Chapter 7: Ice Cream

The yard was on Water Street, a mile from the diner, and Clark drove it in four minutes.

I had not been through that gate in five years.

It was a long chain-link fence around two acres of cedar, pallets of shingles and rows of orange forklifts.

Over the gate hung a green sign with white letters.

GAFFNEY SUPPLY, EST. 1998.

The paint looked new.

But the sign was smaller than the board beneath it.

Along the bottom edge the old letters showed through in a darker stripe.

I could read the first four.

BRAN.

"Don't," Clark said, quietly, and pulled up beside the office. "Go and get her first."

I was out of the truck before he finished.

The front office smelled of coffee and cut pine.

A boy in a hard hat stood up from the reception desk.

He sat down again when he saw my face.

Dean's office door stood open.

Poppy sat in the big leather chair behind his desk with a dish of vanilla ice cream.

Her feet swung in the air.

Constance sat on the edge of the desk with her handbag on her knee.

Dean stood at the window.

Behind them, on the wall, hung a brass plaque.

FOUNDER, it said, in embossed letters.

The name under it had been scraped off, and a new plate screwed on in its place.

I did not look at it for long.

"Mommy!" Poppy held up her spoon. "I have two scoops."

"I see that, baby. Put the spoon down and come here."

"We're only having a visit," Constance said, pleasantly. "A child can visit her grandmother."

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