The Traveling Tea Shop (22 page)

I keep my head down during the good-byes and then opt for a seat at the back of the bus, pretending to be thoroughly absorbed with amending the itinerary, which is partly true. By the time we cross into New Hampshire, it seems as if everyone is vaguely pleased to hear from me again.

“So come on Laurie, tell us a bit about where we are and why we’re here.”

“Well, Charles,” I say, feeling as though we’re doing a local TV segment. “We’ve come to lovely Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to taste a local treat called the Popover.”

“The Popover, you say?”

“Yes, Charles, it’s actually akin to a British Yorkshire Pudding, but instead of being served with roast beef and gravy, it comes with butter and maple syrup.”

“What?” Ravenna splutters. “This country is weird.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it!” Pamela suggests.

“And where, pray tell, will we be tasting this rather unusual teatime treat?”

“Why, at none other than Popovers on the Square!” I say, leading us through this most English of towns, complete with market square, ye olde street lamps, and the occasional cyclist with a dring-dring bell.

The redbrick café with its black and gold frontage is rather more American in scale, with a capacious, tasteful interior, fully accommodating of mothers with prams. We gawp at the gaudy display of sugar-centric goodies and I give a ta-daaa flourish as I spot the Popover. But next to all the piped cream, drizzled caramel and fondant roses it looks rather drab—as if a taupe-coated caretaker had wandered on stage during a showgirl routine.

“Even the carrots on the carrot cake have little faces etched in them,” Ravenna notes.

“Well, the Popover dates back to the 1870s, which was a rather plainer time.” I try to defend its lack of pizzazz.

“I suppose we have to try it . . .”

We take our samples out onto the front terrace for a good peer and prod. Our assessment is that the batter is lighter, the texture crispier and the color darker than your average Yorkshire pud.

“And it rises up and over, as opposed to sinking in the middle.”

“And it’s dry inside,” I note as I prize mine open. “No sogginess.”

“More of a Yorkshire puff than a pud.”

“Yes, mine has a hollow interior, as if it’s been crossed with a choux pastry.”

“Could you trade them a profiterole recipe?” I suggest.

“Technically that’s French.”

“What’s a slightly puffy, not-terribly-attractive English cake?”

There’s a silence while we all think. Ravenna comes up with an Eccles cake, which pleases me greatly, but then we get distracted by a bleeping sound.

“It’s Gracie!” I locate its source. “She’s coming through on Skype!”

“She can speak again?” Ravenna looks faintly disappointed.

“Mum!” Pamela yelps as her face appears on screen. “How are you? You look so much better out of the bandages.”

“I’ve got the movement back in my jaw”—she jigs it and then yelps in pain.

“Mum!”

“Only joking! I’m fine! What about you?”

Pamela explains that we’re briefly passing through coastal New Hampshire but will be returning to spend more time inland tomorrow.

“I’ve been following your progress on the map. Looks like you’re bang on schedule.”

“We are,” Pamela shoots me an appreciative glance. “I’m just sorry you can’t be with us. Are you terribly bored?”

“Oh, how could I ever be bored here? Today I had a lovely tour of The Elms and discovered my new favorite cocktail—the White Lady. Apparently the former owner used to get everyone squiffy on it while they were playing mah-jong in the conservatory—”

“Wait!” Pamela cuts in. “Who’s that in the background?”

“Oh, that’s Gerald,” she breezes. “My new friend.”

“Is he staying with you?” Pamela peers more closely at the screen.

“Are you really in a position to judge?” Gracie peers back at her.

Charles slides his arm from around Pamela’s shoulder.

“Don’t be silly, Charles! Cuddle up! You know this is what I’ve wanted to see.”

“Granny!” Ravenna hoots. “Did you matchmake this whole thing?”

“Just a little. You know I want to see you all happy.”

“We are,” Ravenna confirms. “Thank you!”

Gracie does a double take at her granddaughter. “So you know? You’re pleased?”

“Mum!” Ravenna howls, leaping to her feet as Pamela sends a brown river of tea into her daughter’s lap. “What the—”

“Oh I’m so sorry, darling. Quick, let me mop you up in the ladies’!”

Gracie waits for them to scuttle out of earshot and then sighs, “I might have known it was too good to be true. I take it Pamela is still waiting for ‘the perfect moment’?”

“Something like that,” I whisper, as Charles goes to fetch some napkins to clean up the table. “She doesn’t want to spoil Ravenna’s good mood.”

“If walking on eggshells was an Olympic sport . . .” Gracie tuts.

“I have tried to encourage her.”

“Oh, I know what a thankless task that is.”

“Anyway, I think tonight could be the night. I’ll give you an update first thing in the morning.”

Gracie gets a funny look on her face.

“What?” I ask her.

“Can the others hear me?”

I step out on to the sidewalk, pretending to be showing her the square.

“What is it?”

“Gerald is taking me surfing tomorrow morning.”

“What? You’ve only been out of hospital five minutes!”

“Oh, I’m fine! I’m not going to miss out on a chance like this over a few bruises.”

“Gracie, you amaze me!”

“I think the hardest thing is going to be getting into the wet suit,” she grimaces. “Gerald says we should have a run-through tonight.”

I raise a brow.

“Well, why not, eh?”

I smile back at her.

“Why not indeed!”

Within minutes of leaving Portsmouth, we cross another state line.

“Welcome to Maine!” I cheer. “Home to two hundred and thirty miles of rugged coastline, top-notch lobsters and the infamous Whoopie Pie.”

“And Stephen King.”

“What?”

“He lives here,” confirms Charles. “Most of his books are set in Maine.”

“I didn’t know that!” I say, shuddering as I flash to the infamous sledgehammer scene in
Misery.

“And
The Shawshank Redemption
was set here. And
Murder She Wrote.
”

“Do you have any more cheery information?”

Charles thinks for a moment and then offers, “Maine is the only state in the U.S. with a one-syllable name.”

“Is that true?” I’m quite impressed by this.

“And it produces ninety-nine percent of the blueberries in the U.S.”

“I’ve got a lovely blueberry muffin recipe here somewhere.” Pamela reaches for her recipe file. And then we all fall quiet. Each lost in our own thoughts.

I notice there’s a lot of yawning as we proceed. And yawns being contagious, it seems as if at least two sets of jaws are being extended at any given moment.

“I wonder . . .”

I take out the map and consult it.

To reach our scheduled destination of Camden, we’d have to be on the road for at least another three hours, allowing for one “bathroom break,” which always seem to take half an hour, what with the diversion off the freeway, stretching of legs and mulling over the wares at the local gas station.

I sigh. I was really set on the Hartstone Inn, not least because the husband is a chef. If you saw the images of the breakfasts on the website, you’d want to go there too. Caramelized French toast with cumin-dusted bacon. Need I say more?

“Oop! Sorry!” Charles swerves dangerously. “I think I just dropped off for a second.”

“Right! That settles it! I think we should find somewhere closer to spend the night. We’re not too far from Portland, which seems a decent-size town.”

“City,” Charles corrects me. “Maine’s largest.”

“Well, then, that should work!”

“Wait a minute,” Ravenna reaches for my arm. “Does this mean we’re going to miss out on the outlet shopping?”

I can’t believe it. She’s actually studied the itinerary.

“No, no,” I assure her. “We can still do that tomorrow; that’s where our baking appointment is.”

“
We’re makin’ whoopee
!” growls Pamela.

“Are you going to sing that every time?” Ravenna rolls her eyes.

“You know, Harvey was up this way last summer,” Charles muses. “He might be able to recommend somewhere . . .”

“Actually, he was talking about Maine last night,” Ravenna perks up. “Shall we call him?”

Before she can offer to do the deed, Charles has tapped his phone and plugged in his earphones.

“Hey son! Yeah, good, she’s running great. Listen, we’re looking for suggestions of where to stay in Maine, somewhere in the Portland area . . . Yup. Uh-huh. Oh, that’s right, you went there with Molly. Really? That good? Okay.” He hands me the phone. “He’s going to text the number of the hotel.”

Just knowing he’s about to send a message makes my hand tremble. I stare expectantly at the screen, resisting the temptation to text him first. As in, “Who’s Molly?”

An ex, presumably? Everyone has exes. Nothing wrong with that. Provided she is an ex. I shudder again, remembering the minefield that is a new relationship. Not that this is a new relationship. It’s just wishful thinking.
And breathe
 . . .

“Here we go!” I announce as the number comes through. “Inn by the Sea, that sounds nice.”

I press dial and then hold the phone to my ear, hyperaware that all eyes are upon me.

“Hello, yes, I was wondering if you had a couple of rooms available for tonight? Bit short notice, I know . . .”

I cross my fingers.

“We’d be happy to accommodate you,” the receptionist smiles into the phone. “Allow me to review your options.”

It seems we could each have our own room if we wanted. Which would leave certain possibilities open for certain parties . . .

“Just a second!” I touch mute. “Pamela, how many rooms?”

“Um,” she falters, face pinkening.

“Two,” Ravenna cuts in.

“Two?” I query.

“Grown-ups in one. You and me in the other. I’m not sleeping by myself after the Stephen King comment. I don’t think anyone should.”

I blink back at her. Did she just condone her parents sharing a room?

Charles and Pamela exchange a look.

“Unless you two are planning on a long courtship?” Ravenna teases.

“I think twenty years is long enough!” Charles winks.

“I thought you said you met ten years ago?”

Pamela looks stricken.

“Well,” Charles clears his throat. “It seems like twenty.”

The Inn by the Sea is one of those places that makes you feel instantly soothed and in safe hands.

Set on Cape Elizabeth amid five acres of certified wildlife habitat, this is where “luxury comes naturally.” As we check in, my attention repeatedly returns to the floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing the serene sprawl to the shoreline. It may be clouding over now but it’s still the perfect antidote to the bustle of Boston. I know everyone is going to get a good night’s sleep here.

Well. Perhaps some of us still have more catching up to do than others.

Charles and Pamela’s room is amazing—more akin to an architect’s apartment: on the left as you walk in is a bijou version of your basic dream kitchen, with white paneling and granite breakfast bar; ahead is a lounge area—groovy stripy carpet, tweedy-beige high-backed sofa and a texturally tantalizing armchair of woven seagrass; patio doors lead to a wooden deck, which in turn overlooks the swimming pool. Turn back inside, head upstairs and you find a vast expanse of bed with fresh flowers on the bedside table and an oversized bathroom of honeyed marble with a shower area that could easily accommodate a trawler-full of lobster fisherman.

“You’d be crazy to leave all this,” Ravenna decides as she leans over the upstairs balcony. “Why don’t you just get cozy and order room service?”

The look on Pamela’s face says, “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?” but she doesn’t argue.

Charles, by contrast, steels himself for the task in hand: “Actually, Ravenna, perhaps you would care to join us? There’s something we wanted to talk to you about . . .”

She pulls a face. “Can it wait till tomorrow?”

“Well . . .” Charles looks at Pamela.

Pamela looks at me.

I can’t believe I’m the deciding vote! Oh gosh, I suppose it can’t do any harm leaving it a few more hours. Just as long as they tell her before we next see Harvey. I give Pamela the nod of approval.

“Tomorrow’s fine,” Charles confirms, leaning in to give Ravenna a peck on the side of her head. “You have a good night.”

She looks delighted by his affection and then turns to me, “Shall we see if we can get a table by the fire?”

Ravenna is referring to the fireplace in the lounge bar—a cozy nook with seafaring art on the walls and a mantel illuminated with tea-light candles and a glass storm lantern. The windows are starting to spatter with rain, so we’re all the more grateful to nab the pink linen sofa beside the fire, even if our cheeks start to flush a matching hue before we’re halfway through the list of entrées.

“Got to be the herb-grilled Kettle Cove lobster for me!” I set the menu down.

Ravenna looks uncertain—perhaps it was too much to hope that she would eat two nights running.

“Did you know that lobster has fifty percent fewer calories than an equal amount of chicken breast, and only a fraction of the fat?”

“Is that true?”

I nod. “To quote lobsterfrommaine.com: ‘If you swam every day in the cool, crystal waters off the coast of Maine, you’d be healthy too.’”

She chuckles and then looks back at the menu. “Do you see how they’ve named their local suppliers—Fern Hill Farm goat cheese, Backyard Farm tomatoes—that’s rather nice, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I confirm.

I can’t believe this new side to her—to think all this sweetness was hiding under that cloak of resentment! I wonder what she’s thinking right now? She looks so twinkly and content . . .

“You know, this is where Harvey sat with Molly.” She hugs a cushion to her chest. “Apparently she couldn’t believe her luck. Chowed down under the table and then fell asleep in front of the fire.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I love French bulldogs, don’t you?”

A surprised smile spreads across my face. “Absolutely love them,” I concur.

“They have a doggy menu here. Molly had meat “roaff” and a K-9 ice cream!”

I experience a moment of concern. Is this why she wanted to come to the bar rather than the restaurant—to sit where he sat, then relive every moment of their evening together? Don’t make me regret postponing her chat with Charles and Pamela . . .

I’m relieved when she starts talking about the dogs she grew up with—“Pixie was the first. She used to follow me everywhere. When she’d sleep she’d always nuzzle in and lay a paw across me, like she was cuddling me!”

There she is—there’s Babycakes! For the first time I can see them as the same person.

“Then there was Billy and Bonanza . . .”

Our talk of dogs evolves to include the entire animal kingdom—from teacup piglets to giant pandas, and now North American cottontails.

The bunny element was introduced by the waiter, explaining how the hotel has been involved in a habitat restoration project.

“I think it’s wonderful when hotels are environmentally conscious,” the formerly jaded Ravenna enthuses.

“They’re big on that here,” he confirms. “Even the key cards are recycled and compostable!”

“Goodness,” she gasps, and then laughs, “Quite literally!”

Ravenna is being so easygoing, so amenable, that I find myself sliding my muddled blueberry martini over to her.

She blinks back at me. “Really?”

“You’ve earned it.”

“Rewarding me with alcohol, eh?”

“Oh, don’t put it like that!” I tut and then tilt my head. “Now you come to mention it, it’s the same thing when you’re a child, isn’t it? You get sweets for being a good girl. They’re the treat, the reward. And then you grow up and they become the naughty element.”

Speaking of which . . . Our waiter is back.

“Can I tempt you ladies with some dessert?”

“You choose,” Ravenna diverts the menu to me.

“Hmmm,” I deliberate. “Sea Glass is the name of the hotel restaurant?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well then, I guess we should have the Sea Glass Peanut Butter Buster Parfait with the fudge sauce. You know, something light.”

He grins back at me. “Excellent choice.”

“And another blueberry martini please.”

Ravenna inhales happily. And then she drifts off. Gradually her expression changes and she stares deeper and deeper into the fire.

I’m just wondering if I should give her a little pinch when she says: “You know, this is the longest I’ve been away from Eon.”

I wait for her to continue.

“It was weird at first. I felt all disorientated and unsettled but now . . .” She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t say I told you so!”

“I won’t.”

She sits back in her chair, sighing, “I feel so much better about myself when he’s not around.”

I press my lips together. Not a word.

“I told him in Boston that I wouldn’t have any reception in Maine. And it’s like I can breathe again.”

I smile. “I know just what you mean.”

“I can have my own thoughts and I’m not constantly worried or feeling like I’m doing something wrong.”

I nod.

“I don’t want to go back to him.” Her voice quavers. “Not now that I know I can feel this way.”

I reach for her hand. “You don’t have to,” I tell her quietly.

“But—”

“Don’t worry about it now. Don’t let any thoughts of him spoil the enjoyment of where you are. He can’t get to you here. No one knows where we are, except us four, and Harvey. We’ve dropped off the itinerary altogether!”

She smiles back at me. “I like the sound of that.” And then she twists around, waves at a passing Labrador and asserts, “And I like it here.”

“Me too.”

“Harvey has good taste.”

I give a subtle nod. And then change the subject. To his father.

“So, you actually approve of your mum and Charles getting together?”

She shrugs. “I read online today that my dad had been seeing his secretary for the past seven years.”

“Oh gosh.” I falter. “That can’t have been nice, to hear about it like that.”

She shrugs. “He’s an arse.”

I’m confused. “But—”

“He’s always been an arse. They should have split up years ago.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “I thought you were in his corner.”

“Only to piss Mum off.”

I lean back and study her. “When did it all begin?” I ask. “Hating your mum?”

She takes another sip of martini and then starts picking at the silver studs on the chair arm.

“We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

“No, I don’t mind. She’s not so bad really. I mean, I’ve been thinking, you know, about what you said . . .”

“Which bit?”

“Well. Thinking about if she was dead, for one thing. How I’d feel then.”

“And how would you feel?”

“I’d hate myself for the rest of my life.”

Her eyes look a little glossy now.

“You know, I’ve just heard one thing for a really long time—about how she exploited me and tries to control me and doesn’t want me to have my own identity.”

“Is this some kind of voice in your head?”

“It’s Eon’s voice.
All the time.
”

“Why would he say those things?”

She sighs. “Probably because it’s what I wanted to hear when we first met. I was really angry with her. About something. I don’t even remember what now. Maybe a piercing or a party . . . Either way, he was on my side. He was always on my side, it seemed.”

“Against her?”

She nods.

“It was like he was the only one who could see what I could see.”

“So he fanned the flames.”

She squirms, rubbing her brow. “I feel bad now. Some of the things I said . . .”

“To her or to him?”

“Both.”

“Well. The good news is that your mum will forgive in a second. In fact, she’s already forgiven you everything—past, present and future. That’s just how she is.”

“She’s too soft with me.”

“You’re too precious to her.”

Ravenna crumbles, hair falling forward, eyes spilling over. “I’ve been such a cow!”

“I know,” I say as I gently rub her back.

She laughs through her tears.

“Well, I do know. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

She peers back at me. “Do you hate me?”

“No,” I say sincerely. “I mean, at the moment, quite the opposite.”

“Really?” she gulps, wiping her nose with the napkin.

“I admire you. For being able to see things with new eyes. For being honest about your mistakes.”

“I have to make it up to her,” she insists.

“All you have to do is be nice. And forgive her.”

“Forgive her for what?”

Now that’s the million-dollar question.

“Well. For spoiling you. Because you’re right. She did. And perhaps for trying to protect you from things . . .”

“What kind of things?”

Careful, Laurie! This isn’t your secret to tell.

“Just life,” I shrug. “And hurt. And people on public transport.”

She laughs.

“And for bringing you here against your wishes.”

“Oh, she’s so forgiven for that. I’m having a really good time now.”

“Really?”

“You know I am!” she grins.

“So that just leaves the future.” I get a twisty sense of foreboding as I say the words.

“Is that really part of the deal—I have to forgive her for everything she does in the future too?”

“Well, it’s a lot to ask, but if you could—that would be really something.”

“I’m going to try.”

I smile proudly. “Loganberry nightcap?”

“Don’t mind if I do!”