Rocky Road (29 page)

Pete rubbed his forehead. “Where should I begin?”

“Give me a brief history, then explain what’s in quality ice cream, and end with why this shop is good for Schenectady.”

Pete took a deep breath and began spewing like a tour guide on his fourth cup of coffee. Legends about Marco Polo bringing the recipe back from China and how a Roman emperor killed his slaves if they didn’t fetch his dessert ice fast
enough. How George Washington spent two hundred dollars on ice cream one summer, how FDR always picked chocolate, and how Ronald Reagan liked all flavors, so much that he designated July as National Ice Cream Month.

“And back in 2009, one of President Obama’s inauguration balls served up BaRocky Road,” Pete explained, and I smiled.

I felt like I had brain freeze from ice cream trivia overload, so I thanked Pete and we finished arranging chairs. Then Clown Dad started setting up a coin trick as a Little League team charged toward his table. I grabbed the piñata and went outside to hang it, but I couldn’t reach the awning. I turned to go back inside and nearly ran into Son of Clown holding a stepping stool.

“I can do that. I’m used to hanging model airplanes,” he said, setting the stool down. He hopped up, and before I could say
Clown to the rescue
, that giant papier-mâché ice cream cone was swinging in the wind.

“Thanks,” I said, sneaking a closer peek at him. He had warm, easygoing eyes—light green, like mint chocolate chip ice cream minus the chips.

Son of Clown shrugged under his polka-dotted jumpsuit. “Glad to help, especially since I heard the owner didn’t bother showing up.”

“Delilah Dobson made this business what it is. Don’t go blaming her if she’s sick!” I yelled.

He jerked back a step. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know….”

I didn’t stick around to hear more. I couldn’t. I went inside to string the ribbon.

Shake-shake
. Jordan and the Salty Old Dogs burst through the door, rattling maracas.

“Attention: Mariachi bandits have entered the building. Turn over the ice cream and nobody gets hurt!” Winnie shouted. Melvin and the other men wore their sombreros. Winnie’s was on Jordan’s head now—cocked sideways. All their hair looked windblown.

Pete cleared his throat and raised his ice cream scooper to his mouth like a microphone. “As A Cherry on Top’s official soda jerk, I declare ice cream is on the house for all mariachis!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Melvin shouted, bowing ceremoniously before ordering a Schenectady Snow Shake.

Now, this was good timing. I worked my way over to tell Winnie what happened to Ma. But just as I got near, Catherine was wheeled into the shop by Jack. Winnie bent down to hug her, and they started talking.

I walked behind the counter again, put some fudge slices onto a plate, and returned to Winnie and Catherine. “Care for a sample, ladies? We serve the world’s best fudge. Thanks to an exclusive recipe from Mackinac Island, this stuff is flying off the shelves!”

Catherine smiled her elegant dancer smile as her trembling hand reached for a piece. After one bite she paused, then nodded. “Creamy, rich, and chewy. Extra scrumptious, just like when I was a young girl!” Then Jack wheeled her over to the dining area, and Winnie followed.

Minutes later Chief came inside from the concession stand with the empty tamale boxes. He stepped up to the counter arm in arm with Adelaine Heisey.

“I’m here to report four hundred and twenty dollars of sales. Those tamales sold like hot tamales!” Chief said, grinning. Then, gently touching Adelaine’s shoulder, he added, “Mee-lady here prefers sugar-free ice cream. Got any?”

“We have sugar-free chocolate chip, sugar-free black cherry, and sugar-free
and
fat-free caramel swirl,” Gabby said.

Adelaine picked black cherry. “I never order fat-free ice cream. What’s the point?” she said. “I don’t even trust the people who eat it.”

“Then give me two scoops of butter pecan, extra fat please!” Chief said, and Gabby and I giggled.

As Gabby scooped their cones, Chief leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You holding up, kiddo?”

I nodded and walked back behind the counter. I’d lost my chance to talk to Winnie; the line was growing again.

Ten minutes later, I was making an “I Loved Him Tender” Banana Royal for a woman police officer when I felt a tug on my shirt.

Jordan.

“Where’s Lucky?” he signed, pointing below the counter.

My eyes darted down.
Uh-oh
. The bowl was flipped over. I must’ve knocked it when I was reaching for more cups. Lucky had escaped!

I searched through every nook and cranny behind the counter—on the shelves, under the sink, and near the garbage pail—just as some kids shouted my name at the same time.

It was Ritchie, Kim, Devin, Malika, and the others—Mr. Win too—all wearing their Peer Mediation Club shirts.

“We heard conflict is reduced when people eat ice cream, so we’re here to test the theory,” Mr. Win said.

“And if you make my cone really big, I promise there’ll be no disputants,” Ritchie added.

“You got it,” I said, smiling. Meanwhile, my heart was racing and my eyes were scanning every square foot under the counter. Where was Lucky?

The door jingled open again, and a lady with thick makeup, a power suit, and high heels walked in with a guy carrying a video camera. That was no ordinary lady. That was the Channel 13 news anchor! She’d come looking for a story, and yikes, was there one to be found!

I turned to Jordan. He was crawling under the counter, yanking cabinets open and making a mess ripping through boxes. His face looked two tears short of a meltdown.

My mind flashed to the day that Jordan slipped out the back door and I’d blamed Ma. Here I’d promised I’d take good care of Lucky and I’d been the world’s worst turtle sitter.

I bent down and tapped his shoulder, my fingers nervously pleading. “I’m
really
sorry, Jordan. I’ll find Lucky. But it
must
wait. Very busy. Please be good.”

Then I braced myself, fully expecting FrankenJordan to unleash his angry shrieks and kick the counter—or worse, toss glass jars.

But instead, he wiped his glassy eyes with his shirtsleeve and stood up.

“Okay, Tess. I find Lucky myself,” he signed.

“T
rouble alert: Lucky’s on the loose and a newshound is sniffing for a story,” I whispered to Gabby.

Gabby’s eyes bulged. “Uh-oh. You handle Lois Lane, and I’ll stay here and help your brother search,” she said.

I walked out from behind the counter and greeted the reporter.

“I’m Christine Perkins. News anchor at Channel Thirteen,” she replied, clutching a clipboard. “We’re doing a story on Schenectady’s business revitalization, and I’d like to interview Delilah Dobson.”

Ma’s moment to shine had arrived, yet she wasn’t here. I could feel tears pooling just thinking about it, but no—I wouldn’t let that happen.
Cleansing breath, Tess
.

So, as Ma would say, I stayed calm as a platter of spit. “I’m Tess Dobson, acting shop manager. Delilah is tending to other affairs, but I can help.”

Ms. Perkins looked slightly suspicious. “You sure you’re old enough?”

“This is a family operation, and I’m the Dobson family spokesperson,” I said firmly, pointing quickly toward Winnie and Catherine, who were sitting eating their ice cream with the Salty Old Dogs, as if they were my aunts.

Without leaving room for further questions, I jumped right into my shop spiel and tour. “A Cherry on Top is for all kinds of ice cream lovers.” I paused and gestured toward Chief and Adelaine in the corner, licking their cones and making lovey-dovey eyes at each other. “As you can see, we welcome the young and the young at heart.”

Ms. Perkins nodded but didn’t say a word, so I kept going.

“Our ice cream is made with only the purest, freshest ingredients, starting with milk from black-and-white Holstein cows,” I said, recalling everything Pete had told me about manufacturing ice cream.

Just as I continued describing ingredients, Elvis’s “All Shook Up” blasted from the speakers, and Jordan dashed toward the dining area. Scooting from one table to the next, he lifted tablecloths, squatted down, and looked between customers’ ankles, searching furiously.

Fortunately, Ms. Perkins didn’t notice. She was distracted, telling the camera guy to film customers walking in—people of all ages, shapes, and looks. Some wore designer clothes as if they shopped at Victoria’s Classic Interior Design, while others had frayed jackets and unshaven faces.

Pointing the microphone at me, she said, “So tell us about this Resuscitate State Street Association. And why did your family choose to launch a business on State Street, of all places? Most retailers would stay clear of this no-growth area.”

What a rude statement! But this was no different from peer mediation. I had to state the facts without getting defensive. I recalled what Pete had told me during our ride to Central Park, about Schenectady’s glory days and later hardships, as well as Ma’s plan to make State Street more welcoming.

“Sure, this city has some wear and tear, but so does a scruffy old teddy bear and that’s lovable,” I said. “From the Erie Canal to the first railroad built in New York State, Schenectady has been the cradle of innovation. Sure, maybe jobs have left for the Sun Belt since then, but resuscitating State Street is going to bring the sparkle back.”

Then I cut to the chase, rattling off reasons why ice cream and State Street went hand in hand. “And it’s only a short stroll from the renovated Proctor’s Theater, where people have been enjoying live entertainment since 1926. Now folks will have scrumptious ice cream to enjoy after the show!”

Ms. Perkins said she’d heard we came from Texas. “So what brought you all the way to Schenectady?”

Tough question. Tougher than my worst batch of fudge.
I couldn’t tell her about Jimbo’s wife’s cousin’s stepsister, who convinced Ma to come here and then bailed out to sell lottery tickets in Buffalo. That wouldn’t give us points for credibility.

Desperate, I pulled out two of my favorite words.

“Was it destiny or serendipity? You be the judge,” I said with a voice smooth like a circus announcer’s. “All I know for sure is we were drawn to this city and its lovers of frozen treats.”

I kept loading Ms. Perkins up with local trivia. I explained how the upstate New York town of Ithaca claims to be the birthplace of the first ice cream sundae, back in 1891. “But as far as I know, nobody offers a Schenectady Snow Shake but us.”

Ms. Perkins didn’t look impressed. Or like she believed me. She
had
to become a believer. What could I do?
Mr. Win says be an advocate for resolution, and always speak the truth
, I remembered.

“There is
another
reason why we opened A Cherry on Top here,” I said, lowering my voice. “A reason that’s more confidential and juicy, if you must know.”

Ms. Perkins’s waxed eyebrows jumped up an inch. “What?”

I touched her suit sleeve. “Have you had a bad day lately, Ms. Perkins—and I mean so bad that if it was a fish, you’d throw it back?”

She shrugged. “Who hasn’t? Yesterday I woke up with an allergy attack, and that construction traffic on Erie Boulevard made me late for work.”

“Delilah Dobson created A Cherry on Top as a welcoming watering hole for when life leaves you roughed up. Trust me,
she’s got her share of bumps and bruises, and she’s met plenty of Schenectady folks who’ve also struggled through heartbreak. Down but not out, that’s what Delilah says.”

I pointed to Pete, who was serving up a smile along with a Rotterdam Root Beer Float. “Our soda jerk doesn’t exactly live in a penthouse, but he’s a budding photographer who always pictures the good in the world. And Gabby, our curly-topped scooper—well, she’s an enlightened tiger-vegan who’s always willing to lend a hand. That’s the kind of people A Cherry on Top attracts. Sweets for the folks who need a little sweet in their lives.”

Ms. Perkins jotted that down on her clipboard. I almost detected a smile under all that makeup.