Backing up, I spot the cooler behind her and empty shelves behind me. There’s a wide counter at the window for customers to order.
“Ice cream stand?” I guess.
A gleam hits her eyes as she leans out the little doors. “Tables all the way down on this side.” She waves her hand to the right, then to the left. “But not on this one because there will be a line.”
She nods so assuredly and completely confident that I can’t resist teasing. “For sure,” I tell her.
“An awning here for the rain,” she says, looking overhead before spinning around, too excited to stop. “Sprinkles and sauces, and other than cones and cups, I’ll have two signature sundaes which I’m still working on ideas for.”
I don’t know if it’s the way she talks with her hands, showing me where everything will go, or if I’m just remembering how much of a planner she always was. I have this memory of her sitting by herself on the floor her dad, Madoc, and I had just built that would become her treehouse. She sat up there for hours with her notebook, drawing up a floor plan, and making a list of items to move in. I had to go retrieve her when it was time for dinner.
“I love how my shop smells.” Her voice is nearly a whisper. “Every scent is good. But nothing smells like ice cream.”
“What does it smell like?”
She draws in a breath, leaning on the little counter as I gaze down at her.
A ghost of a smile plays on her lips. “Like no school and no homework and no…” She exhales. “…no one telling you what to do. Like summer and a hot day of getting lost on your bicycle.” She meets my eyes. “No matter the flavor, it always smells like freedom. But especially butter pecan.”
I breathe out a laugh. And for just a second, I feel like I’m really home. I remember those summer days. Popsicles, crickets buzzing, and the smell of hot grass and chlorine. I’d always find her in the park or the cemetery, somewhere quiet where she could ride her bike.
Who do her brothers send to keep an eye on her now?
I push the thought away, not liking the irritation climbing the back of my neck. It was always my job.
My eyes drop to her lips, and she parts them, inhaling a quick breath.
“So…” She clears her throat and swallows. “Um, Jax told me last night that you’re back to put your mother’s house on the market,” she adds. “I was sad when she decided to move to Arizona. But I understood.” She looks back out the shutters. “Not much here for her.”
No.
Not much here.No family. No grandkids. After I left eight years ago, I never came back. I bought my mom tickets to come see me, and I met her in various cities I might’ve been working, but…
No sense keeping a house for just one person. She’s happy out West. She has friends, a community, and manageable weather.
A timer goes off, and Quinn spins around, returning to the kitchen.
“With all of our technology,” she calls out behind her as I close the shutters again, “it seems you should’ve been able to handle everything from Dubai.”
I watch her remove a pan of croissants and slide in another, setting the timer again.
I wouldn’t have had to come back if my mother hadn’t purposely left my father’s things in the house. If I didn’t want them trashed, I had to come back for them.
I’m not going to tell Quinn that, though. I don’t want her to know that I wouldn’t have returned if I didn’t have to. I would’ve continued to act like they all didn’t exist because it was the only way to not miss them so much.
I veer around her worktable and snatch my cap off her head. “Aren’t you glad I’m back, though?”
“Hey!” Her hair comes tumbling down in front of her eyes.
I work on resizing it for my head. “You should be wearing a hair net anyway,” I tell her.
“But…”
I pluck a hot croissant off her pan. “Gotta go.”
“Hey!” she barks louder this time. “That’s two sixty-five.”
I pull apart the pastry and take a huge bite. “For flour and water?” I tease, knowing croissants are mostly butter.
