The Traveling Tea Shop (16 page)

And so to the Schoolman Suite. The color scheme appears to be a celebration of New England foliage—emerald-green paintwork, orangey-gold wallpaper, red accent walls. And then along come the trademark traveler’s treasures: a tarnished Moroccan lantern strung overhead, a rich Persian rug beneath our feet and a pair of bow-legged coffee tables that look as though they’ve been lifted from the back of an elephant in Siam.

Pamela and Ravenna are sharing the king-size bed at the top of the wrought-iron staircase. Their loft area has a particularly beautiful window in the shape of a fan. Of course it’s dark now, but that’s going to be quite something to wake up to.

“Sleep well,” I say as I leave them to it.

My bedroom is off the living room, through a pair of sliding doors. The walls are of scalloped wood, similar to some of the houses we saw today. It has dusty pink accents, fringed lamps and a floral bedhead that I am more than ready to be propped against. But I feel I should offer it to Charles one more time before I succumb—I personally only lasted an hour on the deck in Newport.

“Honestly, I’d be perfectly happy sleeping on one of the sofas,” I insist as I lean out into the cool air.

Instead of replying, he beckons me over. “I hear Pamela told you?”

Ah. He wants to talk. “She did,” I confirm. “Congratulations?”

“I know this isn’t what you signed up for, a lot of family drama on this trip.”

“Actually I sort of did. I promised Gracie I’d stick it out, come what may.”

He smiles. “She’s a force of nature, that one.”

“Yes she is.”

I’m about to turn back inside when he asks, “Are you close with your father?”

“No,” I say simply. “I never really knew him.”

“Well, I can certainly relate to what he’s missed out on.”

I’m not quite sure what to say in reply. “I think Ravenna is very lucky to have a dad like you, however belatedly. And you two have got plenty of time ahead of you.”

“If she accepts me.”

“I don’t think it’s you she’s going to have the problem with.”

Charles heaves a sigh. “She carries a lot of resentment toward her mother, doesn’t she?”

“She does. But I think there’s hope.”

His eyes meet mine. “Thank you for saying that.”

I feel tears welling as a voice within murmurs, “I wish I had a dad like you.” I take a steadying breath. “Anyway, I should get to bed, early start tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“Last chance to swap.” I hesitate.

“Honestly, I’m fine. I love camping. And this is more like, what’s the new term?”

“Glamping?” I smile.

“That’s it.”

“Good night.”

“Good night Laurie.”

•   •   •

Despite all the thoughts swirling in my head, I fall asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. But within a few hours I’m awake again, parched from our Tea Dance boozing. I desperately need a slug of water and remember there are glasses in the bathroom. Of course at home I can feel my way around in the dark but here I fear that would involve knocking down a series of irreplaceable heirlooms. Using the light from my phone I beam a pathway, but when I push open the mirrored door, I see that someone has beaten me to it.

There on the floor is Ravenna, lit by the jewel-hued moonlight and chugging with silent tears.

“What is it?” I hurry to her side. “What’s the matter?”

She shakes her head, turning her face away from me.

Oh my god—has she found out? Did she overhear something?

“Ravenna . . .” For once my approach is gentle.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” she protests.

I bite my lip. “Is it really so awful?”

She nods her head vigorously. “But you wouldn’t understand.”

I sigh and then settle onto the dusky grape carpet beside her. “Try me.”

She looks back at me, wary but desperate.

“Go on,” I encourage.

“I put on two pounds.”

Is she serious?

“That’s why you’re so upset?” I gawp.

She nods.

“Nobody will even notice!”

“Eon will.”

“I assure you he won’t. He might even like it.”

She scoffs. “He
wouldn’t
like it. And he
would
know.”

“How can you be so sure?”

She wipes her tears with the heels of her hands. And then she looks me right in the eye. “He weighed me before I left.”

This stops me in my tracks.

“He
weighed
you?”

“He was worried that spending so much time around my mother would involve a lot of eating. And he was right. You’ve no idea what I’ve gorged on today,” her voice trembles. “It’s totally gross.”

My jaw is still slack. “He actually got you to stand on the scales?”

“Yes.”

“And that didn’t ring any alarm bells with you?”

“What do you mean?” Her pink eyes peer into me.

“It didn’t strike you as a little creepy? A little controlling?”

“He just wants the best for me.”

“And that ‘best’ comes at a particular weight?”

She sighs impatiently. “There’s not an exact number. He just doesn’t want me to end up like my mother.”

“Meaning?”

“He doesn’t want a fat girlfriend.”

“He said that?” I feel physically sick.

“Yes.”

“He said those words?”

“What’s the big deal? He’s just being honest. I respect that.”

I lean back on the wooden siding of the bath, taking a moment to compose myself. “You know, I had a boyfriend say that to me once. It’s such an ugly sentiment, but he said it so casually, like he was just giving me a friendly tip-off. When in fact it was, of course, a threat.”

“It’s different with Eon. He says he doesn’t want me to change because he loves me just as I am,” she pouts.

I give a little snort. “You can justify his comment all you like, but tell me, how does it make you
feel
when he says that kind of thing?”

She concedes a shrug. “Well. It’s not exactly reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be. It’s designed to keep you on your toes—to keep you feeling vulnerable, on edge.” I look at her. “Is that how you feel?”

“Well, I do sometimes wonder if I’m wearing the right thing or whether he likes my hair a certain way . . . But doesn’t every woman want to look nice for her man?”

“Of course, but she shouldn’t be afraid that his feelings for her would be altered by how she looks on a particular day.”

“I think it’s different for Eon because he has such a heightened sense of style,” Ravenna explains. “He’s just started working in the fashion industry.”

“Oh jeez.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, in and of itself. It’s just a fantastic excuse for him to run his mouth on how you look every day.”

“The thing is, he’s so perfect. I hate to feel like I’m letting him down.”

Wow. What a brilliant trick he has performed, convincing her that he is perfect and that she is the one with all the flaws.

We sit for a moment in silence.

“So what happened with your boyfriend?” Ravenna asks. “How did you respond, you know, when he said he didn’t want a fat girlfriend?”

“I said, ‘And I don’t want a misogynist boyfriend.’”

“Really?”

“But I didn’t break up with him. Not straightaway. It took a few more weeks, but I knew in that moment that it was done. Because, as much as he didn’t want a fat girlfriend, I knew I could never be with someone who would say such a thing to someone he supposedly loved.”

“So you don’t think it’s love?” She sounds nervous now.

“It’s not. It’s a whole mess of other things. But it’s definitely not love.”

“What’s going on in here?” Pamela is at the door, eyes all scrunchy as they try to adjust.

“Oh! Just some girls’ talk—we didn’t want to wake you so we sneaked in here.” I get to my feet, blocking Ravenna from her view. “Everything all right with you?”

“Yes, yes, I just need a wee.”

I reach behind me and help Ravenna to her feet. “All yours. See you in the morning.”

“Mmmf,” she mumbles.

As the door closes, I look back at Ravenna.

“To be continued?”

She nods.

When I returned to bed, I dreamed of my sister Jess. But it wasn’t the druggy Jess tormenting me. It was worse. It was the lovely version of her. The one I’d all but forgotten about, the one I now barely acknowledge ever existed.

In order to write off a family member, you have to stay keenly focused on all the ways they’ve done you wrong, all their character flaws, all the reasons why there is no redemption to be had. It doesn’t do to remember how proud you felt watching them in the school play, or their contagious giggle, especially when you are dreaming and can’t guard your heart against the feelings that go along with those memories.

While I was sleeping, I went back to our childhood playtimes. We were a good team then: I would make the practical arrangements, select the toys and the snacks; she would bring the imagination that turned a bed sheet slung between two chairs into an African safari tent or the rug beside the front door into a magic carpet ride.

With her talent for transporting us to all manner of exotic lands, you would have thought she would have been the one who had favored a career in travel, but instead she decided to follow in our father’s footsteps selling life insurance. (It was one of the few things we knew for sure about him—his job.) Now she was using her imagination to conjure up never-ending scenarios in which you die unexpectedly, leaving your family in abject poverty. Even though she earned a decent salary and I was always offering her great bargains, she rarely went on holiday. The first time she asked me to help her plan a trip was to Goa. I should have known that something was up. In my experience, most people want to visit India when they are looking for an inner shift—they want a new perspective or just to feel something very different to the norm. Jess wanted to leave the very next week, but it was monsoon season so I told her to hold off for a couple of months, and it was during that period that she chose to poison off all her potential for greater happiness with the drugs. And that’s all I have to think about to make the good feelings about her go away.

•   •   •

Emerging from my room, I am relieved to discover that Charles and Pamela are already up and out, so I make a beeline for the deck, relishing having it to myself.

There’s not a wave as far as the eye can see, just glimmering ripples spotted with bobbing boats, canoes and inflatable loungers. At least that’s the view toward the pier. Over in the direction of the dunes, it’s clear, unadorned periwinkle blue.

I take an elongated breath—I love this combination: a light ruffling breeze with an underlying burn from the sun. I close my eyes and let my vision glow to red as strands of hair lift and swish across my face. As I stand there, I feel my heart rate slowing, my breathing easing. I might believe I could meditate in such a moment. Or maybe this is as good as meditation. It’s funny, inner peace is nothing I’ve ever particularly aspired to. I always wanted to be a woman of action. But now I can see how blissful inaction can be.

Even the Adirondack chairs seem to offer fantastic back support. As I take a seat I rest my head back and wonder how long I could stay here, were it not for my obligations. At what point would I have had my fill? I’m always rushing on to the next thing, ricocheting around a schedule—what if I just stayed here? Forever. A quick check of my watch tells me I’m going to have to go for quality over quantity, so I attempt to let this feeling seep into my bones and create a memory from it so I can always come back here in my mind. As Krista says, “Travel broadens the mind, but the mind can always travel.” Now I’ve been here, and felt this bliss, I have an open invitation to return, wherever I am.

I think that’s why, in my mind at least, it’s sometimes worth paying over the odds for a room, because you’re buying more than a bed for the night, you’re buying an experience, investing in your ability to be amazed by the world, which to me is the most rejuvenating sensation of all. It’s so easy to feel tired and jaded by the humdrum, but you can get through all that if you know that a beautiful feeling is coming your way. I think it’s terribly important to remind yourself of how you really want to live your life. If we keep a treasure box of what we love in our minds, we can try to make choices that keep us moving in that direction.

I remember writing a “Holiday Blues” page for Va-Va-Vacation!, dedicated to those people who slump horribly after they return from their two weeks in Greece, or wherever. One of the secrets is to ask yourself: what is it that you love so much about being there and how can you have more of that in your life? Of course, some things are a quicker fix than others: you can easily have more tzatziki, but you can’t buy two weeks of sunshine from Sainsbury’s. You might consider a second job—even one day a week for six months could buy you a second holiday. I mean, what would you be doing with your time anyway? If you’re spending most of the time watching TV, wishing you had someone else’s life, it might be worth considering. I know one of our readers got a Saturday job in a Greek taverna and ended up making friends with the owners and staying at their family home in Skiathos for free.

There are lots of possibilities out there for people of limited means, if you are willing to get a little creative and go that extra mile for what you love.

“Where is everyone?”

By utter contrast, here is Ravenna.

“Gone for a stroll,” I tell her. “They left a note.”

Ravenna steps up to the edge of the deck. “Is that them there?”

I lean forward, squinting. “Yes, looks like it.” I feel a mild flush of anxiety, hoping they won’t stop and kiss right in front of us. Their body language certainly looks inclined in that direction. “Shall we go down to breakfast?”

Ravenna gives me a look.

“Coffee?” I rephrase my invitation.

We creak down the stairs, exit through the closet doors and behold the continental spread. A big jade buddha watches over the teas, an art deco maiden the cereals. I fill my bowl with fresh strawberries and pineapple, pluck a berry muffin spilling over from its casing and stir honey into my camomile and lemon tea. Life is good.

Taking our seats on the veranda, I notice Ravenna is the only one hunched over her phone. Everyone else is reading newspapers or books. So much more relaxing. It makes me nostalgic for the time before portable technology. Out of respect for my surroundings, I keep mine in my bag.

“Do you know I don’t think I had my first coffee until I was in my late twenties? I hear schoolgirls today saying they need their caffeine fix, when the most I’d get was a Robinson’s Barley Water.”

Ravenna looks back at me. “You talk a lot.”

“Well, there’s just so much to say, isn’t there?”

She shrugs and returns to her phone.

“You prefer texting to talking?”

Her thumbs halt. I feel as if she’s about to say something potent when Pamela and Charles clomp up the steps.

“Morning all!”

“Morning!” I chirrup back. “Ready for some breakfast?”

“Actually, Charles took me to the Portuguese bakery and I had my first malasada.”

“Malasada?” I attempt to repeat.

“It looks like a big doughnut that’s been run over,” Pamela begins, “but when you bite into it you find the texture is more like an airy ciabatta that’s been deep-fried and coated in sugar.”

“That sounds strangely good.”

“Oh, it is—I love that sensation when you release the grease.”

“Gross,” Ravenna recoils.

“There’s quite the Portuguese tradition here,” Charles says as he pulls up a chair. “Their festival is one of the biggest events of the summer—there’s parades, dancing, the Blessing of the Fleet . . .”

I notice Ravenna listens when he speaks. Looking between them, I search for a family resemblance. It’s hard to tell with her mess of hair and giant sunglasses, but perhaps there’s something in the chin area?

“What do you think, Laurie?”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Do we have time for one quick detour as we head out?” Charles wants to know. “Just ten minutes?”

He says he’d like to give us a closer look at the dunes—you can even drive along the beach there.

I grimace. “I’m not sure Red is cut out for off-roading.”

He chuckles and explains that we’ll just pull over at the side of the road and then cut through on foot.

I’m very glad we do. It’s a fascinating sight—great swooping dunes of palest blond sand, whiskery with grasses, burrowing down to the occasional dark-green oasis.

Charles points to a grayish shack on the horizon, one of a dozen or so spaced out along the coast.

“Looks like the ultimate writer’s retreat,” I joke.

“You’re right! Some of the greats have stayed here: Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams—Jack Kerouac even conceived part of
On the Road
here.”

“What?” Now that’s a trip!

“Do you know E. E. Cummings?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply.

“He wrote the most beautiful poem called ‘I carry your heart with me . . .’”

Charles looks like a movie star as he quotes it to us, the wind ruffling his hair, making him look all the more romantically rugged against the backdrop of shifting sands.

I can’t help thinking, “If he was twenty years younger . . .”

“Today, if you’re a writer or an artist, you can apply for a residency at a couple of the shacks. There’s no electricity, no running water; they just drop you off in a dune buggy with your supplies and come back a week or so later to pick you up.”

“I don’t know if I’d like that,” I shiver. “Wouldn’t it get a bit spooky at night?”

“It’s actually all right. At least it fitted my mood at the time.”

“You stayed in one?” Ravenna is impressed.

“It was a long time ago. I thought I was going to write the Great American Novel but it just turned into a great outpouring of my broken heart.”

My eyes flit to Pamela. She does look a tad guilty.

“Can we read it?” Ravenna asks. “Is it published?”

“I never finished it.”

“Still waiting for the happy ending?” I find myself asking.

He looks wistful. “I think in a way I was always waiting for her to come back to me.”

“And now she’s here,” I want to say. In fact, now they’re both here—the two missing women in his life.

As he answers Ravenna’s questions about the décor of the shacks—“I’m picturing lanterns and bunk beds and itchy blankets!”—I step back and oh-so-discreetly take some candid snaps of the three of them. Perhaps this full-circle moment will make a nice memento for him. Or a sadly poignant one, depending on how things go with today’s revelation.