7. Ice Cream for All
ICE CREAM FOR ALL
Dylan
A low rumble of thunder fades over the ball diamond as parents haul coolers and soggy lawn chairs toward the parking lot. I clap once, loud enough to bounce off the aluminum bleachers.
“Rain or shine, a tie still earns ice cream — who’s with me?”
Twenty-three kids answer with a roar that rattles the flagpoles. Owen, my mint-chip-obsessed nephew, flings himself to my side, cleats clacking.
“Uncle Dylan, three scoops of mint... please? We tied! That’s basically a victory.”
“Two scoops,” I say, steering him toward the sidewalk. “A tie plus good sportsmanship equals two.”
He considers, then nods like a tiny negotiator accepting a plea deal.
Perry’sScoopShop — the town’s lone ice-cream parlor — glows ahead, teal clapboard siding under a crooked neon sign that buzzes in the damp air.
While Owen confers with the teenage clerk about the precise ratio of chocolate flakes to mint base, I scan the crowd. That’s when I spot her — Addison — not laughing, not talking, just staring at her phone as though it has delivered a tax audit and a breakup text at the same time.
Sliding closer, I lower my voice. “Everything okay?”
She nearly drops the phone. “Oh! Dylan. Sorry, I was miles away.” She slips the device into her lavender rain jacket pocket, but her tight shoulders say the problem is still weighing on her.
“So, what’s got the event planner extraordinaire frowning during the holy ritual of ice cream?”
Addison exhales, glances at the floor, then at the menu board as if it offers answers in hot fudge form. “I lost my carpenter,” she murmurs.
“Like… wandered into the woods?”
“Nothing like that. She has to leave town to care for her mom who needs an emergency surgery. She was building every wooden element for the Langford wedding — arch, benches, signposts. Ceremony’s in three weeks.
The bride color-codes her vitamins; she’ll implode if I don’t replace the carpenter tomorrow. ”
“That’s rough,” I say, folding my arms. “But survivable.”
“Only if I can magic another carpenter out of thin air, because my backup carpenter is also fully booked.” She gestures helplessly at the flavor board. “I can’t even decide between Butter?Pecan and Black?Raspberry Sorbet right now.”
I tip my cap back. “What if thin air delivers one to you?”
Addison blinks. “Pardon?”
“I’m in construction, remember.”
Her brows knit. “True. But between fighting fires, coaching Little League, and your day job — when would you have the time?”
“Little League is done. I am between contracts. I’ll make it work,” I assure her.
She chews her bottom lip. “That arch is elaborate, and benches need sanding so no silk dress snags.”
“I own a random orbital sander with your name on it.”
A laugh slips out, easing her shoulders from volcano-ready to merely tectonic. “Dylan, I appreciate the offer. Truly. But my budget is tight.”
I point to Perry’s ornate chalkboard of specials. “Payment in sprinkles?”
She rolls her eyes, but the crease in her brow softens. “Sprinkles won’t keep the lights on.”
“Fair.” I tap my chest. “Let’s barter. BirchHarbor Volunteer Fire Company holds its annual fundraiser next month.
Live music, silent auction, maybe a dunk tank if Chief Hale allows it.
We don’t have two nickels for professional planning, and last year’s chili challenge nearly sent half the town to the ER.
You help me run a safe, profitable event, and I build whatever your panic-shark bride needs. Deal?”
Her phone buzzes again. She ignores it, eyes flicking over the crowd as though escape is tempting. Finally, she sighs. “Let me think. My reputation’s on the line.”
“Take your time, but Owen’s about to negotiate blow-torch sprinkles, so I might need to intervene.”
She snorts. “Fine. Meanwhile, help me choose an ice cream flavor before my brain bluescreens.”
“Chocolate peanut butter swirl. Can’t go wrong.”
“That feels… indulgent. But maybe a crisis warrants indulgence.”
“Exactly. Stress plus ice cream equals survival.” I step aside so she can order.
By the time we reach the pickup counter, Owen bounds over, proudly balancing a mountain of mint chip that leans like Pisa. “Look! Two and a half scoops. A compromise.”
“You’re a dangerous man,” I tell him. He grins, green smears already decorating his chin.
We snag the last small picnic table. Addison sets her cup down and studies the chocolate peanut butter swirl as if it might bite.
“Okay,” she says, spoon poised. “Walk me through your carpentry credentials, Mr. Swiss Army Knife.”
“Graduated from Sawdust College,” I deadpan. “Specialized in wedding arches for picky brides.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “References?”
“Hale and I built his patio last spring — still standing after last week’s barbecue, so that’s promising.”
She’s looking at me differently, I might be winning her over. “Oh, and I renovated the gazebo in downtown Birch Harbor last year for the city’s annual music festival.”
Addison raises a spoonful, looks from it to me. “If I say yes, you start when?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. In the morning, I’m helping clean up at the baseball field.”
“I need five benches, an eight-foot arch with a detachable floral trellis, and two directional signs that don’t look like a child painted them —”
“I’ve got a vinyl-cutter buddy for the lettering.”
“— plus a backup plan if the groom suddenly hates cedar grain.”
“Bring on the poplar.” I lean forward. “Humor aside, I’m serious. Let me help.”
She takes her first bite, chews, exhales. “Okay. But we do this right, I mean the whole 9 yards. Handshake and everything.”
“That’s why I need you. For the fundraiser. Consider this your unofficial recruitment.”
She twirls the spoon, tracing circles in her cup. “You won’t be offended if I still scout a professional tomorrow morning — just in case?”
“Not offended. I’d do the same if I hadn’t found the perfect event planner.” I lay my palm face-up on the table. “Partner for now?”
She studies my hand, then sets hers on top. A handshake snaps like static, warmth buzzing up my arm. She’s the one who lets go first, blinking.
“Thanks,” she says, clearing her throat.
A long beat passes while she searches my face. “You’re remarkably unfazed by chaos.”
“I run into burning buildings for fun.”
“Point taken.”
She laughs again — third time in five minutes — and it sounds less brittle, more like sunlight after rain. When her phone buzzes once more, she flips it over, face down on the table.
“You’ll lose points with the bride if you ignore her,” I warn.
“That’s Maggie being a nag.”
“You seem like lifelong friends?”
Addison contemplates her melting ice cream. “It feels like I’ve known her forever.” She sighs. “I haven’t missed a deadline in three years. Losing a contractor feels like a crack in the dam. I keep telling clients I can handle everything. What if I can’t?”
“Then you ask for backup.” I lift my cup in salute. “Which is scarier — admitting you need help, or facing the Langfords without that arch?”
She winces. “Fair question.”
A sudden boom of laughter from the kids pulls our attention.
Addison smirks, then sobers. “Alright. Let’s do this. Carpenter swap for full-service fundraiser.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She extends her hand. “Deal.”
We shake, and the spark this time feels less jolt, more glow — warm enough to bank for later.
“Thank you,” she murmurs as cars start rolling out of the lot. “For offering. For not making me feel incapable.”
“I never confuse panic with incapability. You just need a new team roster.”
“Teamwork,” she echoes softly, as if the word is fragile and new. Then she chuckles. “If this turns into an epic disaster, at least we met over double-scoop diplomacy.”
“Triple-scoop dreams,” I correct.
She nudges my elbow. “Promise me no chili cookoffs at this year’s fundraiser. I’ve heard horror stories from last year’s event.”
“Scout’s honor. We’re thinking barbecue and a silent auction.”
Her eyes light. “Silent auctions rake in money if you spark a bidding war. I once got a groom to drop two hundred bucks on a lattice-crust apple he thought his bride baked. She hadn’t, but his face was priceless.”
“You do hide a ruthless streak.”
“It’s my job. People think weddings are hearts and flowers, but half my day is logistics warfare.”
“Sounds like firefighting without the helmets.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder while Owen says his goodbyes, mist settling on our hair.
“This could work,” Addison says quietly, almost to herself. “Fundraiser, arch — everything.”
“It will,” I tell her, and I don’t just mean boards and nails.
At the lot’s fork, she pauses. “I’d better email the bride before she schedules a meltdown.”
“Tell her the arch is in good hands.”
She hesitates. “See you tomorrow?”
“After clean-up. I’ll bring coffee and sample cedar planks.”
“Then I’ll bring revised budgets and silent auction strategies.” She backs into the mist, flashing a grin. “Goodnight, Coach.”
“Night, Addison.”
Her lavender jacket melts into the shadows, but the glow she leaves in my chest burns steady. The scoreboard reads tie, yet tonight feels like the first inning of something better. And for the first time in a long while, I can’t wait for tomorrow’s pitch.