Stay Sweet

  She hears Cate sit up. Cate lifts the cap off Amelia’s face. “Umm. So I have something to tell you. I already got another job.”

  Amelia sits up on her knees. “Wait, what? When?”

  Guiltily, Cate says, “Yesterday afternoon. While you were sleeping.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me last night?” As soon as Amelia says it, she knows. The real impetus for the impromptu trip to the ice cream stand was Cate’s guilt.

  “I don’t know. I guess . . . I knew you were already upset about Molly and I didn’t want to make it worse.”

  “Where are you working?”

  Cate hides behind her hands. “JumpZone.”

  JumpZone is a newish business that opened near the Walmart. It’s a place full of huge inflatable bounce houses and slides that people rent out for little-kid birthday parties.

  “Are they still hiring?” Amelia asks, desperate.

  Cate peeks through her fingers. “I don’t think?” After rubbing her face, she drops her hands and reveals a hangdog pout. “Anyway, you don’t want to work there. It’s going to suck. Super-early mornings, inside, screaming kids.”

  Amelia feels like she’s been punched in the gut. She lowers herself back onto her towel.

  Cate returns Amelia’s cap and then takes a sip of their shared Coke. “Don’t be mad. You know I hate the thought of us not working together but I need the money.”

  “It feels like summer’s already over.”

  “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you’d applied to Truman.”

  “Cate, please. I never would have gotten in.” Truman is one of the best universities in the country. It’s incredibly selective. Of course Cate got in. She got in everywhere she applied.

  “Come on. You got into Gibbons! And that was your reach! Which you also wouldn’t have applied to if not for me.”

  This is true. Amelia was accepted to a few small schools, all close to home. But when Gibbons, a much better school that Cate had basically forced her to apply to, said yes, going seemed like a foregone conclusion. Her parents were thrilled, and so was Cate. Amelia was too, though she still, even now, has a hard time imagining herself living so far from Sand Lake.

  Cate turns her head. Amelia sees a pack of gangly young girls, eighth graders, timidly approaching them.

  “Can I help you?” Cate asks.

  “Are either of you Amelia Van Hagen?”

  Cate snickers and returns to her magazine.

  “I’m Amelia,” Amelia quickly answers, with a touch of nervous laugher. “Do you girls need something?”

  “You’re the Head Girl of Meade Creamery, right?” Amelia nods. “We wanted to know if it was true. If the stand really is closed for the summer.”

  Cate flips a page.

  “Yes,” Amelia says. “I’m very sorry to say that it is.”

  The girls exchange disappointed looks. “Oh, okay. Thanks for letting us know.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find other great jobs!” Amelia calls after them. She keeps watching until the girls reach their beach towels. Then, to Cate, she wonders aloud, “Did we ever look that young?”

  Cate has her magazine up in front of her face. She’s not even looking when she says, “Nope.”

  “Do you think we would have been best friends if we hadn’t worked at the stand together?”

  “I don’t like thinking about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it makes everything feel fragile when it’s actually solid. And anyway, what does it matter? We are best friends, and we always will be.”

  Amelia flips over onto her stomach and closes her eyes. Before she got to know Cate, Amelia couldn’t imagine being friends with her. Cate was one of the girls who took a limo to the eighth-grade dinner dance. And now that they are best friends, Amelia can’t imagine life without her. Lots of things change, but thank goodness, that never will.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AMELIA MAKES THE SALAD WHILE her dad tends to the chicken on the backyard grill. She likes making the salad, because he always cuts the onions too thick.

  When her dad comes in, Amelia asks him, “Do you think that if Mom had died when you were young, you would have married someone else?”

  He takes a dish of marinade and a brush from the utensils drawer. He’s not being evasive by not answering. He’s taking his time, really thinking about what he wants to say. “I’ve been in love with your mom for nearly all the years I’ve been alive. It’s hard to say what I would have done back then if I’d lost her, but at this point, I doubt that my heart knows how to beat without her.”

  “You’ve never once gotten your heart broken,” Amelia says.

  “Don’t hold it against me!”

  “I’m not. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Like a miracle.”

  “Never thought about it like that before, but I guess you’re right. With the drama I’ve witnessed in the high school hallways, I guess I should be thankful.”

  There really is something special to that kind of love, Amelia thinks—when teenagers fall in love and stay together—that kind of closeness, of really knowing a person. Her parents have it. And Amelia always hoped she’d have it too. But it didn’t work out that way for her.

  There have been a few boys over the years, and always during the school year. Ty Straub was her first kiss, during the eighth-grade overnight field trip to Washington, DC. Jeb Browning took her to the movies last Valentine’s Day, Wyatt Barnes the Valentine’s Day before that. And there was Andy Farkas, who she would stress-French after SAT prep classes. Andy was also a great prom date, very careful about pinning on her corsage, always making sure she had something to drink when she came off the dance floor. But there’s been no one permanent, no boy who made her feel like she might be falling in love.

  Cate’s even more cautious with her heart, though she flirts more and has kissed double the number of boys as Amelia.

  Maybe because it’s been drilled into their heads by older stand girls not to expect much from high school boys. It’s the science of puberty. Girls develop faster, emotionally and physically. How can any girl expect a high school boy to give her the moon and the stars when he’s basically an overgrown testosterone gland with legs? Better that you wait until college, or maybe even graduate school, before you really let someone into your heart. It was different in her parents’ day, and definitely when Molly was her age. Amelia’s not sure why, but back then, it seemed like boys were more earnest, more devoted, more ready to be in love.

  A few minutes after six, Mom comes through the back door. She’s dressed in her work clothes—a pencil skirt, blouse, and scarf—and removes a manila folder from her briefcase before setting it down at the door. Like Amelia’s dad, she had studied math in college, and was pursuing a master’s degree when she got pregnant with Amelia. She switched gears when Amelia was born, becoming a full-time mom until Amelia entered kindergarten. Then she took a job as a teller in Sand Lake, a career choice that felt more manageable and would keep her close to home. However, it wasn’t long before she began rising up the corporate ladder, and her job became more and more demanding. She now manages services at several branches around the area.

  She kisses Amelia’s dad. “Hey there.”

  “Hi.”

  She gives Amelia’s ponytail a playful swat as she passes by her seat. “I have a bit of good news to share.” Amelia’s reaching for a napkin when her mother says, “Specifically for you, Amelia.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Her mom sets the folder down in front of her. “I found out today that we’re hiring a new teller at the Sand Lake branch.”

  Amelia takes a long, slow sip of her lemonade. “They hire high schoolers?”

  “You’re a college girl now, Amelia.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “It’s a good job,” her mom says. “Pays well. Air-conditioned. And a terrific résumé builder. I wouldn’t be your direct supervisor,” she clarifies, and then, with a smile, adds, “but
your boss would work for me.”

  “I’d have to dress up,” Amelia hedges. She can’t imagine having to wear a skirt and heels every day. She still has some sore spots from the strappy sandals she wore to prom. She slipped them off about halfway through the night, but the damage had already been done. “Also, I suck at math, Mom. You know this. Dad knows this.”

  “You would need to dress up, yes. And, lest you forget, you’re the one who chose not to attend a state school, so you’ll do what you need to. And it would be genetically impossible for you to suck at math! Anyway, everything’s automated. There’s very little math you’d have to do.”

  Amelia flips through the materials in the folder and tries to imagine working there. It won’t be Meade Creamery, but maybe if she can work the drive-thru lane, it will feel similar. She imagines herself on top of her steel stool, elbows on the counter, chin in her hands, gazing listlessly out of the bank’s large drive-thru window. When a car pulls up, she can send out the little tray and get a whiff of fresh, non-air-conditioned air.

  “Mom, can you feel the sun through those drive-thru windows? Or is it too thick because it’s bulletproof?”

  “You know, I never noticed one way or the other. You can see for yourself on Tuesday. Your interview is at noon.”

  “Tuesday? But I might have to help clean out the stand or something.” Amelia has no reason to suspect this, of course, but she says it anyway.

  Mom reaches across the table and takes Amelia’s hand. “Meade Creamery isn’t your responsibility anymore, Amelia.”

  It isn’t said to wound her. Amelia knows her mom is right. But it still hurts to hear—the definition of a painful truth.

  * * *

  The next morning, Molly’s obituary is in the paper.

  MEADE, Molly Anne—died of natural causes on Wednesday. She was 88. The only and beloved daughter of the late James Meade and Erin (Kelly) Meade, sister to Liam Meade and Patrick Meade (both deceased).

  Ms. Meade was a lifelong resident of Sand Lake and a graduate of North High School. During WWII, she sold her homemade ice cream at the Meade Dairy Farm stand. Her signature flavor, Home Sweet Home, was reportedly created when war rations depleted available sugar. After a fire destroyed the barn, her parents retired, and Ms. Meade took up operations. She relaunched the business as Meade Creamery and focused solely on the production of ice cream until her passing.

  There are no known surviving relatives.

  A memorial service will be held on Sunday at 2:00 PM at Holy Redeemer Catholic Church on Poplar Street in Sand Lake.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “YOU’RE GOING TO MOLLY’S FUNERAL this afternoon, aren’t you?”

  “Why, hello and good morning to you, too, Cate,” Amelia groans. She’s lying on top of her neatly made bed in her bra and undies, a towel wrapped around her head.

  Cate laughs hard into the phone. “I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

  Amelia lets out a long exhale. Across the room are three outfit choices her mom said would be good choices for her bank interview on Tuesday. They also happen to work for a funeral, an irony not lost on Amelia. She rolls over onto her stomach and presses her face into her pillow. “If you want to know the truth, I’m trying to talk myself out of going, so it’s a good thing you called. You can tell me how silly I’m being.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because, like you said, I didn’t even know her,” Amelia admits.

  “That’s true. Also, to that excellent point, I’d add that although you found her dead body, it doesn’t mean you must personally shepherd Molly Meade into the afterlife. Plus, you’ve never been to a funeral before. They aren’t romantic like you’re thinking. They’re mad boring.” The phone is muffled for a second as Cate switches from one ear to the other. “Actually, when I die, make sure and tell my mom I don’t want any of that stuff. I want a party. With expensive champagne. And dancing.”

  “Sure thing. For the record, I don’t think funerals are romantic. I think they’re sad. But these are very sound reasons to skip it. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Though I think you should go.”

  “Why?”

  “If you don’t, you’ll feel terrible. That’s just who you are, Amelia. You’re a good person.”

  Amelia smiles for the first time that day. “So what are the chances I can convince you to come be a good person with me?”

  “Somewhere in the range of impossible to totally impossible. I have to be at JumpZone for training. Apparently, there’s a whole protocol about how to disinfect an inflatable if a kid pees or pukes. Which, as the newest employee, I’m sure is a responsibility that will fall to me.”

  “You could work at the bank with me!” Her mom said only one teller position was open, not two, but maybe if Amelia begged, she could get it approved.

  “Ewww. I’d have to dress up. Also, you know I love your mom, but I can’t imagine working for her. It’s one thing when I show up late to your house for dinner, but if I’m late to work?” Cate starts cracking up. “Oh my God, Amelia. Imagine if your mom had to fire me. How awkward would that be?”

  “It was worth a shot.”

  “Hey, text me after the funeral. If the timing works, I’ll come pick you up.”

  Amelia goes with the black scoop-neck bodysuit and pale pink pleated skirt and her gray suede ankle booties with the low heel because she plans to walk over to Holy Redeemer. It isn’t far, maybe a mile, and riding a bike feels unsuitable. She does a braid crown that wraps around her head and pins the end behind her ear with a bobby pin. Just a little makeup, tasteful, some blush and mascara and a glossed lip. On her way out the door, she doubles back, pulls a few tissues from the box in the foyer, and stuffs them into her purse. There’s no way she’s getting through this dry-eyed.

  * * *

  Holy Redeemer is a small church, but even with a handful of people in every pew, it still feels sparse, especially when compared to the normal Sunday mass crowd. There are the old people who probably come to anything church related, a few of the regular customers, Sand Lake’s mayor. The first pew has been left open for family. But Molly Meade doesn’t have any, so it’s empty.

  Amelia looks around for any other stand girls who might have shown up. She thought about sending a text out, but she didn’t want to make the girls feel bad if they weren’t planning to go. And apparently, no one else was. She’s the youngest person there by far. She takes her seat in a row halfway between the altar and the door. People around her whisper.

  “No one has seen her for so long. I wonder if it’ll be open casket.”

  “I doubt the farmhouse is worth much.”

  “The property it’s on could sell for a pretty penny to one of those housing developers.”

  Mrs. Otis takes her place at the piano and begins to play. Amelia flips through one of the hymnals simply for something to look at. She never, ever sings.

  After two somber songs, the doors at the back of the church open and everyone stands up. Amelia gets nervous that there won’t be anyone to wheel in the casket, except there is no casket. Only an urn, which Father Caraway, despite being ninety-something years old, carries up the aisle himself. For that, Amelia feels both relieved and sad.

  Father’s head is completely bald except for his eyebrows, which are white and bristly like two caterpillars. He positions himself behind the lectern, then with a shaking hand, pulls a pair of smudged reading glasses out from the folds of his robe and anchors them on the pink bulb of his nose.

  “Ice Cream So Sweet, You Won’t Miss Your Sweetheart.” Father looks up and smiles tenderly. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Meade Creamery’s original slogan.” The entire church nods. “A similar adage might be When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade. Or Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining. This is how Molly Meade lived her life.”

  Amelia’s attention begins to drift. Father comes to the stand once a month in the summertime, in his black clerical shirt and white tab collar, black pants,
and a fraying Panama hat that looks about as old as he does. Father’s regular order is a single scoop of chocolate with hot fudge and a cherry, which he tries to pay for with a handful of change. The girls never take his money, but he’ll put however many quarters he’s brought in their tip jar.

  Father lifts his head, removes his glasses, and slides them into the folds of his robe. After a chest-rattling cough, he says, “I happened to be with Molly Meade the night she became engaged to a fellow named Wayne Lumsden.”

  At this, Amelia leans forward in the pew, elbows on her knees. She knows well the tragic story of Molly and Wayne, or, more specifically, the ending. But nothing about happier times. When it all began.

  “I was a newly ordained priest around the time of the war when I arrived at this parish.” Father dabs his forehead. “There was no time to get comfortable, no chance for me to ease into things. Not when every week, another family was sending their boys off, boys only a few years younger than myself.”

  Father went on. “It was customary in those days for the priest to visit the family, bless a final meal before they departed, and lead a prayer asking for the boy’s safety. As you can imagine, this was generally not a festive occasion. There would be so much wonderful food, prepared with love, that nobody felt like eating.

  “I shared two meals with the Meade family in a year, one for each of Molly’s brothers—Patrick and Liam. The third time I was asked was the following fall, because a fellow named Wayne Lumsden was shipping out at the end of September. Wayne didn’t have much in the way of family. When he passed through Sand Lake looking for work, the Meades essentially took him in and gave him a job at their dairy, which speaks to the sort of generous, kind Irish Catholic family they were.”

  Amelia realizes this must be the reason why over the years she’s heard plenty of anecdotes about Molly Meade and never much about Wayne Lumsden. He wasn’t actually from Sand Lake.

  “Now, the good Lord sprinkled Molly and Wayne with the same stardust he must use to make movie stars.” Father’s face spreads into a smile. “And to the surprise of no one in town, they fell deeply in love.”