CHAPTER SEVEN
FINN
You’d be shocked, positively shocked, to hear how much ice cream I’ve spilled.
And yes, I’ve cried over some of it, too. Although you’re right that I try to whistle on my way whenever I can.
Everything is full of possibility at the start. Jobs, relationships, hobbies, movies. I love that moment, horizons opening up in front of me. Even if it does lead to disappointment sometimes, the potential is so exciting, and that drives me to give it my all, strive for the absolute best.
And those times when everything actually does turn out for the best? Exactly what I hoped for, or something even better? Totally worth all the let-downs. That’s my philosophy, at least.
Anyway, you might be a cynic, but I also know that you’re an enthusiastic fan, willing to go all in when it matters. So I’d say you’ve got a very powerful streak of optimism hidden in there, too, whether you’ll admit it or not. Hard-assed, no-nonsense optimism.
You care. A lot. It’s why I like you so much.
Sitting in The Scoop, I look up from the note I’m composing on my phone, and my thoughts go straight back to Riley.
At the barbecue, I was intrigued despite his manner, but was I ever wrong about him. He’s not endearingly awkward and gruff. He’s rude and blunt to a fault. The man doesn’t seem to care one little bit about the impact his garage is having on the rest of the neighborhood.
“Snickerdoodles,” I mutter to myself and abruptly stand, irritation prickling up my neck.
There’s a little time before we open today, and I’m alone in the shop. Stewing over yesterday’s encounter, I poke around the kitchen.
Riley probably doesn’t know the first thing about ice cream or baking, let alone the subtleties of crafting a well-balanced flavor. I’ve spent years thinking about texture, temperature, scoop-stability on a cone. To create a perfect flavor, I pull on years of experience and training from culinary school, and I find it deeply satisfying when I share my creations with the rest of the gayborhood, offering something unique from my heart, a flavor you can only get here in Allentown.
I’ve dedicated my career to ice cream, and it burns me up that the biker across the street stomped in here and made a cookie declaration after only two licks.
Even worse is that he might be right.
I pull open a message to my mom and ask for her old snickerdoodle recipe. She texts back immediately from her home in Albany, sharing the recipe and a joke about doodling her morning away in the garden that makes me laugh. After I put the phone aside, I mix together the sugar, flour, fat, and cinnamon. Once the cookies are out of the oven and cooled, I chop them up into deliciously crispy, tiny bits, then mix them in with some of the butter fudge ice cream.
Just one taste confirms it.
“Snickerdoodles,” I curse under my breath. It’s perfection.
When I hear the bell ring above the door, I walk to the front of the shop. Miranda’s arrived, and she’s looking at the thick reference book that I left on the counter.
“Zoning codes from the library,” she says.
“I picked it up this morning,” I say. “Haven’t had a chance to look through yet.”
I know Miranda through the bakery down the road, where she worked for many years. She was considering retirement, but when she saw I was opening The Scoop, the siren song of frozen dairy lured her my way. She’s here part-time for a fresh challenge in the kitchen, but she has been a big help with all the new-business surprises, too. I’m grateful to have her on the team.
We each take seats at a small table, and I flip through the book.
“There’s a section on filing an official complaint with the municipality,” she says. “I remember that from when they tried to shrink the sidewalk outside the bakery.”
“Thanks!” I find the section I’m looking for. “Hopefully, it won’t go that far. Riley is apparently a brick wall, but Chase was kind enough at the barbecue. I’ll draw his attention to the regulations that he’s violating, and with any luck, he’ll find a way to help.”
Miranda gestures to her face. “I just don’t get how a person has so many piercings. Seems like they’d always be in the corner of your vision, distracting you.”
“It’s probably like your nose. You can kind of see it, but your brain learns to ignore it.”
Miranda tries to look at her nose.
I scan through the pertinent regulations and drag my finger down the page.
“Here it is. Noise ordinance.” I read down the subclauses. “Just like I thought. There are even specific decibel limits outlined in the business district. Not to mention a litany of rules about maintaining the pedestrian-friendly nature of the gayborhood.” I look up, satisfied like I just won an argument, because I did. “Riley is going to be forced to take this seriously.”
