“I don’t know whether I should admit this or not,” I say, “but this is the second time I’ve been here.”

“In your life?” Scooter asks, his eyes wide with shock. “That’s hard to believe. How did you not know about this place? It’s a Saugatuck institution.”

“Today,” I say, my voice an embarrassed whisper. “My second time today.”

Scooter laughs so loudly that the people waiting in the snaking line outside Lick Effect Ice Cream turn to stare. “You should be embarrassed to admit that,” he says, before taking my hand in his and giving me a soft kiss on the head. “Actually, you’re a woman after my own heart.”

“So far, my diet today will have consisted of a manhattan and two ice cream cones,” I say, taking a few steps forward in the alley.

“Isn’t that the base of the FDA’s food pyramid?”

“For either a child or a drunk,” I say.

“Or a drunk child,” Scooter says, unable to contain a whooping laugh at his own joke.

People in line around us turn to look at him again. “They’re wondering who the crazy man is who says ‘drunk child’ in public,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

“No, they’re wondering who the crazy woman is who eats ice cream multiple times a day.”

We laugh in unison as the door jingles, and we finally make our way inside. As we stare into the ice cream case, Teresa spots me and waves. “Back again?” she asks. “For more ice cream or advice? Or both?”

“Ice cream only this time,” I say with a big smile. “Thank you for your time earlier today.”

She gives me a big wink. “No problem,” she says. “I’ll be around if you need any more, at least until the kids get off school and can start work.”

“By the way, I think I put out Iris Dragoon’s fire,” I whisper. I can’t bring myself to call her the Dragoon Lady anymore.

Teresa looks me over. “I don’t see any ashes,” she says. “Congratulations.”

Scooter cocks his head at me. “We’ll talk over ice cream,” I say, giving him a wink as big as the one Teresa gave me.

Scooter turns his attention to the ice cream, and my heart begins to race.

You can learn a lot about a man by the ice cream he eats, my grandmother always said.

At the Chicago grocery she and my grampa owned, my grandma observed the eating patterns of neighbors and families for decades. She knew Mrs. Hawkins wanted a pot roast every Saturday, and every ingredient Mrs. Trigiani needed for her special Sunday sauce. (“Americans call it spaghetti sauce,” my grandma told me, “but Italians call it Sunday sauce.”)

But my grandmother firmly believed—after witnessing the eating habits of men for decades—that the ice cream a man ate showed who he truly was.

Vanilla? Plain but steadfast.