The Traveling Tea Shop (15 page)

The stroll back into town continues the picturesque theme. We pass houses painted lilac and sea foam and sky blue, a cluster of artists capturing the ocean view on canvas, and all manner of boutiques and eateries, ranging from tacky to cravat-worthy.

We’re having so much fun window-shopping and people-watching we almost forget our assignment.

“What is it today?” Ravenna asks, looking slightly wary as we coincidentally stall beside a sex shop.

“Well, obviously you can’t write a book about American cakes without featuring cupcakes.”

Even Charles concedes they have become something of a phenomenon.

“And obviously they come in every imaginable flavor and decoration. However. There is one chap here in Provincetown who has gone the other way,” I say, slightly regretting my phrasing. “Scott Cunningham only makes one flavor of cupcake in one color, every day of the year.”

“Really? That’s bold.”

“I thought so. In fact, that simplicity and confidence actually inspired a musical to be written about him.”

“It didn’t!”

“Well, that and some legal hoo-ha about street-vending licenses and the fact that he’s extremely good-looking.”

“What was the musical called?” Ravenna wants to know.

“Cupcake.”

Pamela bursts out laughing, “Oh Laurie! This is too fabulous!”

“I know!”

“Are we actually going to get to meet this chap?”

“We are!” I cheer. “Follow me!”

ScottCakes is positioned downstairs in a corner unit on the edge of a cute bricked courtyard. In a world of precision branding, his signs stand out for their homespun cardboard-and-marker-pen nature, rather like something you might expect to find on a child’s lemonade stand. Before we can even get inside, everyone has guessed the singular color of his cupcakes from the paintwork, and the fact that you can see right down into his dinky establishment from the street.

“Pink!” Pamela exclaims.

“Could it really be anything else in this town?” Charles smiles as we make our way down the steps.

Scott is there to greet us, looking even lovelier than his pictures (and his reputation, for that matter). He reminds me of a fair John Barrowman and has such a gleaming complexion that you’d think he’d come fresh from a facial. Apparently he always wears pink T-shirts—be it tie-dye or logo, a favorite being LEGALIZE GAY CUPCAKES. Today he’s sporting a baby-pink polo shirt.

He welcomes us into the kitchen area, directly behind the counter displaying his wares, and offers each of us a stool to perch on as he completes our handcrafted cupcakes.

“I call this the Scottswirl,” he says as he smooshes the pink frosting around the top of the sponge. “Boop!” he exclaims as he lifts the center to a peak. “Here we go!”

The “real buttercream” frosting has a slightly melted, oozy look to it, rather like strawberry mousse. All of us save Ravenna take a bite.

“Mmmm, heavenly!”

Scott only shares the precise recipe with Pamela. For the rest of us it is reduced to: “Some sugar, real butter and a whole lot of love.”

“So tell me Scott,” Pamela points to the framed newspaper clippings dotted around the pink walls, “how did all this begin?”

He gives a peppy smile, as if this is his favorite subject in the world. “About five years ago I was an actor living in New York, set to come here to perform in a play for a few weeks. When I got here I knew I didn’t want to leave. But what am I going to do? I’m certainly not going to be doing bad commercials to make a living here, so I said to the universe, ‘Give me my big success!’ Just like that, out loud! And what came to my mind—boom!—was an image of the cupcakes I used to make with the kids when I was a nanny in Tribeca—they were always pink—and the name came too: ScottCakes!”

In the beginning he would only come out at night—a street vendor catering to crowds looking for a sweet pick-me-up after the bars closed.

“There I was, a forty-year-old man, dressed in pink like a fourteen-year-old girl, selling handmade cupcakes at one
A.M.
!”

And it worked like a charm. Then came the issue with the license and a whole legal battle (which he won) that inspired the musical. (Cue some Benny Hill-esque chases with the local police!)

They changed the name of Provincetown to Summertown and Scott became Tom, but he was there on opening night in Boston, along with 200 mini cupcakes, and even had a little cameo on stage.

“Excuse me a moment!” Scott hops up to attend to some customers.

“Quick!” Pamela huddles up. “I need to think of something new to make—I don’t want to offend anyone with the fairy cakes!”

I can’t help but chuckle.

“Something with the same ingredients . . .”

Ravenna adopts a huffy look. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“What?” her mum blinks at her.

“Butterfly cakes.”

Pamela gasps. “That’s perfect! You’re brilliant!”

I can tell she wants to hug her, but she knows better than to risk physical contact. It is a good call, though. Fairy cakes are, after all, just small cupcakes with flat icing instead of a twister of frosting, whereas butterfly cakes require a little more finessing—cutting a central circle from the top of each cake and slicing them in half to make the wings, which you then press into the buttercream filling.

“I like to sift over a little icing sugar to finish.”

As Pamela moves through the process, I make sure I get a snap of her using Scott’s giant pink mixer, as well as the man himself showcasing his shop’s gluten-free option—i.e., a shot of frosting.

There’s a lot of laughter along the way—particularly as we recall the silver ball-bearings that used to be so popular as cake decorations. (We learn that they are actually banned in California due to assorted lawsuits.) Even when we’ve returned the stainless-steel work surface to a pristine state, we’re reluctant to leave.

“There is a magical quality here, for sure,” Scott agrees.

“I think you should be upgraded from The Cupcake Man to The Cupcake Angel,” I decide as we bid farewell.

“You know this little area is known as Angel’s Landing?” He points out of the window.

“I didn’t know that!” I say, getting a little chill. (I can so see him with silver wings and a tinsel halo!)

Pamela seems equally enchanted. “This place makes me want to be gay in my next life.”

Charles raises a brow.

“Well, they just seem to keep the exuberance of youth going a lot longer.”

•   •   •

Nobody is ready to return to the hotel yet, so we continue our perusal of Commercial Street and its eye-popping sights, like this life-size black bear sporting a feather boa, propped on the porch of the Purple Feather Café & Treatery.

As we step up for a closer look, Ravenna makes a casual exit: “Just popping back to one of the shops. I’ll catch you up in a minute.”

Pamela looks fretful as she sees her daughter disappear into the pedestrian flow.

“Do you want me to hang back and keep an eye?” I offer.

“Would you?”

“No problem.

I start weaving back down the street, trying to catch a glimpse of her, wondering which shop she has stepped into. Not this “clamshell” jewelers or Monty’s Emporium, though he does have a rather fabulous line of Mermen ornaments—
Splash
from the waist down, Village People from the waist up.

“Gotcha!” I mutter, as I spy her level with ScottCakes. “Oops!” I duck into an art-gallery doorway as she turns back, as if checking to see if she’s being followed. When I dip my head out again, she’s gone. “Darnit.”

I take a few paces forward, glancing down into Scott’s as I do so. And there she is. Purchasing and then inhaling one of his cupcakes. My jaw drops. She eats!

Apparently this place really brings out the depraved hedonist in a person, because she’s now ordering a second. And then posing for a photo with Scott, giggling with him. Must be the sugar rush. I have to say she looks amazingly pretty when she’s smiling.

Oh jeez, here she comes now!

I turn to hide myself and collide with a seven-foot drag queen in voluminous Cleopatra robes.

“You on the run, hun?”

“I just need to—”

“Hide?” she says, opening up the wingspan of her dress and inviting me in. I have no choice but to burrow into her fake boobs as her arms close around me.

I don’t know how she can wear so much man-made fiber in this heat and still look so ridiculously glamorous. Just as I’m thinking her spiky neck collar is going to make a permanent indentation in my forehead, she releases me.

“All clear! It was the Kristen Stewart kid you were avoiding, right?”

I nod.

“She’s gone back down the street.”

For a minute I stand transfixed by her face. The artistry of her teal eye makeup, the expert shading enhancing her cheekbones, the glitter pressed carefully onto her lips.

She in turn is studying the matching sparkles on my shoes. “Very Dorothy,” she notes. “You know what color shoes the Pope wears?”

“I want to say red?”

She nods. “And when he clicks his heels together he says, ‘There’s no place like Rome!’”

I burst out laughing. “That’s a good one.”

“Here!” she hands me a flyer. “Tea Dance today at the Boatslip.”

“Really?” My face brightens. “That is actually perfect!”

“I know. I’m your fairy godmother.”

And in a swirl of gold lamé, she’s gone.

My first thought regarding the Tea Dance is what a terrible shame it is that Gracie can’t be with us to enjoy the tinkling piano, potted palms and silver sugar tongs. In reality there are none of these. No wafts of Darjeeling, no ladies in modest frocks, no gentlemen offering to take you for a spin around the dance floor. Well, actually, that’s not true. There are a few of those. A few hundred. Shirtless. Sweating. Arms aloft, pounding and throbbing along to the music. Several of them are only wearing tight swimming trunks, giving a whole new meaning to “One lump or two?”

“Ah,” I stall. “This may not be quite what we had in mind.”

“You’ve brought us to a big open-air gay rave,” Ravenna smirks.

“Yes,” I confirm. “Yes I have.”

“Hey!” One chap with an elaborately tattooed right arm comes up to Pamela. “Are you with this guy?” He motions to Charles.

“Um. Well. Not exactly,” she falters.

“Great, you wanna dance?” he turns to Charles.

Ravenna looks even more tickled by this.

All I can do is look on helplessly.

“Sure,” he surprises all of us. “Why not?”

“What?” Ravenna hoots.

We stand amazed as he merges with the seething bodies before us. He’s actually quite a mover, instantly in time with the beat.

“This is weird, he looks kind of cool,” Ravenna is in awe.

“He always was a good dancer,” murmurs Pamela.

“How would you know?” Ravenna frowns. “I thought you met him at an antiques fair?”

“I think this young man is trying to get your attention,” Pamela redirects her daughter’s attention.

“Oh no, no,” Ravenna backs away from the extended hand. “Not me. I don’t really dance.”

“Oh please,” the young man wheedles. “I only ever get to dance with dudes. Just once I’d like to dance with a pretty girl!”

This gets her. It doesn’t hurt that he’s really good-looking—full six-pack on display, T-shirt tucked into his Diesel jeans pocket, blond hair whisked up into a Tintin peak.

“Just one dance?”

Ravenna tries to resist but he’s gone to full puppy-dog pleading.

“One song, that’s it,” she relents.

“Whatever you say, baby girl,” he says, kissing her hand and leading her off.

I look at Pamela. “I don’t know what to say.”

Fortunately she starts to laugh. “This could be exactly what we need.”

“D-do you want to dance?” I feel a little awkward asking her.

“I think I might need a drink first.”

“Me too. Let’s find the bar . . .”

An hour later, Charles is now up on some tabletop, shaking what his mama gave him, yet still managing to look emphatically heterosexual, which of course makes him the beau of the ball.

“This is so hilarious!” Ravenna whoops and whistles along with the rest of his admirers. I’m guessing she’s taken a few sips of her young escort’s drinks, but I’m hardly in a position to judge. Pamela suggested we needed to cut to the chase with some shots and now I’m feeling wonderfully blurry and absorbed into the scene.

When Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” comes on, we’re all just one heaving, pulsing, sing-a-long mass.

“Cleo!” I wave to the Cleopatra drag queen.

She blows me a kiss back and in my mind the entire place fills with glitter.

•   •   •

There’s something really fun about being sweaty and disheveled when everyone you are with is in the same state of disarray. Hungry now, but not inclined to go back to the hotel to change, we buy a batch of lobster rolls from one of the walk-up windows near the beach and have a picnic on the sand.

“I don’t know the last time I danced like that,” Pamela marvels as she licks the mayonnaise from her fingertips.

“I’ve never danced like that!” Charles laughs.

“So you say,” I tease.

“Do you have a partner, Charles?” Ravenna wants to know.

“A partner?” he chuckles. “No, not currently.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Once, a long time ago.”

“But no girlfriend now?”

“Ravenna!” Pamela scolds her. “That’s a lot of personal questions.”

“I don’t mind,” he says. “The thing is, Ravenna, once you’ve experienced true love, it’s hard to settle for anything less.”

“Well I think you should consider putting yourself out there again. You’d obviously have your pick.”

“Of gay men at least!” I try to make light of the situation.

“Oh, look at that!” Pamela points to a man paddling past in a bright yellow canoe, with two small dogs in pink life jackets balanced on the front.

I reach for the camera and then scan the rest of the vista—restaurant terraces buzzing with happy chatter; little rowing boats strewn along the shore; dogs frolicking and no one making a fuss; guys walking hand in hand, laughing.

“I don’t mean to sound prejudiced in any way, but the world would be a very dull place without gay people,” I slur slightly. “They’ve got the whole
joie de vivre
thing down.”

“They really have,” Pamela confirms.

We sit for a moment, happy to be part of their rainbow world, looking out across the glassy-smooth water and wiggling our toes deeper into the sand.

And then Charles asks, “Who’s game for trying the Portuguese kale soup?”

“I just want another lobster roll,” Pamela responds.

“I’ll try it,” Ravenna offers, quickly adding, “Kale is a superfood.”

Sounds to me as if she thinks it will cancel out those cupcakes. And maybe here it will . . .

•   •   •

As we head back to the hotel, Pamela and I fall into a natural meander, pausing to peer into assorted girlie gardens while Ravenna and Charles stride ahead.

I watch them walking, perfectly in sync. No skulking from her now.

“He really does seem to bring out the best in her,” I observe.

“He’s her father.”

“What?”
I blurt, tripping over the uneven paving.

Pamela nods. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told. Other than my mother, of course—hence the setup.”

I can’t believe this! My brain tries to catch up.

“Were you expecting to see him on this trip?” I ask.

“I thought perhaps in Boston . . .” She trails off. “I didn’t expect him to be driving the bus!”

“No,” I mumble. “But you’re glad to see him?”

“I am.” She gazes fondly at the back of his head.

“So you didn’t meet ten years ago?”

“Twenty-one.”

“I see . . .”

“I was on a break from Brian, coming up to my fortieth birthday, despairing that he was ever going to propose. Mum said it would do him good to miss me. She was never a fan, didn’t care for his ‘tone.’ Anyway, she and Dad were going to visit some long-lost relatives in Boston, she invited me to join them. So I did.”

“And that’s where you met?”

“My mother was parading every eligible man before me, I think in the hope that I wouldn’t go back to Brian. Charles wasn’t one of them—technically he was still married at the time, just about to start divorce proceedings—but he’s the one who caught my eye.”

“He is a good-looking fella.”

“It was more than that,” she sighs. “He had a gentleness to him and a humility, the polar opposite to Brian. At first I thought it was just that—the contrast—but then I realized it was the first time I felt understood by a man. When he looked at me I felt like he was really paying attention, that he wanted to
know
me. All of me. And it felt so wonderful, to have someone on my side, someone caring, who I didn’t have to guard against. I felt myself blossoming in his presence, as silly as that sounds.” She looks away.

“It doesn’t sound silly, it sounds ideal. I think we all wish for someone who brings out the best in us.” I feel a yearning for this right now. “It must have been hard to leave him, at the end of the trip.”

She nods. “It was unthinkable. At first. But then you’re home, back to reality. And there was Brian, waiting with a proposal. Of course my first instinct was to say no—how could I possibly settle now that my heart knew what it was to soar?—but then I realized I was pregnant, so choosing Brian seemed like the more responsible, if deceitful, thing to do. I mean, we were already living together—good or bad, he was the known quantity, whereas Charles was essentially a too-good-to-be-true holiday fling. He lived in a different country, he was tied to his school there. I’d just signed up for another series of
Teatime with Pamela
in the UK. He already had one child and a soon-to-be ex-wife. It was just too complicated.”

“Gosh.” The paths we choose. I wonder how many times she has wished she could rewind to that day and make a different choice. “Did Brian ever suspect Ravenna wasn’t his?”

“He’d make comments from time to time. She doesn’t resemble him in any way physically, but then in her teens she seemed to develop his mean spirit. And he was quite proud of that.”

“What about Ravenna?”

“She has no idea. The plan was to tell her on her eighteenth birthday, but I’ve been putting it off.” She looks so sad now. “Sometimes I can hardly bear to think of what I did.”

I take her arm, afraid she might cry.

“And Charles?” I ask as we continue on. “He never met her before today?”

She shakes her head. “He’s been waiting a long time for this moment.”

“Wow.”

“I know. He wants to tell her tomorrow in Boston—on home turf, I suppose. I just don’t want to rush into anything.”

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about that,” I want to tell her. “She can’t despise you any more than she already does.”

But of course I keep quiet.

“I’ve thought about him every day,” Pamela says, looking ahead at her love. “Always missing him. Missing the hope he brought into my life but somehow not feeling deserving of it.” She shakes her head. “All my issues, standing between him and his daughter. I can’t believe I’ve held him at a distance all this time.”

I turn to face her. “I know what it is to regret, Pamela. But now is the time to look forward. You have a chance to make things right.”

“I can never make it right—”

“Don’t give up,” I implore, gripping her hands. “You have to believe things can get better.”

I mean it: she
has
to, because then I can believe it too.