The Traveling Tea Shop (10 page)

And so to the wharf. It’s an interesting mix of tourists and locals, restaurants and boutiques, upmarket charm and ye olde pirate hideaway—there’s even a tavern called the Black Pearl. Though what Captain Jack Sparrow would make of all the yachtie types in their belted shorts and pastel polo shirts, I don’t know.

“Mum, look!”

For a second Ravenna forgets to be sullen and shut-down, so dazzled is she by an entire window filled with outsize cupcakes sparkling blush and lavender.

“Are they real?”

We all peer closer looking for clues amid the glitter, only to realize we are looking into a fancy beauty shop.

“Bath bombs,” I conclude. “You know those things that fizz and go crazy when you add them to water?”

“Ohhhh!” Pamela and Gracie nod understanding.

“Can we go inside?” Ravenna asks.

“After dinner.”

“Won’t it be closed?”

“All the shops here stay open late,” Gracie assures her.

We follow some poshly boisterous spirits to the Clarke Cooke House (which has a reputation for hosting the swankiest of the sailing crowd) and opt for the waterfront dining option, both for its scenic aspect and its name: The Candy Store.

As with the beauty shop, there are no
actual
sugary confections at large, just plenty of candy-colored director’s chairs in gobstopper pink, lemon-sherbet yellow and flying-saucer turquoise, set around white-clothed tables.

We are positioned near the “missing wall” overlooking the harbor and beside the bar—a grand, wood-paneled affair with a low ceiling fan and mirrored backdrop. Silver champagne buckets glisten on the countertop, chilly with condensation. Cashmere sweaters drape over shoulders. Everyone has good hair. Pamela dubs it Sloanes-by-the-Sea, but without the snobbery.

While studying the booze selection for inspiration, I see a couple perched on bar stools displaying intense “someone’s getting lucky tonight” body language and feel a tug of longing for that heady state of first-date flirtation when you’re feeling giddily tipsy and entranced, bodies cleaving toward one another, heavy with anticipation of the spinning surrender to come . . .

“Is there a local cocktail you could recommend?” I rasp. I may need a couple.

“Dark and Stormy,” Gracie points to the menu. “Dark rum and ginger beer.”

“Is that what you’re having?”

“Actually, I’m going to try the Newport Water.”

Which sounds all very pure and abstaining until you read that it is, in fact, a mix of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label champagne, Grand Marnier and St-Germain (a sophisticated elderflower liqueur).

“Ooh, I like the sound of that!” enthuses Pamela.

“Ravenna?”

“I’ll just have a glass of seawater, perhaps with a dash of leaked engine fuel?”

I can’t help but have a little chuckle.

At least she can’t complain about the food.

“This is the best swordfish I’ve ever eaten,” I announce. Aside from the fact that it is cooked to juicy perfection, it comes served with minuscule baubles of couscous and a spoonful of aubergine caponata. “Just delicious.”

“Same goes double for the clam chowder,” Gracie raves. “Taste it.” She offers me a spoon.

“Oh.” I wince. “I don’t know about clams.”

“Have you ever had them?”

“Not on purpose.” I look around me. “I don’t know if I should say this out loud in New England, but I’m not really much of a seafood person.”

“Just taste it.” She is determined.

Slimy, salty, chewy and inducing of the gag reflex.

That is what I was expecting.

Instead my taste buds are met with a light but hearty, creamy but fresh delight.

“What’s that herb?” I ask.

“Dill.”

“And these little white cubes?”

“Potato.”

“Oh, it’s so yummy!”

I can’t even taste the clam.

“I knew you’d like it.” Gracie is smug.

“Do you think they used to serve it at the mansions, you know, back in the day?”

“Well, it’s actually rather interesting about the food.” Gracie dabs her mouth with her napkin. “French cuisine was held in the highest regard, so it was all French chefs presenting their food
à la française
, which was basically an extremely lavish buffet display. But then fashions changed and the Vanderbilts led the way by serving
à la russe.
”

“Russe?” I frown.

“Russian style.”

“Gosh, whatever is that?” I ask, imagining a chain of Cossacks circling the table shouting “Hah!” as each domed plate cover is removed.

“Well, it’s actually what we are used to today: being served one course at a time.”

“Oh.”

“The significant difference being they had eight courses.”

“What?” I splutter, secretly envious.

“They began with oysters, then soup, then fish, meat and two vegetables, the entrée, some kind of alcoholic sorbet before the roast—”

“A roast on top of meat and two veg?”

She nods. “Then a salad and dessert. Never mind the wines and coffees and the cognacs . . .”

“That’s bonkers.”

“But!” She pauses for emphasis. “All of this was served at such a pace that you were lucky to get a bite. No sooner was the last plate set down than they began to remove the rest and serve the next course.”

“You’re joking!”

Gracie shakes her head. “One young girl was advised by her father to keep a finger on the plate while she was eating, lest it be whipped away.”

I’m reeling. “So you could sit down to a never-ending banquet and leave the table hungry?”

“As was frequently the case,” Gracie confirms. “They even went so far as to say that the greatest pleasure you got from the food was watching it all come and go.”

“Talk about a feast for the eyes,” I quip.

“Bet the servants enjoyed the leftovers,” Ravenna smirks.

“They probably ate better than their employers and assorted royals.”

I turn to Pamela, surprised that she hasn’t voiced a response, and find her looking distracted. Again.

“Everything all right?” I check with her as our plates are cleared away. (With every last morsel scraped from them.)

She looks undecided, then leans forward. “I think I should probably tell you . . . No,” she corrects herself, “I
want
to tell you. Before you read about it . . .” She waits for the waitress to finish up and then begins anew: “My husband and I—”

“Ex-husband,” snips Ravenna.

“Ex?” I query.

“Not yet.” She grimaces. “But yes, we’re getting a divorce.”

“Can I go to the shops now?” Ravenna gets to her feet. “You can call me when you’re done.”

“Yes, yes.” Pamela waves off her daughter.

Now I feel guilty for being so mean to her. Her parents are splitting up. She’s playing up. Not that it’s any excuse but . . .

I turn back to Pamela. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“No, no. It’s—”

“Long overdue,” Gracie cuts in. “Long,
long
—”

“All right, Mum!” Pamela tenses.

I bite my lip.

“It’s one of the reasons I was so eager to get away. And get Ravenna away.”

I nod.

“I have a feeling that Brian might not behave in the most dignified manner.”

“That’s an understatement,” Gracie mutters. “The man is the antithesis of dignity—a mean-spirited, parasitic—”

“Mum, please.”

“You don’t agree?” she challenges.

“Wholeheartedly, but I’m trying to maintain a neutrality for Ravenna’s sake.”

“Ravenna’s not here.”

“Well, I don’t want to get into the habit of bad-mouthing him.”

“That’s commendable,” I opine.

“It’s also part of the problem,” Gracie counters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pamela huffs.

“You never said out loud all the awful, humiliating—”

“Um!” I scrape back my chair. “I think I might go and check on Ravenna.”

“No,” Pamela reaches for my arm. “Don’t leave on our account. We can contain our bickering.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

“I don’t want to argue,” Pamela reasons.

“Again. Part of the problem.”

Pamela closes her eyes, desperate to shut it all out.

Only now does Gracie see that she’s gone too far.

She gets to her feet. “I think I’m going to go and see if I can get Ravenna to eat one of those exploding cupcakes.”

I wait until she’s out of earshot and then scoot my chair closer.

“Pamela—”

“I’m so embarrassed!” She covers her face with her hands.

“There’s no need to be,” I soothe, lightly touching her forearm. “Not now, and regardless of what happens on this trip.”

Her face remains covered.

“We’re in this together,” I tell her. “We’ve got a cake sisterhood going here: that’s a pretty strong bond.”

She peeks out at me. “I just feel such a wreck at the moment. I’m all over the place.”

“It’s perfectly understandable. I think it’s so brave of you to undertake a trip like this with so much going on in your personal life.”

“I thought it would be a good distraction, and the publishers were adamant about it being now or never—”

“That’s why we’re going to make it work,” I assert. “And I really think it will. I know you’ve had some glimmers of joy already—with Charlie at the Waldorf, that slice of Mystic Pizza, tonight’s champagne sunset . . .”

“I have,” she acknowledges. “I just feel like I’m being attacked from every angle.”

“You have to tune them out. We can use some mini-marsh-mallows as earplugs if it comes to it.”

She snuffles a smile then reaches for my hand. “Thank you for being so nice.”

I give a little “no problem” shrug.

She reaches for the menu. “Shall we order some dessert?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I reply. “And I think you should try one of these Dark and Stormy cocktails. For research.”

“Research?”

“I was thinking how great a rum and ginger cupcake would be, especially for the sailors . . .”

Now she really brightens. “You’re on!”

•   •   •

Later, back at the beach house, I try broaching the subject with Ravenna.

“I’m sorry to hear about your parents’ divorce,” I say as I light the fire, hoping to create a comforting vibe.

She doesn’t even look up from her phone.

“If you want to talk about it—”

“Why would I want to talk about it with you?”

She has a point.

“No reason,” I concede. “Other than I’m here.” And then I shake my head. “You’re right. I just wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Thank you,” she snarks. “That makes it all better.”

Next morning I wake up way ahead of my alarm. Ordinarily I might re-squish my pillow and settle back down, but the second I recall our private cove I’m out of bed.

I open the patio door with the stealth of a cat burglar, take a quick look back at Ravenna—no movement. Crossing the fibrous deck, I creak down the steps and transfer onto the cold, wet sand. The sensation thrills the soles of my bare feet, luring me to the edge of the discreetly lapping water.

I have to say, paddling at this hour feels slightly illicit—possibly because I am still in my pajamas. I look back at the other beach houses to see if any curtains are drawn or lights on. And that’s when I notice a figure on the rocks.

“Gracie! What are you doing up?” I gasp as I take in her form, elegantly draped in a silver silk robe, as if she is waiting to be painted by some world-renowned artist with a wiry beard.

“I wanted to make the most of every moment here,” she sighs.

“Oh, me too!”

Together we take in the straggles of seaweed on the shore, the slanting layers of the low-lying rocks and the translucent blue of the early morning sky.

“Are you a walker, Laurie?”

“Well,” I take a moment to decide. “I am an honorary New Yorker, so I suppose I’d have to say yes.”

She beckons me closer. “I know Pamela won’t want to come and Ravenna will sleep through breakfast . . .”

“What did you have in mind?” I’m curious.

“Cliff Walk.”

“Is that as perilous as it sounds?”

“Yes and no.”

“Yes and no?” I wasn’t expecting that answer.

“Are there opportunities to plunge to your death, yes. Will that be our fate? No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because we’ll stick to the path.”

“Okay . . .” I say. Sounds simple enough.

I manage to get into my jeans, sweatshirt and purple Converse without prompting so much as a stir in Ravenna. As I head out to the car, I scrape my sleep-mussed hair into a Pebbles ponytail. All I need now is a baseball hat. I look so ridiculously sports bar next to Gracie’s neutral-hued Dame Judi drapery. Not that she bats an eye. I suppose she’s seen worse on Ravenna.

Gracie takes an alternative route to Ocean Drive now, weaving us inland past ever more mansions, but also some ragged fields and farm shacks.

“Gracie?”

“Yes?”

“Did I just see a llama?”

“Yes, dear. They’ve got all sorts here. That’s Hammersmith Farm, childhood home of Jackie O. It’s where she and JFK had their wedding reception. Obviously before she became an O.”

We pass Fort Adams and a new perspective on the marina, then cruise up Memorial Boulevard—the broadest artery of the city.

“Now. There are several access points to Cliff Walk,” Gracie informs me as we crest the hill. “But begin at the beginning, I say.”

“Oh wow!” I gasp as we’re greeted by the wide-open sprawl of a beach.

“Easton’s Beach.” She smiles at its sandy curve.

I’m surprised to see so many surfers bobbing astride their boards, especially when the waters seem so placid.

“You’ll be even more surprised when you see them up close,” Gracie gets a twinkle in her eye.

“What do you mean?” I look back at their lithe, licorice-clad bodies.

It’s only when a couple of guys come over to load up their car that I see their salty tufts of hair are silver-gray.

“Are they all that age?” I whisper.

“From what I remember from my last visit, yes!”

“I can’t believe it. They look so limber and healthy!” And handsome too, I think to myself. “There must be something in the water here.”

“Yes,” Gracie titters. “Senior citizens!”

•   •   •

The path ahead of us is spilling over with fragrant honeysuckle, delicate pink dog roses and sprays of miniature daisies. Less picturesque are the “CAUTION” signs showing a figure pitching headfirst into the abyss.

Welcome to Cliff Walk.

It’s actually not that risky. Though there are undeniably opportunities for you to come a cropper, there is no pressing need to do so. The path is broad and stable and, after a certain point, even offers handrails.

“You know how yesterday we drove past the front gates of the mansions?” Gracie takes my arm. “Now we’re going to walk along the back of them.”

“Really?” I’m intrigued. “Will we get a glimpse of any?”

“Oh yes,” she confirms. “You’ll see.”

That’s if I can prize my eyes away from the shimmering ocean—it’s as if Mr. Swarovski himself cast a million crystals across the water’s surface, leaving me blinking in bedazzlement. We have a better vantage point of the beach from up here and the little town beyond, complete with English-village-style church spire.

“Morning!”

“Morning!”

We exchange greetings with fellow early risers, including a joyful array of lolloping dogs.

I can’t imagine this being my regular morning jaunt. Would you ever become blasé, I wonder, or would you start every day chanting, “I’m the luckiest person in the world!”

“Quite breathtaking, isn’t it?” Gracie notices my awe.

“I love how curvy it is; you never know what’s around the next . . .” I come to a halt. There’s a mansion right there in front of us, completely accessible, not even a “Keep Off the Grass” sign. “Don’t the owners mind people ambling around their back lawn?”

“This is actually one of the university buildings now.”

“You can study here?” I practically pass out with longing.

Gracie chuckles. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Less so that!” I point ahead to a modern block monstrosity.

“We have to count ourselves lucky that the fancy building is still standing. They tried to demolish a lot of the treasures to build apartments.”

“Nooo!” I’m scandalized.

“Don’t worry, nothing can touch the jewel in Newport’s crown.” Gracie leads me on and then, with a grand flourish, presents a vast burgundy-roofed villa with all manner of ornate archways, colonnades and balustrades—not to mention acres and acres of methodically mown lawn.

“This is The Breakers,” she announces. “Built by Cornelius Vanderbilt II in 1893. For twelve million dollars.”

“In today’s money?”

“About three hundred and fifty million.”

“Wow,” I gawp, stepping up to the wire fencing, hooking my fingers in the wire so I can peer a little closer. “Is it really as lavish as they say?”

“Way beyond lavish. Beyond Gatsby even. There’s one room that has these silver wall panels and the preservationists couldn’t understand why they never tarnished, until they discovered they were coated in platinum.”

“Talk about one-upmanship!” I chuckle. “I can’t wait to see inside!”

“But we’re going to start with Marble House?”

“Yes, I wanted to save the glitziest till last, in a vain attempt to blow Ravenna’s mind.”

Gracie rolls her eyes. “You’d think with her interest in interior design . . .”

“You’d think.”

“Shall we take a wee break by The Breakers?”

We head to a bench on the stepped lookout point and sit for a while in companionable silence. When Gracie speaks again, her tone has softened.

“I didn’t mean to upset Pamela last night.”

I glance her way.

“I try to bite my tongue but every now and again . . .”

“I understand.”

“Years of frustration.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Anyway, I’m glad you were there,” she pats my hand, “you know, to offer her some support. It’s a very trying time, and things could get trickier before this trip is through.”

Trickier?
“In what way?” I ask.

Gracie looks as if she’s about to tell me something. Something specific and significant. But instead she withdraws her hand and favors ambiguity: “You know, as a mother, you always want the best for your child. It’s hard when you see them making choices that take them in the opposite direction.”

“I know,” I tell her as I tuck the wind-ruffled strands of hair behind my ear. “Not that I’m a mother, but I had one just like that.”

“Really?”

I nod but don’t go into further detail.

“It’s not easy, is it?” She sighs. “Georgie used to tell me not to interfere—that it was Pamela’s life and she had to make her own mistakes. But even he said, just before he passed on, that he didn’t like leaving her as she was. He had hoped things would have changed for her by then. He didn’t want to say good-bye when she was still so unhappy.”

“So things have been bad for a while?”

“Not that she ever complains. I don’t think she even feels entitled to.”

“I’ve made my bed?”

“Exactly.” Her eyes meet mine. “Did you ever try to intervene, with your mother and—?”

“My sister.” I complete the sentence. “Oh yes. All the time. But ultimately I think I was just a second source of stress for her.”

“So you wish you’d done things differently?”

“I don’t know what I could have done, short of hiring the Albanian gang from
Taken
to snatch my sister.”

Gracie raises a brow.

“It’s this film with Liam Neeson.”

“I know the film,” she replies. “I’m just wondering if that gang really is for hire.”

I chuckle. “It seems simple, doesn’t it?—this person is ruining the other person’s life so we must separate them. But it’s a hard bond to break, mother–child. Harder even than husband–wife.”

Gracie nods.

“And it seems they must make the choice themselves or they will fight it all the more.”

“Pamela won’t hear a bad word said about Ravenna,” Gracie concurs. “Even when she is evil incarnate.”

I sigh. “Mothers seem to have an infinite capacity to withstand hurt from their children. All they see is their pain and I think they feel responsible for it, as if it is their fault that the child in question is feeling so bad and acting so selfishly—and thus the very least they can do is take it.”

“But is that any way to live?”

“No, of course not. But you know what they say—if you keep doing what you’re doing, you’re going to keep getting what you’re getting.”

“That’s just it,” Gracie turns toward me. “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around, and if it’s not me interfering, helping to break the pattern, then who? I can’t stand the thought of this going on and on ad infinitum.” She lowers her voice as a couple pause beside us to take in the view. “I thought this trip might at least give Pamela the chance to start thinking in a different way, to see that she has other options, but I wasn’t counting on Ravenna being a part of it.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“To say the least. It makes things very complicated. Very complicated indeed . . .”

I study Gracie’s troubled face. “Is there something I should know?”

She looks back at me. Uncertain. Conflicted. “You seem like a nice girl, I don’t want to burden you.”

“Well, if it’s something that is going to affect our itinerary . . .”

She grimaces. “It’s just . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been meddling,” she whispers.

“In what way?”

“I can’t say exactly, not yet.” She pauses. “I don’t know if Pamela has any inkling, I have to imagine it’s crossed her mind, but, well, I just want you to be prepared.”

“For what?”

“For anything
.”

I wait for her to expand on this dramatic vagueness, but instead she gets to her feet and brisks, “Anyway, no point in worrying now.”

“You realize I’ll be doing nothing but worrying unless you tell me?” I scuttle after her.

“It’ll probably come to nothing,” she wafts her hand. “And it’s certainly of no concern today.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” At least one day out of the next week should be smooth sailing.

Gracie stops suddenly. “Unless—should I call it off? This thing—”

“This thing you can’t tell me anything about?”

I wonder how she expects me to answer when I have so little information. Of course I know her intentions are good. And I know things need to change for Pamela and Ravenna. However much that may inconvenience me.

I take a breath. “I think you should do everything in your power to make a difference.”

“Really?” she looks encouraged.

“I regret every day not doing more to protect my mother. An Albanian gang would be too good for my sister. I should have done the deed myself.”

Gracie reaches over and touches my face. “Then you’ll stick with us, no matter what?”

“No matter what,” I confirm.