The Traveling Tea Shop (14 page)

So here we are, sitting in the bay window of the main building’s sunny dining room, enjoying the bay view, eating breakfast with Charles. That’s me and Ravenna. And yes, she ate. A whole egg on a whole piece of toast. I suppose she had to crack sooner or later.

Charles is a class act with a stylish sweep of silver hair, playful blue eyes and an abundance of old-school charm. (Appropriate, since he’s a recently retired English teacher.) He even has a folded handkerchief in his blazer pocket. But his jeans are casual and his shoes endearingly worn. He’s pleasingly confident about driving the bus and says he’s happy to do anything for Gracie, she’s always been so very kind to him.

We’re just about to get into how the pair of them met—he’s at least twenty years her junior—when I realize Pamela has entered the room and is just standing, staring.

She knows him. And something about him has stopped her in her tracks.

I excuse myself from the table and hurry to her side.

“Where did he come from?” she rasps, gripping my arm.

“Boston.”

“No. No, I mean, how did he get here?
Why
is he here?”

She looks utterly dazed.

“He’s our new driver. Your mum gave me his number last night.”

“And he dropped everything to come here?” Her chest heaves.

“It seems that way. He didn’t make a big deal out of it. He seemed to be expecting a visit . . .”

At which point he looks up and catches her eye.

She gulps nervously and then strides across the room, hand extended, “Hello, I’m Pamela. I hear you’re a friend of my mother’s?”

He hesitates, as if to say, “If that’s how you want to play it.”

“Charles.” He shakes her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Though we have met before . . .”

“Oh yes,” she flusters. “About ten years ago, wasn’t it? Some kind of antiques fair with my mother? It’s coming back to me now.”

His shoulders lower, possibly with disappointment.

“It’s really very kind of you to step in like this.”

“Anything for old friends,” he holds her gaze.

“And cake!” I jest.

“And cake,” he smiles.

“Well, I suppose we should get going,” Pamela chivvies us.

“You don’t want any breakfast?” He turns back to the spread.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s a first,” Ravenna scoffs.

Charles looks so visibly affronted by Ravenna’s rudeness that she quickly reaches for a muffin and says, “Why don’t you take this for later?”

Hmmm. Perhaps a bit of testosterone is just what the doctor ordered.

Which reminds me.

“First stop the hospital?”

“Actually, I’ve already been this morning,” Pamela explains. “Mum was emphatic that we just get going but I left her with my iPad so we can Skype when she’s well enough, and in the meantime she said she’ll e-mail us every day. And vice versa.”

“So we’re off?” I query.

There isn’t exactly a rush for the door. Everyone seems a little more nervous today. For an assortment of reasons . . .

Welcome to Massachusetts.

We’re not even half an hour down the road when we transition into our next state.

Funny how a single sign can make you feel so separated from all that went before. If I turn back I can still see Rhode Island, but already it’s in our past, geographically at least.

“Massachusetts.”

As I hear Charles say the state name out loud, I can’t help but think of the Bee Gees. Not a bad thing in and of itself, but then that makes me recall the radio DJ who made a silly pun about “massive chew sets.” Why, when my brain lets so much go, would I remember that? I suppose there are some things you just can’t un-hear. And some things you can’t un-feel, I think, as I watch the stolen glances between Pamela and Charles. There is undeniably some deep connection there. I look forward to Gracie feeling better so I can learn more . . .

As we continue down another corridor of trees, I wonder out loud how different the drive would be in the autumn.

“It’s incredible,” Charles confirms. “I always say that the fall leaves are to New England what neon is to Vegas—a total marvel to the eye.”

“Really?”

He nods enthusiastically. “The blaze of the red maples stops you in your tracks; the color is so intense and . . .
unexpected.
And the pure yellow leaves, when the sunlight is behind them, they just glow.” He smiles. “It’s like a beautifully arranged bouquet that runs for miles and miles.”

I’m smiling too now. He has a rather poetic way about him—even now he’s pointing out how the roadside trees have taken on a more feathery, fanlike foliage, as in a Busby Berkeley musical, with an endless parade of showgirls peeling back as we progress.

“Wareham!” I spot a sign to our destination.

This is where we will learn more about one of Massachusetts’ biggest exports and Pamela’s favorite superfood ingredient—cranberries.

“A.D. Makepeace is the world’s largest cranberry grower and supplier for Ocean Spray.” I flip to my notes. “Gosh, they’ve been around since the 1800s!”

“Riveting,” yawns Ravenna.

“Not a fan of cranberries?” I snark.

“Not unless they’re in a cocktail.”

“We’ll have a Cape Cod tonight,” Charles suggests. “Vodka, cranberry, slice of lime.”

“Ravenna’s not old enough to drink,” I remind him.

“I am in the UK.”

“Shame you’re not back there then.”

“Isn’t it just?”

“All right you two,” he tuts as we head down a narrow road completely shrouded with trees.

We’re deep in the countryside now, yet the bus is coping admirably with the change in terrain. Charles decides we should give her a name. I suggest Georgie but Pamela doesn’t look convinced.

“What about Red?” she brightens. “That’s what Dad would call all the busses—‘I’m going out with Red today, I’ll be home at six!’”

Instant hit.

“Come on, Red!” we cheer as she bumps out of the forest and into a clearing.

Now, when you think of strawberry-picking, you picture low green bushes in which you’ll have to forage for the fruit. It’s a completely different story with cranberries. They grow in bogs, for one thing, and when the berries float to the top you are confronted with acres and acres of waterlogged pink! I can hardly believe my eyes.

“So when those guys in the Ocean Spray ads are standing there in their waders, it’s real?” I gawp. “I always thought it was just a jokey thing, like they were thigh-deep in cranberry juice.”

Charles laughs. “No, that’s really part of the process.”

Our guide joins us to expand further: “Cranberries grow on low-lying vines in the wetlands. Once they are ripe, we flood the bogs with water, a device loosens them from the vine and they bob to the surface where we can corral them.”

Ravenna doesn’t even feign interest. Her head is down, focused on texting as she paces restlessly around the banks.

“Cranberries were first discovered by the Native Americans, who used them as a fabric dye and healing agent as well as a food.”

Fascinating. I look back at Ravenna. Is she paying any attention to where she’s going?

“They were also used by colonial sailors as a means of warding off scurvy.”

“Is that so?” I nod at the guide then return my gaze to Ravenna. If she’s not careful she’s going to walk straight into the—

“Waaahhaaghh!”

In she goes with an ungainly splosh, so disoriented by the sudden switch from dry land to bog that she lurches forward and goes under, all bar the hand holding her phone, which remains sticking up like a periscope.

God, I wish I had that on video.

As she scrabbles back upright, I get the feeling she doesn’t know what to freak out about the most: her hair, her clothes, her dignity!

Pamela charges to her side to help pull her out.

“Don’t touch me!” she screeches, spattering her with water.

“But darling . . .”

Ravenna turns away, yanking angrily at her sodden clothes as she attempts to scale the bank solo, but the path is too slippery.

“Take my hand,” Charles offers.

For him she relents, accepting the assistance of his steel-strong arm. But no sooner does she have a firm stance than I see her gearing up to launch an attack on Pamela, who has returned to the side of the guide, trying to cover her embarrassment by asking him about the benefit of cranberries on one’s urinary tract.

“Oh this should be good,” I taunt.

“What do you mean?” Ravenna snaps at me.

“I’m just looking forward to seeing how you’re going to make this your mum’s fault, like everything else.”

“If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t even be here,” she spits.

“That’s true on many levels,” I admit. “But is she really responsible for you not looking where you are walking? Or should she put you back in one of those toddler harnesses with a lead?”

“How dare you speak to me like that!” she gasps.

“Oh I dare. I thought you knew that by now.”

“Laurie!” Charles stops me in my tracks, giving me a similar virtual smack to the one Ravenna received at breakfast. “Do you have any suggestions for how we can help Ravenna get a little more comfortable?”

“Yes, of course,” I reply, embarrassed that I lost my professional cool. Again. “She can drop her wet clothes in the sink upstairs on the bus, and there’s a couple of beach towels I laid out for Provincetown.”

“Thank you.”

Once Ravenna is out of earshot, he says, “That was a little baiting.”

“You don’t think she deserves to be challenged?” I protest.

“Unfortunately I do. I’m sorry to see she’s ended up this way.” He looks genuinely regretful.

“Well. I can’t stand by and watch her disrespect her mother in the way she does. I feel very strongly about that.”

“So I see,” he nods. “So do I.”

“Look at this!” Pamela trills over to us. “
Make It Better with Cranberries
!”

For a moment I think she’s found a cranberry cure for our situation, but it’s actually a cookbook. The unique thing is that all the recipes are local contest winners and the profits benefit the Cranberry Education Foundation. So you can eat as much Cranberry Delight Cake as you like and know you’re contributing to a good cause.

“I think I might try out a couple of these recipes on the way to Provincetown!”

Bless her, burying all the pain and shame in her cooking. You’d think it would sour the taste, but amazingly it doesn’t. Then again, if you knew just how much chocolate goes into a Magic Bog Bar . . .

And so we enter Cape Cod. This piece of land has been compared to the flexed arm of a bodybuilder. At the shoulder there is Sandwich (we’ll be stopping there on the way back). If you wanted to take the ferry to legendary Martha’s Vineyard you would leave from the armpit, also known as Falmouth. Dennis forms the bicep. Chatham the elbow. Eastham and Wellfleet make up the forearm, and we’re heading for the clenched fist at the very tip of the cape—Provincetown.

As we drive I’m aware that we have the Atlantic coast to the right and the bay to our left, but there is zero visual reinforcement. Still the green corridor. At one point it narrows to a single line of traffic in either direction.

“I bet this gets bumper-to-bumper during the weekends.”

“You have no idea,” Charles grimaces.

When I comment on how immaculate the whole area is, Charles tells me you can be fined up to $10,000 for littering. Now that’s an effective deterrent. Personally if I see someone dropping litter on the streets of New York, I always pick up the discarded cigarette packet or chewing gum wrapper and chase after the offender chirping, “Excuse me, I think you dropped this!” Krista says it’s a wonder I’m still here.

Around Eastham we pass the poshest motels I have ever seen, including one whose main building is a mock colonial mansion. Less Norman Bates, more Bill Gates.

“Look! There’s a shop for you—The Kitchen Lady,” I nudge Pamela.

It makes a change from all the greenery to have things to point at. I take in every shop and food shack along the way and then, some time after passing Moby Dick’s seafood restaurant, I notice the trees switch exclusively to pines of the low, bushy variety.

“We’re getting close now.” Charles sits up a little straighter in his seat. “Can you smell that sea air?”

On cue, the scenery opens out into a wilderness of sand dunes to our right, while hundreds of white beach houses line the left. The dunes themselves are quite mesmerizing—sprigged with green bushes and wispy grasses, a low band of clouds mirroring their gently sloping forms. I want to flip off my shoes, run up and then scoot down, creating a powder-soft cascade. Apparently I’m not the only one—as we slow I can see sets of deep footprints in the banks and the resulting sand-slide seeping onto the road. We are somewhere special, I can feel it.

“So Laurie, I’m guessing you have Plymouth Rock on the itinerary?”

“We do indeed, we’ll be there this time tomorrow.”

It seemed an essential stop—where the English first touched U.S. soil. I’ve even been looking into what cakes they brought with them.

“See that skinny tower over there?” Charles points over yonder. “That’s the Pilgrim Monument; it was actually here in Provincetown that the
Mayflower
first met land.”

“Nooo!”

“I know. Very little-known fact. Often overlooked because, though they poked around for a few weeks, they didn’t actually settle here.”

“Can’t think why,” Pamela frowns as she offers round some Cranberry Squares (basically cranberry-studded sponge). “It’s darling here.”

And it gets a whole lot more darling as we progress into town: pretty wooden houses surrounded by white picket fences and lovingly tended flower gardens, it’s definitely more cozy-cottagey than Newport—quaint in the nicest possible sense of the word.

And then we turn onto Commercial Street.

Here we both stick out like a sore thumb (because we’re in a big red bus on a dinky pedestrian street), but also fit right in—because in Provincetown, anything goes!

Multicolored flags flap and flutter as far as the eye can see; flamboyantly dressed men, several in mile-high wigs and studded stilettos, whistle and blow kisses at us; the air is filled with excited chatter and
bubbles
—pumping out from the West End Salon—adding an ethereal quality to the bustling party vibe.

“Is there some kind of festival on?” Pamela asks.

“It’s like this all summer,” Charles replies.

“It seems very gay,” Ravenna eyes the multitude of same-sex couples.

“In both the old and new senses of the word,” Charles agrees. “It’s a very happy, inclusive place. Everyone is welcome.”

I smile as I look around me. It’s like experiencing what the world would be like if heterosexuals were in the minority. With the significant difference that no one is cursing or judging us.

As we continue past a “caffeine bar” and a series of rather swish galleries, I reach into my suitcase—I have a pair of glitter-encrusted ballet pumps that I never quite have the occasion to wear, but seem apt for today. I might even slick on my neon-pink lip gloss.

“Left here, Charles!” I direct him down Franklin Street, taking us closer to the waterfront.

Unsure that we’ll make it up the hill to the hotel car park, I suggest we pull in at the side of the street and snug into the hedgerow, as the road is rather narrow.

“Great spot,” Pamela notes as she takes in the beach across the way.

I nod. “And better yet, we won’t need the bus again until we leave; everything is walking distance from here.”

“Fantastic.”

“Where to now?” Charles is ready to play bellboy with the luggage.

I backtrack a few paces.

“This is us!” I point upward—up the winding redbrick pathway bordered with potted flowers of bright yellow, cerise and purple, up to the terrace with the white wicker loungers and the big gray building that rather resembles a dovecote (albeit a deluxe one, with hexagonal turrets and wraparound balconies). This is the Land’s End Inn.

I smile at the heavy wooden sign. It feels like a storybook concoction to me, but then I know what awaits us inside.

“Come on!”

Eager to witness everyone’s reaction, I lead the way, but Charles and Pamela hang back as we reach the summit, saying they are happy to sit in the garden and enjoy the sunshine while Ravenna de-bogs herself.

I won’t argue with that; they clearly need some time alone.

•   •   •

On checking in, we learn that the Schoolman Suite is accessed through a pair of closet doors beside reception. As the owner guides Ravenna on her way, she gives me a quick look back as if to say, “If I never see you again . . .”

And then I have the place to myself.

I feel giddy—there is so much beauty and artistry and originality at every turn that I can barely stand it. It’s like stepping through the looking glass into the private home of some world-traveling artifact-collector from the 1930s.

The focal point of the lounge is a vast picture window looking out over the shimmering sea and framing a sculpture of a woman, back arched and hair flowing all the way to her feet. A circular ottoman bears a carved tray that I picture set with petite Cristallerie La Rochère glasses of absinthe.

At the other end of the room is a fireplace so magnificently rugged it makes me want to come back in my next life as a tiger rug, splayed before its fragrant embers.

I sink into the velvety sofa in the middle of the room and attempt to take it all in. I don’t think there is one plain surface in the place. The ceilings are beamed and lofted, the walls wain-scoted, wood-paneled or wallpapered. The accent tables are laden with decorative vases, ornamental boxes and treasures from the Orient. Even the lamps come beaded, tasseled or Tiffany-ed with multicolored stained glass.

Art nouveau mingles with art deco, brocade with brass, Phileas Fogg with Fu Manchu. Yet for all the antiques and ancient tomes, there’s nothing musty-fusty about it. It just feels deeply luxurious and exotic.

“What do you think of this place?” I ask when Ravenna returns, damp of hair and clean of jean.

I know there’s curiosity: I can see it in her eyes. Any would-be interior designer would have a catalog of comments and questions. All she gives me is, “Not really my taste.” And then breaks into a spasmodic pat-down.

“Forgot your phone?”

She nods.

“I’ll meet you outside.”

I sigh as I pass a Metropolis-inspired bronze bust. If I can’t get her with this place, there’s no hope.

I’m about to round the corner to Pamela and Charles when I hear him tell her, “You look better than ever.”

“How can you say that?” she scolds. “I’ve put on so much weight!”

“I like the new curves. You wear them well.”

I can see she looks dubious.

“I mean it, Pamela,” he says, reaching for her hand. “My eyes adore you.”

My heart flips on her behalf. He sounds so sexy. Could he be moving in for a kiss? I can hardly bring myself to look!

“Ready!”

Darn Ravenna! She would choose that moment to appear.

The two of them startle apart. But as Pamela turns away I see that she’s trying to hide a secret smile. She’s flattered. At the very least. Interesting. I think there’s a good chance that her eyes adore him too.