“Would he really do that?”
“He said his investment in me wasn’t looking like a promising return.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, so when the opportunity to run Meade Creamery presented itself, I jumped to take it on. I’m basically using it to prove myself to him, so I can go back to school.”
“What if we don’t find the recipes? What will you do then?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sure he won’t let you not go back to Truman. I mean, he’s seen how hard you’ve been trying. Right?”
“Like I said, my dad and I have a very weird relationship.”
“So why didn’t you reach out when I didn’t come back to the house to make ice cream these last few days?”
“I wanted to, but not because of the ice cream. I . . . missed hanging out with you, Amelia. Plus, I was ashamed of the way I behaved when my dad came to visit.” He shakes his head and lets out a long exhale. “I’m realizing that I’m more like him than I thought.”
Though Amelia isn’t sure exactly what Grady means, she reaches out to touch him, comfort him, but then pulls her hand back at the last second.
If Grady notices, he pretends not to. He keeps his eyes on the road. “We’ll be there soon.”
* * *
A little over two hours later, they arrive at a large iron gate anchored by a stately wall of tall hedges on either side. Grady rolls down his window, leans out of the Cadillac, and punches a code into a sleek little box mounted on a metal pole. After a beep, the gate slowly swings opens.
Grady pulls forward and a thudding fills the car. They are no longer on a paved road. This one is cobblestone and the pavers are beautifully laid, gray and white, in a chevron pattern.
They drive past a few smaller buildings. One or two cottages, and then a big garage with four barn-style doors. The driveway curves and then reveals an enormous house in the distance. It is the biggest, most opulent house Amelia has ever seen.
“This is your beach house?”
“Not mine, my dad’s. And not for much longer. It’s for sale,” Grady explains. “He bought a place in Palm Beach that’s near my stepmom’s family two summers ago. He hardly comes here anymore.”
As they climb the front steps, little motion-sensor lights click on. There are beautiful succulent plants and window boxes bursting with vibrant petunias and dripping in sweet potato vines.
They reach the front door, which is also oversize. Grady takes out his phone and taps some app, and it clicks open.
As they walk in, the lights around them automatically turn on. He types a code into another small panel. Window shades roll up, exposing floor-to-ceiling two-story windows.
Amelia slips off her espadrille wedges, leaving them by the door. It’s a beautiful house for sure, but it has about as much cozy feeling as a hotel lobby. It’s ornate, well decorated, but without a single homey touch.
She follows Grady into the open kitchen, which has a huge island topped by marble—swirling blue like ocean water—and a dining table with twelve chairs, crowned by a driftwood chandelier. Grady opens a cabinet door that camouflages a fridge. Inside, soda cans are lined up, and bottles of Snapple, too. There’s also Gatorade, all orange, the flavor Grady drinks. There aren’t any groceries, but below is a pull-out freezer full of frozen pizzas and burritos.
“Are you hungry?”
Amelia shakes her head no. She can’t believe that the ice cream recipes might be here. This place is so unlike the Meades’ farmhouse in every way.
She turns around and sees watercolor streaks of pinks and blues through the windows, the ocean shimmering, the caps of the waves dusted in the glitter of dusk. Grady pulls open a sliding glass door for her. The air is sticky and salty outside, thick and still hot despite it being evening. There’s an outdoor shower and a hot tub and a wet bar, which they pass to get to the railing. Amelia focuses past the grassy dunes to the beach. No footprints on the sand, the lifeguard chair tipped over, an old man walking a small dog right where the waves break, and pipers poking their long thin beaks into the wet sand.
She has only ever been to the ocean once. Down in Florida, visiting a cousin of her father’s. The waves scared her off from going in deeper than her knees. Aside from that, every summer has been spent swimming in the smooth, still waters of Sand Lake.
“Sometimes you can see dolphins out there,” Grady says, pointing off toward the ocean.
“Grady, this house . . .”
“I know.” Something tightens in his face. “My dad is really good at making money.” His eyes move slowly across the horizon, as if trying to capture something, a panoramic picture. Then he turns his back to the water. “Far less successful at being a dad, unfortunately.” He pushes himself off the railing and heads inside.
“It’s okay. If you need more time.”
“No. I just want to get this over with.”
He leads her back through the kitchen, and then down a staircase. They pass a gym, a home theater. “Her stuff’s in this room.” He takes a deep, shivery breath. And then he shakes out his arms and legs, like an athlete psyching himself up for a race. He doesn’t want to be here, doing this.
Though she feels excited, hopeful that they are so close now, she wishes it wasn’t coming at Grady’s expense.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE ROOM IS THE ONLY one Amelia has seen that has no furnishings. There are no beachy decorative accessories, like glass vases filled with alternating layers of sand and shells, or starfish cast in silver.
No. The light is harsh, the walls lined with stacks of cardboard moving boxes, all the same size, four tall. Each one has a white sticker in the bottom left corner, the size of an index card, listing the contents. Printed out on a computer, not even handwritten.
Grady approaches the stack nearest to him. It’s as tall as he is. He presses his hand flat against the topmost box, as if he’s searching inside it for a heartbeat. The sticker reads: Clothes: semiformal. The one below that, Fiction E–La. Below that, Handbags, hosiery, scarves, socks. Below that, Desk accessories, stationery. Then the floor.
Amelia can see the redness creeping up his neck as he tells her, “We’ve owned this place for six years. Before that, he had them in our old beach house, which is maybe a mile away from here.”
Amelia struggles to make sense of this. Clearly Grady’s dad loved his mom. If he didn’t, he would have thrown this stuff away years ago. “Well . . . he took a lot of care in packing it up.”
Grady turns away from her. “He paid someone to do this. Probably one of his assistants.”
Amelia says, “I’m sure it was hard for him.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was,” Grady says, every muscle in him tightening.
“Do you want to wait outside?”
He seems to be summoning something from deep within himself. “No,” he says, jaw set. He shimmies the stack out so he can see the labels on the ones stacked behind it.
And that’s how they go through the room, with Grady pushing, restacking, and shifting boxes until he finds ones to open.Amelia’s not sure if his picks are because something on the label has him thinking the ice cream maker might be inside, or if something she can’t account for piques his curiosity. Whenever it happens, though, she makes sure to turn her back to him, to allow him that little bit of privacy.
She only opens one box herself, one marked Serving Pieces. Inside is a sterling silver tea set, each tarnished piece cloaked in dark felt.
It takes only fifteen minutes before Grady finds the ice cream maker in a box labeled Antiques 3. It’s a heavy wooden bucket with a cap that is clamped on. A white crank handle is attached to the top, and though the mechanisms are likely old, they still spin with ease.
Grady gives it a shake. Inside they hear papers fluttering around.
He holds on to the base while Amelia unscrews the cap. At the bottom they find a wedding card.
Dear Pat and Diana,
I hope you’ll f
orgive a spinster for sharing some unsolicited advice on your wedding day, but this saying (a favorite of my father’s) has proven itself true for me, time and time again.
The fruits of hard work are sweeter than the sweetest of nectars.
Though life may not always be easy, it still can be plenty sweet.
With love,
Aunt Molly
Folded up in the card is one oversaturated paper photocopy, the contrast turned up so high that every wrinkle and fold on the original casts a deep shadow on its duplicate. Just like the ancient photocopier at the Sand Lake Public Library, Amelia thinks. Four index cards have been copied onto the page, with Molly’s handwritten ingredient amounts for her commercial machine. Not that it says so explicitly, but Amelia can tell by the measurements, which Molly has annotated in pencil, sizing them down for the hand-cranked ice cream maker.
Where are those cards? Still in the house somewhere? How could they have missed them?
There are no step-by-step instructions. That’s okay, though, because Amelia’s played around with the machine and read enough other recipes to know. She can see exactly how her experiments fell short. In Molly’s vanilla, she used less white sugar and more of the barley syrup the vanilla beans are soaked in, which Amelia thought was used only to preserve them. Amelia came closest with the proportions of the chocolate, though she never allowed it to cure for the correct amount of time in the batch chiller. Amelia’s attempts at strawberry were way off.
Her heart catches when she sees the card for Home Sweet Home.
Wild honeysuckle flowers, at least three handfuls, steeped overnight in cream
And it’s as if the secret is now in her mouth, making immediate and absolute sense. Sweet, floral, like honey, but milder. All the honeysuckle growing wild in the old cow pastures.
It’s the taste of home.
Amelia feels euphoric, but Grady is somewhere on the other end of the spectrum. It’s as if all the adrenaline that propelled him this far tonight has burned off, run dry. He leans against a stack of boxes and gives a deep exhale.
She steps closer to him, puts her hand on his arm. “Do you want to stay awhile? Look through . . .”
He closes the boxes and begins to stack them back up carefully. Amelia helps. “I could just leave it a mess, he’d never know I came in here,” he says. But he continues to straighten them anyway.
“If you told him, would he be mad?”
“I honestly don’t care.”
She’s not sure what she prefers—Grady’s desperate need for his dad’s affection, or this sudden icy detachment. Hopefully the latter is just temporary, a response to emotions being so raw. Amelia would hate to think she played any role in breaking a family apart.
Grady shuts the door to the room, turns off the lights in the house. Amelia slips her shoes back on at the door.
He must have so much going through his mind right now. But he doesn’t share any of it.
* * *
Grady slides from one lane to the other and back again. Whichever lane they pick goes slower than the other. Holiday traffic. He lays on the horn.
It’s a little after eight o’clock and they are barely halfway to Sand Lake.
Amelia’s phone battery is almost gone. She tries sending a text to Cate, letting her know they’re on their way back, but stuck in traffic. It dies in the middle.
Grady fiddles with the dial. Nothing comes in super clear on the old Cadillac radio, and the scratchiness gives the music a sort of faraway sound. Amelia tells herself not to fall asleep. Falling asleep is the worst thing you can do to a driver on a long road trip.
* * *
“Amelia.”
She is curled up next to him. She sits up, slides over to her side of the front seat. They are finally back in Sand Lake. It’s nearing midnight.
“Oh no!” Amelia says, breathless.
“Where do you want me to drop you off?” Grady asks.
She shows him the way.
The headlights shine in the trees, the car rocking over the sandy path, evergreen branches scraping at the sides. Amelia keeps waiting to see the back bumper of a parked car. Cate’s truck, or one of the other girls. But it stretches, empty, all the way to the water.
Amelia climbs out. She can see where they built the fire. It’s died out, just a pile of ash. The sand is smoothed from blankets, and there are shreds of colorful papers from fireworks lit and exploded.
Grady’s out of the car. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry. I drove as fast as I could.”
“I know you did.” Amelia presses her lips together. This isn’t Grady’s fault. Amelia made the choice to go with him. She will have to deal with the consequences.
“Should I take you home?”
Amelia nods. “But I need to make a quick stop first.”
* * *
Grady parks the Cadillac but leaves it running, headlights on. Together, in the bright beams, they pull honeysuckle flowers off the bushes. Amelia holds out the hem of her shirt and they fill it like a basket.
“How much do you need?”
“Three handfuls.” The smell is intoxicating, wafting up directly into her nose.
He holds a blossom up to the headlight beam. “This looks like your pin.”
Amelia looks. Five petals, exactly the same size as the Head Girl pin. The secret was in plain sight all along.
* * *
Her parents have waited up for her. They are watching Independence Day—her father’s favorite movie—each with their own bowl of popcorn, because Dad likes butter and Mom doesn’t.
“How’d your fireworks show go off?” Dad asks.
“With a bang,” Amelia teases, and kisses them both on the cheek. She doesn’t want to lie. But she doesn’t want to get into it either. Though, as she kisses each of them on the cheek, she feels lucky. Lucky that she has always had their support, their trust, and their love.
In her bedroom, Amelia plugs her phone into the charger and waits until it come back to life. It is now close to one in the morning. As soon as it has enough juice, she texts Cate.
I’m so sorry.
Cate doesn’t write back immediately. Amelia puts her phone down on the bed, watching the screen as she changes into her pajamas.
Did you find the recipes at least?
Yes.
There’s another stretch of lag time. Amelia takes the phone into the bathroom with her to brush her teeth when Cate finally responds.
What’s the secret of Home Sweet Home?
For a second, Amelia hesitates, her mouth full of minty foam. Should she tell? But to not share this with her, Cate of all people, feels like a betrayal. She spits, bites down on her toothbrush, and uses both hands to text.
Honeysuckle. Molly picked them in her fields and steeped the flowers in the ice cream base overnight.
Cate doesn’t text back, and Amelia doesn’t expect her to. But she hopes that as things at Meade Creamery finally get back to normal, she and Cate will get back to normal too.
July 5, 1945
The Red Cross benefit is in two weeks. I’m so grateful for all the help I’m getting from the girls. They are a talented bunch. Painting the banner for my table, sewing us all matching aprons. Martha even decorated a tin box to keep the money in. They’ve taken care of everything.
All I need to do is make the ice cream.
It will sound terrible to write this, but I’ve always thought of myself as unremarkable, even though I’ve been told all my life how beautiful I am. But now . . . I wish I knew how to put it into words. When I’m making ice cream . . . I . . . feel as if I have found my whole self.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AMELIA WAKES UP TO A text from Grady.
No cereal this morning.
And when she arrives at the farmhouse, he is already holding the screen door open for her, Moo cradled in his arms. He has made them both a full breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, crispy bacon, sliced banana. He’s even dressed up, a madr
as plaid shirt and a polka-dot tie.
“You are good at eggs,” she admits, taking a bite.
“Told you,” he boasts.
They eat quickly, excited to get working, and descend the basement stairs.
“I called Marburger Dairy and asked them to resume the deliveries Molly used to get. They should come by later this afternoon.”
“What if I don’t get it right?” Amelia asks, tying an apron around her.
“I have complete faith in you.”
She quickly ducks her head in the refrigerator to hide her blushing cheeks. Inside is a large plastic container of the Home Sweet Home base that she prepared last night. The honeysuckle flowers have floated to the top.
“Grady, can you help me? I don’t want to spill any.” Even though he just got comfortable on the couch, he jumps right up. “I’ll hold the strainer,” she tells him, unhooking a huge silver conical sieve from the side of the worktable and grabbing an empty plastic tub. “Take this tub and pour the base through the strainer into this.”
He does exactly what Amelia says. The cream is tinged a soft yellow. The strainer holds all the bruised flowers of honeysuckle, coated with the cooked cream. She selects a blossom and pops it into her mouth, sucking it clean. It tastes deliciously, delicately sweet.
Amelia walks over to the ice cream maker, clicks it on, and sets the time and the temperature to what Molly Meade indicated in her recipe, which Amelia has hung on the refrigerator door. She also took a photo of it with her phone as a backup. Just in case.
She flips up the silver hatch at the top of the machine and pours the base in.
“Eight minutes,” she says.
“Okay.” Grady flops back down on the couch and taps his foot.
Amelia is so nervous, she can hardly handle it. She stands next to the machine and listens to it churn and spin.
“I could put on a record,” Grady offers.
“Yeah, sure.”
He picks one out. The Mills Brothers. Four African-American men in white suit jackets and bow ties. “These dudes look cool.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you in that same outfit.”
“Hardy har.” He puts the needle down and a jazzy harmony kicks in. Grady sits on the couch and taps his foot along with the beat. “I can’t believe you figured out how to use that thing,” he says, pointing at the huge silver vat of the pasteurizer.