A smile grows on Teresa’s face. “I love it,” she says. “You know, she’s really just a modern-day Gladys Kravitz. She’s bored and lonely, so she takes her frustrations out on other people. She thinks it’s for the good of the town, but the town would never change if she had her way. Change is inevitable. And change is usually a good thing.” She stops. “And this is Saugatuck. We may be family friendly during the day, but Iris needs to step out at night. It’s like Peyton Place after dark. And that’s really why people come to a resort town.” She looks at me and then reaches for a new plastic glove. “Honestly, look at what a good businesswoman I am. I haven’t even asked what I can get you.”

I look through the shiny glass at the endless options. My mouth waters as my eyes scan cappuccino chocolate chunk, cotton candy confetti, Mackinac Island Fudge, county blackberry, Milky Way, snickerdoodle and Superman. But my eyes lock on the container filled with Smurf-blue ice cream. “Double in a waffle,” I say.

“You’re a true Michigander,” Teresa says with a laugh.

“But I’m from Illinois,” I say.

“Not if you order this,” she says with a wink.

There is a phenomenon in the Great Lakes known as Blue Moon ice cream. The ice cream is iridescent blue, marshmallowy sweet and has an elusive taste that many describe as a combination of lemon and fruit. I think it tastes like the leftover milk from a bowl of Froot Loops. It’s addictive, and the recipe is largely kept secret by the different dairies, ice cream makers and shops in Michigan and Wisconsin. Blue Moon ice cream turns your tongue blue, and it is a favorite of children.

And mine, I think.

Teresa turns on the waffle machine, which sits on a table between the long rows of ice cream. When it is hot, she opens it and pours in some homemade batter and shuts the lid. After a few seconds, she pops the lid open and removes a razor thin waffle with tongs, immediately and expertly twisting it into a tight, rolled cone. She plops in two huge scoops of ice cream, which begin melting and trickling down the side. Teresa slips it into a wrapper and hands it to me along with a fistful of napkins.

I take a bite and shut my eyes. I am immediately transported back in time. I can feel myself standing in this shop between my parents, all of us licking giant cones. When I open my eyes, Teresa is smiling at me.

“It’s nice to feel like a kid again, isn’t it?” she asks. “Even if it’s only for a second.”

I nod and reach for my purse. “On the house,” she says.

“Oh, no,” I say, pulling my wallet free. “I insist.”