Mallory video calls Jolene on our way to the ice cream shop. They speak in high-pitched tones, there are watered down screams, and Jolene announces plans to spoil the little girl rotten.
"Hey wait," Jolene says once the excitement has simmered. "What car are you in?"
Mallory trains the phone on me. I give her a quick wave before putting my hand back on the steering wheel. Something tells me I just became best friends with precautions and safety.
"Hugo went with you to the appointment?" Jolene asks, as if I'm not eighteen inches away.
"Moral support," Mallory explains.
Jolene isn't buying it. "Uh-huh. Be honest with yourself, Mal. You two are a thing."
Mallory opens her mouth, and I can tell by the set of her jaw she's getting ready to argue.
Or deflect.
So I get there first. "I'm still working on wearing her down," I tell Jolene.
A devilish grin curls Mallory's lips. "He has a breeding kink."
I shake my head. Pinch the bridge of my nose. I should have known Mallory would go toe-to-toe with me.
"I don't know what that is," Jolene sings out, "but I like it."
Mallory rolls her eyes playfully. "Of course you do."
"Jolene," I say, and Mallory turns the phone toward me. "For the record, I don't have a breeding kink, but I am craving ice cream."
"Hang up with me and get your ice cream," Jolene commands.
Mallory repositions the phone so it faces her. "I'll talk to you later, ok? We need to chat about work stuff." She blows Jolene a kiss, and ends the call.
Olive Township's hidden gem ice cream parlor is off the beaten path, tucked away in an eclectic shopping center called The Village. There's a post office, an antique store, a yoga studio, and various other stores all facing an outdoor courtyard with a large water fountain in the center.
"This is such a cute little space," Mallory says, stopping to inspect an old wagon wheel. "Very rustic." Shepeers into the window of the antique store, walking along slowly until we reach the ice cream shop.
I hold open the door for her and we step inside. It smells exactly as it always has, like fresh waffle cones, and sugar. Mallory points at the neon sign on the wall, a dripping ice cream cone with the wordsIt won't lick itself.
I lean down, my lips ghosting her ear when I whisper, "I was in seventh grade when I realized that sign had two meanings."
"Who is the owner of this place?" she whisper-hisses.
As if conjured, Ruth dances from the back of the store. She stops, realizing the music isn't on. She goes toward a little box on the wall, presses a button, and '50s music fills the air.
"That's better," she says, and her dancing resumes.
I wave at the old woman. Vivi told me Ruth turned eighty-two on her last birthday. "Hi, Ruth."
"Thought that was you, Hugo. Who's your girl?"
My arm winds around Mallory's waist, my palm making its way to the side of her belly. I pull her in close. "Ruth, this is Mallory."
Ruth squints over the cold case holding rows of ice cream. "Are you having a baby?"
One thing about the old bird, she doesn't pull any punches.
Mallory beams. "A girl."
Ruth points at me. "Hopefully she'll have his eyebrows. Never thought it was very fair of God to put eyebrows like that on a man. Been drawing mine on my whole life, and he gets those shapely caterpillars?"
