Best Served Cold

I sunk onto the nearest stool and looked out at the store. I could almost visualize how it’d look in two weeks. Multi-color pastel stripes on the wall behind the counter. Ice cream cone lights on the walls. New tables, fresh paint, new storage—but I couldn’t see the It-Factor.

There wasn’t one.

I sank my fingers into my loosely curled hair and slumped forward. I needed to get the It-Factor. I needed to find my uniqueness that would turn this store around. I had to believe it existed and that there was something I could do to change it.

Ice cream had been my whole life. My earliest memories were of helping my grandparents and my parents in this building. I could make ice cream before I could tie my shoelaces on my own. It was all second nature to me.

I didn’t know how to do anything else.

I blew out a long breath and sat up straight. Sitting here moping wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I had a to-do list as long as my arm, and I needed to make a start on it before time caught up with me.

I couldn’t afford to shut the store longer than two weeks. It really wasn’t that long in terms of time, but financially, it was almost too long. I only justified it by knowing the loan was there for me to dip into if I needed it.

And, let’s face it. I wasn’t exactly breaking any records with my profit margin now, was I? Assuming I even had one, and I expected my accountant to call me any day informing me I didn’t.

I jumped off the stool and walked through to the back. The kitchen that had once been my solace was now a place of fond memories and sadness. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually enjoyed pulling ingredients together to make ice cream. It’d been so long, and I’d almost reached the point of buying it in just so I didn’t have to wake up early to slave back here for no reason.

I threw out more than I sold. All my friends were very well kept in ice cream, as were my grandparents.

And me.

Hips don’t lie.

At least mine didn’t.

I emptied the dishwasher, walking back and forth as I put the scoops and dishes back where they belonged. There were only a handful of things to be washed from yesterday, so I filled the sink with hot water instead of running the dishwasher.

My arms were elbow-deep in suds when I picked up the plastic bowl I’d used when Soph and Jessie had come in yesterday. Smears of blue and pink and purple decorated the sides of the pink bowl, and remnants of sprinkles were stuck to the dried-on ice cream.

Unicorn ice cream.

Jessie’s request screamed at me.

Unicorn ice cream. That’s what she’d wanted. Something girly and pretty and fantastical.

My grip on the bowl slipped, and it dropped into the water with a splash that sent bubbles over both the wall and me.

I didn’t care.

A goddamn four-year-old had just given me the biggest inspiration of my life.

What if my specialty was unicorn ice cream? Colors and glitter and magic all in cones and sundaes and bowls?

Was it possible? Was that what I needed to do to save the family business?

I tossed off the rubber gloves I’d put on to protect my nails. They splashed as they hit the water, but I still didn’t care. I could clean up the mess anytime I wanted.

That was not right now.

I ran to my phone on the counter and opened my Pinterest app. I typed the term into the search bar, and a shiver ran over me when hundreds of results popped up. And not an, ‘Oh, shit, someone just walked over my grave’ kinda shiver.

It was an, ‘Oh, shit, this is a real thing, and I can do it’ kinda shiver.

Hoards of images of multi-colored ice cream and decorated cones popped up. Blues, purples, and pinks all mixed together in a galaxy-looking mix. There were several different versions of the ice cream, and my heart beat a little faster in anticipation of every single scoop being totally different.

Mixed in were images of cones dipped in chocolate then in sprinkles. Ice cream sundaes had cones sitting on top as a unicorn horn. One ice cream image showed pinks and greens and yellows mixed together with tiny candy stars. Sundae glasses that were dipped in white icing and then in hundreds and thousands of sprinkles.

There was even ice cream nachos. A plate full of wafers topped with ice cream and sauces and toppings.

That was the perfect first date or post-shopping treat.

I put my phone down and stared at the coffee machine behind the counter. The milkshake maker was right next to it, and the chrome finish of both had the overhead lights glinting back at me.