglasses are off. His eyes are as blue as the sky.
The headline reads YOUNG ENTREPRENEUR TO TAKE OVER LOCAL FAMILY BUSINESS.
The spoon slips from Amelia’s hand and plunks into her bowl. Splatters of milk pucker the page.
Grady Meade, 19, is a currently a sophomore business major at Truman University. His original plan for the summer had been to backpack across Europe with his fraternity brothers on an unlimited rail pass. When he discovered that Molly Meade had left him the Meade Creamery ice cream stand in her will, he decided the chance to put his education to use in Sand Lake was too valuable an experience to pass up.
Amelia lowers herself into her seat, blinking in disbelief. Molly Meade left her ice cream stand, her all-girl ice cream stand, to . . . a boy?
“It’s an incredible learning opportunity. Better than a traditional internship, where you’re just watching from the sidelines. I’ll put the skills I’ve been learning at Truman into practice.”
While the last few days have been something of a whirlwind for this Chicago native, one thing that didn’t surprise Grady Meade was to learn that the Meade Creamery ice cream stand is a fixture in the lakes region, and he is keen to continue the legacy his great-aunt saw fit to entrust him with.
“Both my father and his father before him have been extraordinarily successful businessmen. Seeing what my great-aunt Molly has built only reinforces that the Meades are born entrepreneurs.”
Mr. Meade is currently thinking of ways to bring the legendary ice cream stand into the twenty-first century. “Obviously social media is huge right now, and so I’d like to create an online identity where consumers can connect with the stand.” One modern problem he claims to have solved already? “For the first time, Meade Creamery will be a gender-diverse workplace.”
And of course, there’s the question that will be front and center in the minds of his customers—will the ice cream taste as good? To this query, Mr. Meade simply grins. “I’m well aware that my great-aunt’s recipes are the most valuable thing I’ve inherited.”
Meade Creamery will reopen this Tuesday.
Amelia reads the last line twice more before it sinks in.
Tuesday . . . is tomorrow.
She takes a photo of the article and texts it to Cate, who’s well into her shift at JumpZone. Amelia’s phone rings a minute later.
Cate says, her voice competing with the screams of children in the background, “Well, clearly Molly lost her mind there at the end.”
“Do you think?” Amelia is less sure. Remembering the note Molly left for her in the office, the state of the stand, she appeared completely on top of things.
“Why else would she hand over her business to a boy?”
“Who knows. But this could mean we have our jobs back! Right?”
“Unless Grady plans to use the stand as a satellite fraternity house. Invite his bros down to Sand Lake for the summer.” Cate chuckles at the thought of this. “They could change the motto to Ice Cream So Sweet, You Won’t Cheat on Your Girlfriend.”
It’s been hard enough for Amelia to come to terms with Meade Creamery closing for good. Her heart squeezes at the thought of the stand running without her or the other girls. “The article says his friends went to Europe. It’s got to be us.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m just surprised you sound so excited about it.”
“Why?”
“Because sure, we’re likely getting our jobs back, but in what capacity? Are you still going to be Head Girl?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“Here’s what you should do. Tell Grady Meade that the only way you’re coming back to work is if you’re still the Head Girl. Nothing less.”
Amelia blinks. It’s easy to imagine Cate doing that. But could she?
Wistfully, Cate says, “I wish I could go meet him with you, but another birthday party just came in.”
“I wish you could too.”
“Just remember that you have the power! If Grady wants to open for business tomorrow, then he needs us more than we need him.”
Amelia nods to herself. “Yes. Totally true.”
“So quit thinking of this as some job interview where you need to prove that you should be Head Girl. Amelia, you already got the job! Think of this as Grady’s chance to impress you. Feel him out, see if you think he’ll be a good boss. If not, then I say forget it. Because it’ll suck way worse to be a part of the downfall of Meade Creamery than it will be to walk away.”
* * *
Normally, Amelia would roll out of bed and put on a pair of cutoffs and a tank top to run over to the stand when she wasn’t officially working, but she decides she should look more presentable. She showers and opts for a floral romper and her tan leather sandals.
Before heading over, Amelia takes the stand key from her jewelry box and slips it into her white saddlebag. For a second or two, her eyes linger on the flower pin.
She kisses it for luck.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AMELIA DOESN’T EXPECT TO FIND the ice cream stand ready for opening day, because how would Grady know all the things he’d need to do? But as she climbs off her bike, it makes her uncomfortable to see Meade Creamery so not ready. The lawn hasn’t been cut. There are dandelions growing out of every crack in the blacktop. The picnic tables are missing, the trash cans too. Cate is right. Grady does need them more than they need Grady . . . at least in the short term. But the idea of walking away from Meade Creamery, watching Grady stumble from afar as he tries his best on his own, makes her feel even worse.
She pulls the weed
s she passes and flings them toward the woods and then crouches down to look at the pile of things people have been leaving in honor of Molly Meade. Flowers—some bought, some clipped from gardens. Handwritten notes and condolence cards. The impromptu shrine cloaks her in a velvety warmth. She picks up a crayon drawing, obviously made by a child, of a frowning ice cream cone crying two streams of blue tears.
“That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Amelia looks up. Grady is standing behind her, an empty cardboard box in his hands. When their eyes meet, he seems the littlest bit confused.
“It’s Amelia,” she says, reintroducing herself as she rises to her feet. “Amelia Van Hagen.”
“I remember your name, Amelia. It’s just”—he momentarily trails off, his eyes trying to untangle something about her, as if she’d been wearing a disguise at the funeral—“my little cousin always wears her hair braided, the same way yours was yesterday. You . . . look older with it down.”
Amelia touches her hair, threading some of it behind her ear. It’s still damp from her shower.
He stares at her for a beat too long, and then he clears his throat awkwardly. “Let me grab the last of this stuff.” He bends down and begins putting the items into the box, equally careful with each object: a bunch of flowers, a photograph. He picks up a teddy bear and pats away some dirt from its fur. “This is already my third box. People keep coming.”
Amelia is touched that so many have shown up for the stand and for Molly in this way, especially after the somewhat anemic turnout at her memorial service. Molly was clearly beloved. Amelia bends to pick up a photograph. It’s of a family of five lined up in front of the ice cream stand, big to little, with each one holding a corresponding serving of ice cream. The dad has a waffle cone with three scoops, the tallest thing on the menu; the toddler has a kid’s cup. “This place means a lot to a lot of people,” Amelia says, passing it to Grady.
Grady takes a good, long look before placing it in the box. “I’m planning to go through everything when things calm down. Maybe even frame a few things.”