Page 1 of Worth the Trip

The first thing people noticed when they entered Crème & Chill was the smell.

Brown butter waffle cones crisped against hot irons while strawberries simmered into a ruby-colored purée behind the bakery counter, their sweetness mingling with toasted pecans, vanilla, and the faint trace of coffee that lingered near the register. Most customers were smiling before anyone greeted them.

I liked to believe the ice cream wasn’t solely responsible.

Morning sunlight poured through the storefront windows and stretched across honey-colored floors. Along the largest wall, hand-painted portraits of Black musicians and authors rose above curved booths upholstered in caramel and cream. Louis Armstrong lifted his trumpet toward a sky filled with musical notes. Zora Neale Hurston watched over a group of teenagers sharing a basket of beignets, and Maya Angelou’s familiar face rested above a line from one of her poems. At the back of the shop, beneath an archway painted to resemble the pages of an open book, children wandered in and out of Scoops & Stories with library cards tucked into pockets and ice cream stains decorating their shirts.

Everyone had advised Nyla and me against sacrificing valuable seating for a reading nook when we opened the shop three years earlier. Books didn’t turn tables, they’d warned us. Shelves took up space. Children lingered much longer than their parents intended.

That had been the point.

I was reviewing weekend inventory on my tablet when a pair of glitter-covered sneakers stopped beside me. My attention lifted from the ingredient list to a little girl with two puff ponytails perched at the top of her head, while the back was braided and finished with yellow beads. Chocolate ice cream gathered around her mouth as she held a crayon drawing against her chest and waited until she was certain I was looking before extending it toward me.

“I made this for you, Miss Nolani.”

“For me?”

She nodded, sending the yellow beads at the ends of her braids clicking together. “That’s you, and that’s me.”

The drawing featured two stick figures standing beneath an enormous pink sun. One had long black curls, a bright dress, and eyelashes stretching halfway across her face. The smaller figure held an ice cream cone nearly as tall as she was.

“You even remembered my favorite flavor.”

“Strawberry,” she announced.

“You’ve been paying attention.”

A proud smile spread across her face. “Mama says I remember everything.”

Her mother hurried over from the nearest booth with a purse hanging from one shoulder and a half-zipped diaper bag tucked beneath the other arm. “I’m sorry. I told her not to interrupt you while you were working.”

I crouched until I was level with her daughter and turned the page so we could admire it together. “She didn’t interrupt anything. I’ve been needing something new for my office.”

The little girl’s eyes widened. “You’re gonna put it in there?”

“Right above my desk.”

“For everybody to see?”

“For everybody.”

She wrapped both arms around my neck before I could prepare for the hug. I steadied myself against the display case and hugged her back, laughing when she whispered that I smelled like cake. Her mother thanked me twice before guiding her toward their booth, where a baby had apparently discovered that dropping a spoon was more entertaining than using it.

I stayed beside the case another moment, smoothing the wrinkled corner of the drawing with my thumb.

“You’re going to need a second office wall.”

Nyla appeared behind me, carrying two metal pans of peach cobbler ice cream. Although we were identical twins, nobody who knew us well ever had trouble telling us apart. She wore her hair in a blunt, shoulder-length bob, while mine fell in curls beyond my shoulders. Her apron somehow remained spotless through entire shifts. Mine had acquired a streak of strawberry purée before nine that morning.

“The Louvre rotates its exhibits,” I said, moving aside so she could reach the refrigerated case. “I can do the same.”

“The Louvre also has climate control and armed security.”

“I have climate control and Kareem.”

At the opposite end of the counter, our six-foot-four assistant manager lifted his head at the sound of his name.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to be involved.”