The Traveling Tea Shop (17 page)

On our way to Sandwich, I get an e-mail from Gracie asking if I can set her up with a “bachelorette pad” in Newport. She’s well enough to leave hospital, but not up to traveling, so she just needs a nice spot to recuperate.

I know just the place. The Cliffside Inn is just a few steps from Cliff Walk, strolling distance from town; there’s a gourmet breakfast every morning and social tea in the afternoon, so plenty of opportunity to mingle with the other guests. Plus they have a garden suite available that avoids any of the staircase-wheezing of the main building, and it has a separate lounge area so she’ll be able to entertain, as I know she’ll be making friends in no time. (Apparently her facial bruising is quite a conversation-starter.)

“Do you think we should divert back there and get her settled in?” Pamela asks.

I look back at the e-mail. “If Pamela suggests coming back for any reason, please dissuade her. It is imperative she keeps moving forward with Charles.”

“I think what she needs most is peace and quiet,” I reply. “If we go back she’ll be less inclined to sleep and get the rest she needs.”

“You’re right,” Pamela nods. “She’s not a fan of being fussed over, anyway.”

Fortunately our arrival in Sandwich distracts Pamela from any further fretting on the subject.

“Do you think you have to pass some kind of test to live here?” I wonder as I take in the Bree Van de Kamp perfection of it all. “You know, proven skills in lawn-trimming and picnic-basket-arranging and all-round wholesomeness?”

There’s even a father teaching his son fishing in the sunlit river beside the old mill.

Sandwich is the oldest town in Cape Cod, first settled in 1637 and named after Sandwich in Kent. Neither one has anything to do with sliced bread—the name comes from the Old English meaning “trading center on sand.” Rather more dramatic is the U.S. town’s motto:
Post tot naufragia portus
, which translates as “After so many shipwrecks, a haven.”

It is that. And the Dunbar Tea Room is a haven within a haven. A former carriage house with a cozy fireplace, it made the cover of
The Great Tea Rooms of America.
Since we’re still full of breakfast, it’s just a quick snoop and a photo opportunity beside their cake buffet.

“Nice piping,” I hear Ravenna mutter.

Pamela is impressed by the range of teas on offer (I catch her discreetly pointing out the “Courtship” tea to Charles) and the promise of a real Plowman’s Lunch.

“Well, whatever you order, you know it will be filling.” Charles looks around for a response. “Get it? Sandwich. Filling.”

•   •   •

Half an hour later, we arrive at Plymouth Rock.

“Is that it?” Ravenna is unimpressed with the lump of pale-gray stone caged in a mini Acropolis at the water’s edge.

It’s definitely one of those landmarks that you arrive at and then say, “Now what?”

Fortunately I have something particular in mind.

•   •   •

The Plimoth Plantation is a reminder of America’s Think Big mentality. Instead of a few artifacts in a museum, they have taken 130 acres of prime coastal land and rewound the clock so you can really understand how the people lived, and ate, back in 1627 (seven years after the arrival of the
Mayflower
).

Once you get beyond the visitor center, there is no trace of modern life. The road slopes down and you find yourself surrounded by grassy fields and grazing cattle, sandy roads and a series of small thatched, timber-framed homes. Costumed role-players invite you to step inside and see the earth floors and ash-heaped hearth with its blackened pans and metal pail currently boiling water. There’s a heavy wooden table set with pewter plates and hand-glazed pitchers and, over in the corner, an early design for a canopy bed.

Pamela asks one reenactor, bulky in her excessive yardage of Pilgrim fabric, what kind of cakes they might have prepared in those days. She answers “mostly spice cakes and Shrewsbury cakes” and then leads us down the main drag to an alfresco communal oven where the daily bread was baked.

“No TV, no mobile phones, no liquid eyeliner, can you imagine?” I nudge Ravenna.

“I don’t even want to,” Ravenna shudders. “Can we move on?”

It turns out that we are touring out of sequence because, after a forage through the forest, we discover the Wampanoag homesite—home to the
original
settlers.

After seeing so many Westerns as a child, it’s almost unnerving to walk among these moccasin-clad Native People with their beaded wristbands and feathered dream-catchers. These are not lookalikes cast in a role, but actual descendants of Native tribes creating a living history exhibit. I feel part-intruder, part-voyeur as I watch a woman hoick her baby into a papoose while another tends to the campfire, but they are unfazed and welcoming. With the possible exception of a bored-looking teen, slumped atop a log, looking as though she’d rather be at the mall with her friends.

“Shall we go into the longhouse?”

It is here we discover one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, sitting amid the raccoon furs and raffia weavings, rhythmically stirring something porridge-y. She looks like the fantasy of Pocahontas: long black hair braided to one side; sheeny, caramel skin set against the buttery suede of her fringed dress. She tells us that the bowl she is holding, similar to a hollowed-out coconut, is what they would use to portion their meals—it replicates the size of the stomach so you would only eat enough to fill that. And then when you were hungry you would eat again. Which sounds so much more reasonable than our stomach-stretching three-course meals.

I ask if they have any kind of teatime tradition and she says no—if the children were craving something sweet, they would give them berries. Ravenna is utterly rapt. For the first time she joins in with the questions—does Wampanoag have an English translation? Did she make her earrings herself? We’re just learning about how the more elderly members of the family would sleep closest to the fires at the center of the longhouse, when I catch sight of Pamela beckoning me outside—she wants me to give her agent an update on the phone, which feels so inappropriate in this setting that I all but clamber into a blueberry bush so as not to ruin the vibe for my fellow visitors.

When I stumble out again, I find Ravenna pacing impatiently.

“This is absolutely outrageous,” she spits. “I just can’t believe it!”

“Believe what?”

“Do you realize that these people had no disease and no obesity before the bastard English came along with their smallpox and diphtheria and sugar and
ruined
them? They welcomed these strangers off the boat, shared their skills for harnessing nature’s bounty and in return they enslaved them, took their land, wiped out half of them. I mean, for god’s sake, Laurie!” She looks wild-eyed at me. “How can this be?”

I sigh, defeated. “It’s not right, is it?”

“Well. I know we can’t go back in time, but surely there must be something we can do?” She looks so earnest, like she wants a solution
right now.

I don’t know what to say, other than it makes me feel thoroughly ashamed to be English. But I am sufficiently impressed by Ravenna’s first unselfish request to get my thinking cap on as we head back to the bus.

“There is one thing,” I venture as we pass the Craft Center. “If you are going to move into interior design, you could think about incorporating some of their handicrafts when you get a commission. Perhaps they’ll even become your signature look; that way you’re helping improve their economy, bringing their work to a new audience and keeping the conversation going about them . . .”

“That’s actually a good idea. Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

She sighs.

I wait.

Finally she speaks: “I don’t know if that’s what I really want to do. You know, as a career.”

Ah.

“Indian Pudding?” Pamela appears before us, this time offering a dollop of brown gloop from the café. “This is the closest thing to a native dessert, made from cornmeal, milk and molasses.”

I take a spoonful—it’s actually tasty and textured, with a spice that makes my tongue tingle. “Nutmeg?”

“And a bit of cinnamon and ginger,” Pamela confirms.

“I was thinking of trading bread pudding, what do you think?”

“I’d say that would be spot on,” I smile, though my gaze has strayed back to Ravenna, busily chewing at her thumbnail.

She does have my sympathy. It’s no picnic when you don’t know what you want to do with your life. And it makes it all the more easy to be swayed by people like Eon. As they say, “If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.”

We have one more stop before Boston—a ten-minute diversion to Quincy, home of the very first Dunkin’ Donuts shop in 1950.

“We diverted for this?”

I know that’s what everyone is thinking, because I’m thinking it myself. What can I say? Not every stop on our itinerary is a winner. I suppose I expected the whole town to be in a time warp, which in some ways it is, just not in a cute pink neon/red Chevy kind of way.

“Shall we just hop out for a quick pic?” The signage has got to be worth a snap.

A few years ago, this particular branch went through a retrofication, returning to the original “handwriting” typeface and adding a sit-up counter. Mind you, the enduring pink and orange color scheme is pretty kitschy wherever you go.

“Well?”

No one seems keen to leave the bus.

“They do a Boston Cream Donut—it might get us in the mood for tomorrow’s pie?”

“I suppose I could do with a wee.” Ravenna hauls herself up.

Our uneasiness increases as we enter. Let’s just say the clientele is less than chic. But what did I expect? We’re not in some Parisien macaroon store. It’s then I spy the couple holding hands in the corner. Eighty if they’re a day. They look equally affronted by the lack of grooming in the assembled youths. I can tell they still starch and iron and take the time to comb their hair just so.

“Do you think they had their first date here?” Charles whispers to me.

I smile back. “I think that’s the only possible explanation for them being here—nostalgia.”

“Rather sweet, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” I say as I look back at them, clinging on for dear life across the Formica tabletop. “At least they have each other.”

“Here you go!” Pamela hands me my Boston Cream Donut.

I take a distracted bite. And then my senses kick in. “Oh my!” She smiles at my reaction.

“I rather like it!” I like the splurge of mild custard, the not-exactly-chocolate-as-we-Brits-know-it topping, and the doughnut aspect, which is more akin to a synthetic soft white roll than its deep-fried cousin.

“Not overly sweet, is it?” Pamela notes.

I shake my head as I take another bite.

“Shame we’re not here in October.” Charles looks the picture of regret.

“Why’s that?”

“For Halloween they do a Boston Scream Donut!”

We all laugh. Except Ravenna, obviously. She’s on her phone again.

“He doesn’t seem to make her very happy, this boyfriend of hers,” Charles notes as he watches her pacing outside the window.

“No,” Pamela and I agree.

“Perhaps it’s time she moves on?” he suggests.

“It’s definitely time for us to move on,” I say, as a series of low-slung jeans bundle in.

•   •   •

So much for a quick getaway.

“What’s that noise?” Ravenna joins us at the front of the bus. “Can you hear it? That clunking-dragging sound?”

“We hear it,” Charles replies. “I don’t know what it is but I know it’s not good.”

“Are we going to make it to Boston?” I can’t think of anything worse than getting stuck here.

“We’ve just got about ten miles to go, but I’m thinking we should go straight to the garage and get it looked at.” He catches my eye. “If that’s not going to mess with the schedule too much, Laurie?”

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “We don’t have set appointments until tomorrow morning. Do you have a particular garage in mind?”

“I do. The best mechanic in the business is in Cambridge, just across the bridge from Boston. It would be hell to park in the city, so we might be better off leaving the bus there until we head on to Maine.”

So that becomes our plan.

•   •   •

I’m surprised by how daunting it feels, entering the grimy hustlings and honkings of a big city after the gently twittering countryside. I’m glad we’ve got a native Bostonian on board. Charles makes an excellent tour guide, pointing out assorted landmarks on our way. My Top Three are:

1. Newton—this is actually just a road sign to a town twenty minutes away, but it’s where Fig Newtons got their name. No need to actually visit—I’ve learned my lesson there: just good to know.

2. Fenway Park—home to the Boston Red Sox and a significant backdrop in Ben Affleck’s gritty bank-robber movie,
The Town.
Which is really good. I love Ben Affleck.

3. Harvard University—be still my beating heart! It’s literally two blocks from where we pull in to the cavernous mechanic’s workshop.

No sooner have we disembarked than Pamela is guiding me over to the garage entrance for “a quick word.”

“Everything all right?” She seems a little flustered.

“Yes. Um. I know you’ve supplied a list of places to visit today . . .”

“Just suggestions, really. Nothing set in stone.”

“I know. And I do want to visit them. Especially those cupcake places on Newton Street—”

“Newbury,” I correct her.

“Right. Got Fig Newtons on the brain now.”

“But?”

“Charles feels we really shouldn’t keep Ravenna in the dark any longer.”

“Time for the big reveal?”

She sighs. “It’s not the setting I would have chosen, too much going on, but he just feels that the longer we withhold the truth, the more betrayed she’s going to feel.”

“So you need some time, just the three of you?”

I can barely control my excitement—
Free at last, free at last!

“Would you mind?” She looks concerned.

“Not at all,” I say, a picture of stoicism.

“We could reconvene in the hotel lobby, say at six thirty
P.M.
?”

“Sounds perfect. In fact, I’ll probably hang around here for a while, so why don’t I bring all the cases across with me in a taxi? That way you guys can head off straightaway?”

“Really? Oh Laurie, you’re such a gem!” She throws her arms around me.

“Just doing my job!”

“Well, you’re doing an excellent one, thank you!” she pips before returning to the bus to gather her necessaries.

I can’t believe it—four whole hours with no one to chivvy or cajole. I can do exactly as I please!

“What’s going on?” Ravenna skulks over, looking suspicious.

“Nothing. I just said you guys should go on and I’ll sort out the luggage and stuff.” I tilt my head at her. “Glad to be back in civilization?”

“I suppose.”

I want to say something to prepare her for the news she is about to receive. Some form of subtle heads-up to cushion the blow. It doesn’t matter how disconnected she claims to be, this is going to cause her whole world to tilt and shift. There will be a lot of confusion, a lot of questions, a lot of brain-swirl. Even though the upshot is that she gets a great new dad, the shock isn’t something I’d wish on anyone. Not even Ravenna.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. All weird.”

“Ravenna!” Her mother calls to her. “Are you ready to go?”

She looks back at me. “Why do I feel you’re up to something?”

“I’m not!” I protest.

“Well, what are
you
doing now?”

“I’m just going to look around the university campus,” I say, nudging her on her way. “Just be open to having a good afternoon. Text me if you like . . .”

She turns back with a sneer. “Are you getting separation anxiety or something?”

“Ravenna!”

“Coming!” she huffs.

As they exit, Charles waves back at me. “Bye Laurie!”

“Good luck!” I call after them.

All three turn back.

What did I just say?

“You know, finding the perfect cupcake!” I chirrup.

Oh god. What an idiot.

I don’t like being privy to secrets. Something always seems to slip out. At least by 6:30
P.M.
it should all be out in the open. Not that I think for a minute this is going to be a breeze. I should probably check to see if any extra rooms have opened up at the hotel—there’s a good chance Ravenna will need some private pillow-pummeling time. I know if it were me I’d need to be lying down to try and process it all—basically replaying my entire life from my first memory, scanning for clues or hints that this new truth was on its way.

Anyway! This really is not my business and I don’t want my precious few hours of free time to be consumed by fretting over their family drama. My only concern right now is ditching the rather drab Pilgrim neutrals I dressed in this morning and switching to something more preppy—a sweater slung around my shoulders at the very least.

I rummage through my suitcase, which is sadly devoid of petite blazers and cable-knit V-necks. I’ll have to settle for my studded lemon shirt-dress, with the collar upturned, of course. I must have something navy I can wear with it. Aha! This canvas belt. Now if I just had an armful of intellectual books—I’m not sure a stack of greasy cookery books is going to cut it.

I clatter down the stairs with renewed vigor—I’m going to Harvard! And then I come to a halt beside the driver’s seat. There’s still no sign of the mechanic, though Charles insisted he’d be here any minute. I look around. All is still and quiet. When am I going to get another chance like this? I hop into position and grab the enormous steering wheel. I don’t know how Gracie maneuvered this great thing, I really don’t! I jiggle the gear stick and start making growly-chuggy engine noises like a five-year-old boy, bouncing in the seat and calling, “All aboard!” as I pull up beside my imaginary bus stop.

“Fares please!” I do my best cockney accent. Actually, that would probably be the conductor. Either way I hear myself calling out, “That’ll be tuppence ha’penny. Ding, ding! Next stop Piccadilly Circus!”

“Now that’s a deal!”

I’m startled by a grinning face. My embarrassment is intensified by the fact that the man in question is so darn attractive—in just one glance, I register his Hugh Jackman quality (rugged mixed with a good-natured twinkle), tousled brown hair that probably never goes the same way twice and a light-up-your-life smile. I can’t even speak.

“You must be Laurie,” he climbs aboard, extending his hand to me.

I look down, expecting it to be blackened with axle grease, but it’s quite clean.

“Are you the mechanic?”

“I am.”

“Did you just get here?” I’m a little concerned about my recent outfit change upstairs, although I like to think that being on the top level I was out of view.

“About ten minutes ago. I’ve had a quick look at the engine. It’s simple enough to fix, but I won’t be able to get the part until tomorrow morning.”

I nod, trying to get my brain back on track. “That’s fine, we don’t leave until the afternoon.”

“Great,” he replies. “So what are your plans for the day?”

“Um,” I pause. I have no idea if this is touristy or nerdy, but I say it anyway. “I want to go to Harvard!”

“Really?” He looks intrigued.

“Mostly so I can say, ‘I went to Harvard.’”

He grins.

“I hear they do really good tours.”

“They do,” he says, consulting his watch. “But I think you just missed the last one.”

“Oh no.” My face falls.

“That’s okay. I can take you around if you like?”

I hesitate.

“I’ve heard their spiel enough times. Plus I can give you the inside scoop!”

My head tilts like a curious dog. “Do you know someone who went there?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “Me!”

“You went to Harvard?” I gawp.

He nods. “Class of ’96.”

“And now you’re a mechanic?”

He chuckles. “Not by profession. It’s just something I do on the side. My grandfather used to work at this garage. He taught me everything there is to know about cars and engines.”

“Really?”

“He said it was especially important since I was going to get a poncy education. Didn’t want me to be the kind of man who could write a twenty-thousand-word dissertation on Mayan culture but couldn’t tie his own shoelace.”

I chuckle delightedly. “He sounds a good man.”

“The best. He died three years ago but I’m named after him so . . .”

“He lives on?” I suggest.

“I hope so.”

I feel an empathetic pang. I can tell he misses him.

“What was his name?” I ask.

“Harvey.”

I smile to myself. Adorable. Suits his grandson well.

“Ready?” he says, offering me a hand down from the driver’s seat.

I nod, more than ready for a dream come true.