“It still is,” I said. “I’m Bronwyn Crewse.”
“Get out of here,” he said, smiling. “Aloysius and Kaylene’s granddaughter?”
A smile beamed across my face. “Yes.” I tilted my head and looked at him. “You know them?”
“Yes.” Dimples appeared when he smiled, and his blue eyes seemed to sparkle at the memory. “Of course I know them. How are they?”
“Oh, my grandmother passed away a few years back. But my grandfather is doing great. I just left him.”
“He still lives on Carriage Hill Lane? I’ve been living out of town for a while. Just passing through and couldn’t miss saying hello to my friends in Chagrin Falls.”
“Yep, that’s the family house.”
“It’s funny how things can be so different when you’ve been away, but some things, the important things”—he looked into my eyes—“seem to stay the same.” He stroked the puppy. “I visited at the house a few times with your grandparents. That was when everyone was around—Graham, Denny, Jack. You kids. I remember you guys were big on family. Especially your grandmother.”
“Wow, you do know everyone,” I said. “And, yes, she was. Family meant a lot to her. It means a lot to all of us.”
“Well, I owned the store next door here,” he said. “So we were like family—in a neighborly sort of way.”
I frowned and looked at the wooden sign hanging over the door that read The Flower Pot, the village’s only florist. It had been open only a year or so, and I realized he was talking about the shop that had been there a quarter century ago. “Clawson’s Bike Shop?” I asked.
“You remember?”
“I do,” I said. “But you’re not Mr. Clawson.” I remembered him, too.
“No,” he said. “Good memory.” Chuckling, he shook his head. “I’m not Dan. He ran the shop. I, along with his wife, was in charge of the back office. We were more like his silent partners. I’m Steve.” He switched the dog to the other arm and stuck out his hand for me to shake.
“Nice to meet you, Steve,” I said, and took his hand.
“We aren’t just meeting for the first time,” he said. “You don’t remember me?”
“Sorry,” I said, my forehead creasing.
“You were young,” he said. “But I probably spent more time in your grandparents’ store than I did in my own.” He winked. “Helped them through a few rough bumps. That was a long time ago, though.”
I didn’t know what bumps he meant, but trying to run a business, I’d discovered, didn’t come without them.
“You probably don’t remember, but those were good times. Good memories.”
I have lots of good childhood memories, I thought.
Steve wore a camel-colored overcoat that looked expensive. He didn’t have it buttoned up, and with the wind that was blowing through, I figured he must be cold. His cheeks were flushed, his shoulders hunched. Still, he was better prepared than I’d been. He wore brown gloves that weren’t leather and, to me, they—along with the red scarf that he now shared with the dog—didn’t match the rest of him. His rubber overshoes were mottled with dried slush and salt, and he wore a gray chunky-knit mock turtleneck sweater that was almost the same color as his hair.
“I should get going. We’re re-opening today,” I said proudly.
“Then I’ll be sure to drop in and get a scoop,” he said with a firm nod. “I remember how I loved your grandmother’s mud pie ice cream.” He licked his tongue across his upper lip. “That rich fudge swirl, then crunchy little cookie pieces. Yum.” His dimples seemed to deepen.
I laughed. “Well, I’ll see if I can’t whip some up for you when you stop back by.”
He smiled at me, then looked up the street. “I might even drop in and say hello to your grandfather while I’m here. He’d probably fall over if he saw me.”
“I’m sure he’d love to see you. Especially since you remember my grandmother. She is his favorite topic of conversation.”
“Yep. I just might do that.” He looked down at the dog. “Right now, though, I gotta drop this little guy off at the police station.” He turned the dog to face him. Leaning in close, he said, “We gotta find who you belong to, don’t we?”
“Good luck,” I said.
“I think we’ll be okay,” he said. “Must’ve been meant for me to find him. He wouldn’t have lasted long out here.” He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes seemingly searching mine for something. “I guess it was meant for me to find you, too.”
“To find me?” I said.
“Yes.” He relaxed his stare. “To remind me where I can buy the best ice cream in Cleveland. You still have the best, right?”
I nodded. “We do.”
“Then I’ll definitely be back.” And with that, he took off in the opposite direction of the police station. I turned to tell him he was going the wrong way, but ended up just watching him walk aimlessly down the street. He tucked the puppy under his coat and started to whistle as he walked. Maybe he had something else he needed to do first.
Yay! I thought. I’ll at least have one customer today.
“What am I saying?!” I flapped my arms. “We’re probably going to sell out!”
I hurried around to the side of the building, pulled off one of the gloves my mother had given me and dug down into my jeans pocket. I wrapped my fingers around the key ring, pulled it out and squeezed it tight.
Blessings abound for the home of a family . . .
My Grandma Kay’s words.
Kaylene Brewster Crewse was all about family and all about home. She even imbued others with that sentiment. Just like she had with the man I’d just met. And that was what she made the ice cream shop about, too. Those words were in my heart and mind from the moment PopPop gave me the keys and every minute after.
I walked around to the side of building, drew in a breath and, standing at the door, stuck the key in, turned the lock and pushed it open.
chapter
FOUR
Are we late?” Maisie rushed through the door, red-faced, words stumbling out, her arms laden with cloth bags and a book bag, and her red, usually curly hair still wet and droopy from what must’ve been a hasty morning shower. She looked wildly around the kitchen. “I couldn’t find my lucky socks, the ones with the ice cream cones on them.”
“No,” I said, and smiled. I brushed my hands down my apron and looked up at the wall-mounted clock. “You’re right on time.”
My help had arrived. Well, most of it. My never-on-time mother would be straggling in soon, I was sure. I had given them a start time an hour after mine. I wanted to meet my deliveries, spend time alone to take it all in and be able to create without any interruptions.
The three of them wouldn’t be my usual morning crew. Riya and Maisie had jobs: Riya was a resident at the hospital where my dad worked and Maisie was a waitress at Molta’s. I just wanted my besties to be there for my first day. My mother’s retirement was filled with dance, arts and crafts, and exercise classes. When I realized how late in the year we were opening, I’d hired two people to help, but they were scheduled to come in for the afternoon and evening shifts. When the true ice cream season came along, I knew I’d have to hire additional employees. It had been shop tradition that the family filled in vacancies, especially the younger members. But now it seemed that nearly everyone had grown up and moved on.
“She couldn’t find her head if it wasn’t attached,” Riya said, walking in the door behind Maisie. “I waited for her in the car for twenty minutes before having to go inside and drag her out. I’m missing my morning run for this.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You could have run the twenty minutes you were waiting for Maisie,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” Riya said, and held up a hand for an air high five. “I could’ve done my whole seven miles.”
Riya’s
olive-colored skin was flushed with frustration. She had a hair-trigger temper. She’d started running and taking tae kwon do to channel her energy and keep a level head. But sometimes Maisie could test her nerves.
“Well, you should have. It would have given me more time.” Maisie dropped her bags on the table. “I mean she literally dragged me, Win. I’m probably bruised.” She rubbed her arm. “I could hardly finish getting my one foot into my galoshes. Wait . . . what’s the word for just one—goulash?”
“I think that’s a stew, Maisie.”
Riya, ignoring Maisie’s digression, shook her head and turned back to me. “Which begs the question,” she said, smacking her lips as she shrugged out of her coat, “why take time to put on special socks that no one will see?” Riya pointed down at the knee-high yellow plastic boots that Maisie donned.
“Well, I couldn’t let my feet get wet,” Maisie said. She hung her coat up on the rack by the door. “It’s getting bad out there. It’s like freezing rain. I could catch my death of cold.”
“She’s her grandmother’s child,” Riya said. She pushed up her sleeves and put her hands on her hips. “I’ve got rounds at the hospital in two hours. And like I said, I’m missing my usual morning run, so I’ve got a lot of pent-up tension to work off before I go. We need to get down to business.” She pulled her spare rubber tie off her wrist and, pulling her hair back into a ponytail, wrapped it around her thick, chin-length black hair. “No time for Maisie and her shenanigans.”
“I can stay all day,” Maisie said. Always chipper—a big grin on her face, her brown eyes sparkling—she never acknowledged Riya’s backhanded jibes and would do all she could to help the both of us. “And I came bearing gifts!” She reached into one of her cloth shopping bags and took out gallon-sized plastic bags filled with goodies for me. She shook one bag—“Vanilla”—then the other. “Cinnamon. All homegrown. All for you. And there’s more.” She nodded toward her bags. “If you need it.”
“Thank you, Maisie.” I walked over and took the bags and sniffed each. “Mmmm. Smells good,” I said. “Adding a greenhouse to your garden was a good idea.”
“Didn’t you say this place is all about farm fresh?”
“Yeah,” I chuckled. “But I didn’t quite envision the farm being a block away, with fresh-grown produce all year round and run by you.”
Maisie Solomon was my other best friend.
The three of us had been best friends ever since recess on the first day of kindergarten. After rushing over to pull Riya off Derrick Liefkuheler because he took the swing she wanted, we bonded. I had channeled my mother, rubbing my hands down Riya’s arms and making shushing sounds to try and calm her, while Maisie had taken her act from her grandmother’s playbook, trying to stuff her with food from her book bag. We’d gotten her to calm down and come play on the monkey bars with us.
“Wow! Do you even need me?” My mother came bursting through the door. “You’ve got a full house.” She yanked off her hat and shook the water from her umbrella on the mat by the door.
“Morning, Mrs. Crewse,” the girls chimed.
“Morning.” She blew out a breath. “Whew!” she said. “It’s getting bad out there.”
“C’mon, Mom,” I said, going over to help her with her coat. “I’ll always need you. I couldn’t do it without you.”
“Right,” she said, then sized up the room. “This place looks fantastic. Doesn’t it?” she asked the girls. “I love that you exposed the brick walls.”
“Yes, it does look nice in here,” Maisie said. “I love all the stainless-steel appliances, too. Makes it look official.”
“Official?” Riya asked.
“Yes, I think it looks official,” Maisie said. “Although with all the pictures Win took with her phone and texted to me, I already knew it was going to be beautiful.”
“I got more notifications from her phone than I got hospital pages,” Riya said.
“I still have to get that plexiglass wall up.” I pointed to the particleboard that was holding its place. “Once that’s in, then I can see up front from back here, and up front can see me.”
“Well, I’m itching to see up front,” my mother said. “I’m sure I won’t even recognize the place. And I am so excited to see that glass wall overlooking the falls.”
“Beautiful,” Maisie said.
“You’ve seen it?” my mother asked.
“Only in pictures.”
“I stopped by the day they were putting it in,” Riya said. “Haven’t seen it fully installed, though.”
“Well, I’ll give everyone the full tour after we get my batches going,” I said, looking at my mother. “Plenty of time for all of your oohs and aahs. But that won’t help me serve my customers.”
“I’m ready,” my mother said. “I came to work.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Riya said. “Let’s get to making ice cream.”
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s make ice cream!” I clapped my hands together. “Maisie, you’re on flavor duty. I’m making the usual—French vanilla, chocolate—only mine is going to be chocolaty decadence.”
“Decadent chocolate? I don’t know how you’d do that,” Riya said. “But that sounds like it’s going to be my favorite.”
“I’m betting it’ll be everyone’s favorite,” I said.
“What about strawberry?” Maisie said. “That’s a usual one.”
“I’m doing it, only I’m mixing it up and making it a shortcake.” I turned and pointed to my mother. “Mom, I need you to bake the cake and”—I nodded toward the pantry—“I had ears of corn delivered this morning. They’re in a box. I pulled them in there, too. If you can cut the kernels off the cob for me.”
“Popcorn?” she asked, her eyebrows arching. “You’re making popcorn ice cream?” She didn’t seem to like the idea.
“We’re not doing popcorn, per se,” I said with a sly grin. “At least not what you’re thinking of. I’m making a caramel corn ice cream.”
“Oh! That sounds yummy,” she said, and smacked her lips.
“Glad you like it,” I said, and smiled. “So you take care of the corn and I’ll make the caramel.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Maisie asked.
“Split the vanilla bean and extract the seeds,” I said. “And I’ll need enough to make vanilla extract, too. I’ll give you the measurements. Then cut up the strawberries. I’ll make the puree.” I grabbed my knapsack and pulled out my notebook. “Oh,” I said after perusing it, “I’m also making cherry amaretto chocolate chunk.”
“Amaretto?” Maisie said. “As in the liqueur?”
“Yes,” I said. I looked at her sideways and batted my eyes. “As in the liqueur. So, I’ll need you to pit and halve the cherries and break the chocolate into chunks.” I tore the page out of my notebook. “I wrote down how much I’ll need.” I pointed to the pantry where I’d told my mother she’d find the corn. “Everything’s in there.”
“And me?” Riya asked.
I walked over to the commercial refrigerator and pulled out a crate of eggs. “Here,” I said, and nodded toward the aluminum mixing bowls. “Grab a couple of those. I need you to separate these eggs for me.”
“Oh.” She looked down at them, then back up at me. “I—I don’t know if I can do that,” she said, taking the tray from me, her eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t think I remember a thing from my surgery rotation.”
“It’s not like surgery,” my mother said, laughing. “It’s easy. You’ll be fine.” My mother headed to the pantry to get started on her assignment. “Crack open the shell and extract the yolk.”
“Sounds like surgery to me,” Riya muttered. Maisie and I chuckled.
“I’ve got something to show you,” I said, following my mother. I leaned in toward her and lowered my voice.
I looped my arm th
rough hers and walked her back over to the table where I’d put my knapsack.
“Well, you said it. It’s getting late, so you better hurry and tell so we can get down to business.” She looked at Maisie and Riya. “Although I think you won’t have a problem with all your help.”
“It’s about PopPop,” I said. I turned her toward me and let my eyes settle into hers.
“What?” Her eyes got big and she turned to look at the girls. She must have figured it was about them since I’d taken to whispering. “Is it the omelet? Was your dad right? PopPop wouldn’t eat the Riya omelet?”
“No.” I blinked, then shook my head. “Yes. Daddy was right. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.” Without taking my eyes off hers, I reached my hand down into my bag and pulled out the tin.
“Oh my,” my mother said, looking down into my hands, practically mimicking my reaction when I first saw it. “It couldn’t be.” I saw tears well up in her eyes, and that made mine get misty as well. She reached out her hand tentatively, then pulled back, seemingly afraid that if she touched it, it might disappear again.
“Can you believe it?” I said. “PopPop had it all the time.”
She shook her head and chuckled. “Graham is right. PopPop is a grump. Why would he keep this from us?” She smiled down at it. “That little box was like gold to your grandmother. She guarded it with her life.” She gave a firm nod. “She would have wanted you to have it.”
“That’s what he said.”
My mother gave me a warm smile. “He’s right.”
“And,” I said, “I’m going to check to see if I can’t make one of her recipes today. Mud pie.”
My mom frowned. “Mother Kay never made mud pie ice cream.”
“She must have,” I said. “I met a man today who told me it was his favorite.”
“He got that wrong,” she said. “Mother Kay used to say that that was what she made as a child, and she wasn’t putting it in her store.”
“I don’t know, Mommy. I don’t remember it either, but he did, and he remembered a lot of other things, too.”
A Deadly Inside Scoop Page 3
