The Traveling Tea Shop (19 page)

I blink back at him. “You’ve got a good imagination.”

“None of us knows what our legacy will be—who we touch and impact without even realizing.”

I wonder if he knows, if he can tell the impact he is having on me right now.

I hear some distant clock chiming.

“So.” He claps his hands together. “I hear you ladies like cake?”

“Yes,” I sigh, feeling more trivial than ever. “That, in essence, is my major.”

“In essence?” He conjures his best egghead look. “Now would that be almond essence or perhaps rose?”

I want to fall on top of him and roll playfully in the grass until he ends up on top of me, panting down, gradually lowering his face to mine in my very first campus kiss.

“Laurie?”

“Yes, sorry, you were saying?”

He jumps to his feet and then reaches back to pull me up. “I’ve just thought of the perfect place to take you for afternoon tea.”

Well that’s it then. My life is complete.

If Alice in Wonderland and Cyndi Lauper opened a restaurant, it would look like this.

Eye-jazzlingly lurid paintwork of thick purple gloss slams up against leprechaun green and hot pink. Zebra-print banquettes, giant diamond-patterned flooring and sprayed-gold chairs. One piece of wall art looks like Klimt, another like Scottish tartan.

I can’t quite believe my eyes. “What
is
this place?”

“UpStairs on the Square,” Harvey says, way too matter-of-factly for such a fantasyland. “Have you heard of the Hasty Pudding Club?”

“Maybe,” I mumble, still trying to adjust to the assault of color.

“It’s the oldest college social club in America, founded 1770. Notorious hangout for Harvard types. This was the restaurant upstairs from that club, open to all. Quite the scene.”

“I bet.”

“People used to say it was like stepping into the third installment of
Brideshead Revisited
!”

I chuckle delightedly and then turn to face him, “Did you hang out here?”

“Inasmuch as I used to work here.”

I catch my breath. “Did you make cakes?”
Please tell me you made cakes, please, please, please
 . . .

He laughs. “I was just a waiter.”

I don’t know if my face falls but he quickly adds, “I could probably get hold of the recipe for the Zebra Cake if you like?”

“Zebra Cake?” In this setting I wouldn’t be surprised if it was served by a stripy pantomime horse.

“It’s basically a big wedge of chocolate cake with multiple layers of
dulce de leche
buttercream.”

“So, not sickly at all,” I confirm.

“You know, when I used to work here, there was this young girl who always wore her best party dresses and she would eat candied violets and sleep under the bar.”

“A real girl?”

“Yes,” he laughs. “She was the owner’s daughter. Is the owner’s daughter, all grown-up now. She wrote a book about her life within these walls.” He looks around, seemingly searching for a familiar face.

“Hey Dom, do you have a copy of Charlotte’s book?”

The raven-haired waiter ducks behinds the counter, waves one in the air and then scoots to our table, serving cloth over his arm, presenting it with full panache.

While Harvey explains my particular interest, I admire the cover—a young girl peeking over the top of a pink-clothed table, reaching for a lone slice of cake (a woman after my own heart). The backdrop is a creamy mint and the red lettering (which wouldn’t be out of place in the window of a French café) reads:
CHARLOTTE AU CHOCOLAT
—
Memories of a Restaurant Girlhood
by Charlotte Silver.

“This looks wonderful!”

Dom leans in. “I’ll let you keep it if I can borrow this man’s brawn for ten minutes.”

I raise a brow.

“We need to shift a dresser upstairs and the youngsters just aren’t cutting it.”

“Do you mind?” Harvey asks me.

“Of course not—I couldn’t be happier sitting here.”

“Ah yes,” he smirks. “Finally you have your hands on one of those elusive books!”

I watch him and Dom exit and then take a breath, my heart so high in my chest it feels as if it’s nudging at my chin.

Look at me—reading a book in a Harvard hangout by a girl who used to hang out here! Well, more than hang out, I discover as I flick through the pages, this was her true home: “It was as if the lights were always on at the Pudding and off everywhere else.”

I must say the author does have a lovely turn of phrase. Even the chapters have such evocative titles: The Lavender Blonde, Cabana Boys, Anything Can Absorb Champagne . . .

“Your tea, madam.” A waitress sets down a cake stand, quite the opposite of what I was expecting. I envisaged some Mad Hatter affair, but instead I see three tiers of plain stainless steel topped with a Captain Hook loop. Curiouser still, the cup and saucer wouldn’t look out of place at Lady M, they are so simple and white.

Well, I suppose they’d hate anything to clash with the décor.

“Would you like me to take you through your treats?”

“Oh, yes please!”

Savory-wise, the waitress references Gruyère quiche and salmon on pumpernickel, then come the scones and lemon tarts with blueberries and the signature chocolate-dipped pecan turtles.

Obviously I have to take a photo. Or ten. I feel a little guilty that I’m enjoying such a treat when Pamela is probably in the midst of a maelstrom of abuse about now. I picture Ravenna pelting her with an armory of cupcakes and curses—torn between the fact that she actually likes and respects Charles, and wanting to punish her mother for deceiving her for the past twenty years. Of course, sugary tea is meant to be good for a shock, and I did recommend the Boston Tea Party attraction, but then again I don’t want any one of them going overboard with the tea chests . . .

“Gosh, I wish your brain had subtitles!” Harvey slides back into the booth beside me. “You look troubled.”

“I am. It’s the hellish decision of which bauble of yumminess to enjoy first.” I decide to spare him the family saga.

“Hmmm. May I recommend the rather understated almond cookie?”

“You may!”

Between sugar surges, Harvey asks me if my mother baked.

I tell him she was more of a Mr. Kipling aficionado.

He looks confused.

“What you would call store-bought.” I speak American to him. “They came in little wrappers.”

“Like Twinkies?”

“No, no!” I recoil in horror. “These actually had an expiry date. And they were good. Still are. You can get little Country Slices and French Fancies. And individual Bakewell Tarts. Oh! I’ve got to write that down. That would be the perfect trade for Maria’s Linzertorte.”

“Me with the Harvard degree and I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“It’s just the girl equivalent of car parts.” I grin. “Gosh. That was incredibly sexist of me.”

“Incredibly,” he says, his voice turning low and flirtatious. “So if I said carburetor . . . ?”

“I’d say cannoli.”

“Manifold.”

“Mille-feuille.”

“Muffler.”

“Muffin.”

“Cylinder head.”

“Banana bread.”

“Let’s call the whole thing off!”
he sings.

We burst out laughing.

I’m having the best time!

Our conversation hops all over the place, from the songs we can listen to twenty times in a row to the awful clothes we used to wear as teenagers. And then my phone jangles. It’s just a nudge for me to watch the time. I don’t want to be late for Pamela.

“Do you know the Omni Parker House Hotel?” I ask Harvey.

“Of course. Everyone knows the Parker House.”

“How long would it take to get there from here?”

“’Bout twenty minutes.”

I nod. “I’ve got to take the suitcases over and get everyone checked in.”

“No problem. I’ll drive you.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I’d be happy to.” He holds my gaze.

I look back into his eyes. They really are blue. But not in a glittery prism way, more of a classic Paul Newman hue.

“I’ve got one more for you.”

I can just about manage a nod.

His lips part to form the word “Chassis.”

This throws me for two reasons. One is that “chassis” in America often refers to a woman’s bottom, and thus gives me a mild sexual thrill. Secondly my brain is short-circuiting because all I want to do is kiss him—melt onto his mouth like icing on a lemon drizzle cake. I know it would feel so good, unleashing the longing and surrendering to that spinning-out sensation. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.

“Did I get you?” he inquires.

“Actually,” I prepare my bluff, “I was thinking of Chiffon Cake with crème de cassis.”

“No wonder you looked so dreamy—that sounds really good.”

“Doesn’t it?” I say, biting my bottom lip. “Oop!” I lean back as the waitress plants the bill between us. Her
mot du jour
being “chaste.”

As Harvey gallantly pays, I take a last sip of now-cold tea and think quietly to myself: And in answer to your question, “
Yeah, you got me
 . . .”

The Omni Parker House Hotel is where the Boston Cream Pie originated. And Parker Rolls (soft dinner rolls). And scrod. This last one sounds delicious, doesn’t it?

It’s actually a chef’s term to cover assorted types of young whitefish—could be cod, could be haddock—when they weren’t certain what was going to be the freshest catch of the day. Scrod. It doesn’t matter how many times you say it, it still sounds like a total appetite killer to me.

“Checking in?” The bellman looks rather surprised by the volume of luggage when I tell him that we’re just here for one night.

Up the stairs we go and into the lobby. Classic wood-paneled grandeur with a somewhat gaudy-flourish-y carpet design. We pass an extravagant floral centerpiece set beneath a vast chandelier and lift doors seemingly made from intricately engraved gold shields.

“I suppose it’ll do.”

Harvey smiles.

“Good evening,” I say as I approach reception. “I’m checking in three people for two rooms, reservation under the name of Davis. Laurie Davis.”

Harvey mutters something I miss.

“What was that?”

“You sound very professional.”

I’m about to reply when I notice an older lady struggling next to me. She’s having trouble balancing her walking stick while trying to hoick her handbag up onto the reception desk to pull out her purse.

“May I help you?” I offer.

“I don’t have enough hands!” she tuts.

“It’s quite a lot to contend with at times, isn’t it? Here,” I take her arm but now she’s gripping onto me, which still only leaves one hand free for her handbag. And it has a zipped top.

“Mind if I hold you steady?” Harvey inquires, stepping behind her and gently placing a hand on each of her shoulders.

Her wobbling abruptly ceases. She looks surprised by her newfound sure-footedness and then chuckles, “I feel twenty years younger!”

With both hands free she is now able to negotiate her wares. As she signs in, her bony-crinkly hands start to move to the music filtering through the lobby—“Unforgettable . . .”

“You like this song?” I smile.

“Oh, it’s my favorite!”

I look to Harvey. He leans close to her ear. “Would you care to dance?”

“Oh, I . . .” She stops herself, takes a breath and then nods.

In one seamless move he places a secure, supportive arm around her frame and then lifts his free hand to her shoulder height. She raises her hand and places it in his. As they oh-so-slowly and carefully sway, her milky-blue eyes never leave his. She is looking up at him with such attentive wonder, I feel my own eyes glossing.

To be held so assuredly, to feel your body move in such harmony with another. To share such beautiful lyrics. To
live them
in that moment.

When the song ends he doesn’t dip or unbalance her, merely raises her hand to his lips and gives a little bow.

“Thank you!” she whispers with a little gulp.

“My pleasure,” he says, most sincerely.

I feel a sudden rush of love—love for her, love for him, love for Nat King Cole, love for
everything.

“Do you need any help to your room?”

“Oh no, dear, they know me here. Here’s Barney now.”

“Well hello, Mrs. Jenkins!” A cheery bellman greets her. “I guess it’s that time of year again.”

“It is.” She nods. “Another year, a little slower.”

“I’ve told you, we can always pop you on one of the luggage trolleys, get you around a little quicker.”

She tinkles a laugh. “Now you know I must try and retain a little dignity.”

And off they go.

I turn back to Harvey. “That was so lovely of you!”

He lifts his sleeve to his nose. “I think I smell of lily of the valley now.”

I lean in for a sniff, wishing I could stay there, nestled in his personal space. But the receptionist has other ideas:

“Your room keys, Ms. Davis.”

“Oh! Thank you!” I take the cards and then slump a little with the awareness that our time together is drawing to a close.

“Well,” I take a breath, “thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”

His head tilts. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

My heart gives a little Bambi leap. “Not necessarily . . . It all depends on how things went for the others today.”

He nods, in a strangely knowing way.

“They should be here any minute, if you’d like to wait with me?”

We take a seat in the expansive lounge area, on one of the outsize sofas that would be great to cuddle up on and watch TV. Or, in this case, one’s fellow guests.

“You get all sorts in here, don’t you?” I note as a full-tilt businesswoman all but hurdles a three-toddler family.

“It’s quite the hub in town. In fact, if we were sitting here a hundred and fifty years ago, we might have seen Charles Dickens strolling through.”

“Really?”

“He used to live here.”

“Here in the hotel?”

Harvey nods. “For two years. He was part of the Saturday Club, with the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”

He pauses to allow my swoon and then adds, “This is where Dickens gave his first recitation of
A Christmas Carol.
”

My heart heaves. “Oh to have been in that audience.”

“Well, you say that, but there’s a dark element,” he leans close. “One of the regular members of the Saturday Club was John Wilkes Booth—the man who assassinated Abraham Lincoln.”

“Laurie!” I hear Pamela’s voice call to me.

Here we go.

I compose myself before I turn toward her, not quite sure what will greet me. But nothing could have prepared me for this.

Charles, Pamela and Ravenna are all wearing matching skull-and-crossbones T-shirts, only instead of the skull there’s a cupcake.

“W-wh . . . ?” I can’t even form the word.

They grin back at me like fools.

“We had the best day,” Ravenna is first to speak. “Mum got all excited because there was this cupcake shop that has this huge window display saying zero calories, zero carbs and we get inside and it’s a T-shirt shop!”

“Johnny’s Cupcakes,” Charles chips in.

“They have the T-shirts all set out in baking trays in glass display units just like a real bakery!”

“And baseball hats in the fridges.”

“And there was this giant antique mixing bowl.”

Their chatter converges.

“It was rad!” Ravenna concludes. “Then we went to this huge Anthropologie store,” she holds up her bags. “I got four dresses! Mum liked all the homeware, of course. Show Laurie what you got!”

Pamela dutifully takes out a yellow daisy/navy anchor motif apron and an individual cupcake stand with a carved wooden pedestal.

“They had so many lovely things!”

“I liked it because they had a sofa area for weary males,” Charles chips in.

“And because they played John Lennon,” Ravenna beams at him.

I can’t believe my eyes. They are all so lit up. So happy. Can it really have gone that well?

“Hey!” Charles notices Harvey, keeping a low profile on the sofa. “How did you get on, son?”

“Great,” he says, looking right at me as he gets to his feet.

“With the bus?” Charles clarifies.

“Easy fix. You’ll be good to go tomorrow.”

“That’s a relief.”

Ravenna harrumphs. “I was kind of hoping we might have longer here.”

“She’s a Boston gal all right!” Charles says, pulling her into his side.

As the introductions are being made, I’m wondering, did Charles mean son like “fruit of my loins,” or was that just an example of cross-generational palliness?

“I’m ready for dinner now if you are?” Ravenna prompts, obviously impatient to get back into the fray.

“Oh gosh! I’d have to soak my feet first!” Her mother looks weary.

But Ravenna isn’t looking at her mother. She’s looking at Harvey. In. That. Way.

“Perhaps you could take her, Harvey?” Charles exacerbates the situation. “She’s spent the whole day with old people.”

“He’s old too!” I want to say. Too old for her, at least.

“Um . . .” His eyes flick to me.

I look away. It’s not my place to disrupt the plans. I’m just the help.

“Harvey?” Charles nudges him.

“Of course, I’d be happy to. Laurie, would you care to join us?”

Oh, he’s so lovely!

“Actually, I’ll need to keep Laurie with me,” Pamela intervenes. “I want to go over the next stage of the itinerary with her.”

My heart sinks.

“In fact, there’s one quick thing I need to check right now . . .” She pulls me around the corner, ducking behind a potted palm.

“Yes?” I say, trying to keep the testiness out of my voice.

“I couldn’t do it!” she bleats. “We had such an amazing day, I couldn’t risk spoiling it by drudging up the past. It was like being a family!”

“But without her actually knowing that you are one?”

Pamela grimaces. “Don’t be cross! I don’t know the last time I saw Ravenna laughing.” She peers back around the corner. “And now she’s got the chance to spend the evening getting to know her brother.”

“Her brother?”

“Well, half-brother.”

“So Harvey is Charles’s son?”

“Yes, isn’t he a dreamboat?”

“Yes, he is,” I confirm. “I think Ravenna thinks so too.”

“What? Oh don’t be silly!”

I hold her a little further out. “Do you see the way she’s looking at him?”

“Well,” she falters. “No, she has a boyfriend. She wouldn’t—”

“She may be thinking about leaving said boyfriend. She may be on the lookout for someone new!”

“It’s fine,” Pamela bustles. “Harvey won’t encourage her. He knows the situation, even if Ravenna doesn’t.”

I try to tell her that he doesn’t have to encourage her, that he has to just
be,
but she won’t have it. She’s far too attached to the fantasy that everything is going to sort itself out and no one is going to get hurt.

I plan to grab a few minutes with Harvey while everyone else heads upstairs, but Ravenna decides to play best mates with me, linking arms and saying she wants me to help pick out an outfit for tonight. For her date. She doesn’t say those last three words but I can see them hanging in the air.

“Nice to meet you,” I give Harvey a frustrated little wave as I’m tugged toward the lifts.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, with the bus?”

“Oh yes!” I brighten. There’s still hope!

•   •   •

It doesn’t help, when you’re feeling ousted, to have the ouster parade before you in a series of dress styles you could never carry off yourself.

Behold the slinky shift with the bohemian detailing that hits mid-thigh. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to have those giraffe legs with no actual flesh on them. Now the polka-dot mini-dress with the ruched bust area and the cutout above the waist. Just the area I’d love to expose. Then comes the midnight-blue lace-layer dress with the teeniest of cap sleeves. Very Alexa Chung. Only similar physiques need apply.

“You can stop there,” I tell her. “That’s the one.”

“Really?”

“You could go anywhere in that.”

“Not too girlie?”

“Well, I know you’re not wearing it with stilettos and pearls.”

“No!” she grins. “I’ll rock it up a bit.”

As she’s trying assorted options she ponders, “Do you think Harvey could be as nice as his dad?”

Okay. She knows that much, that he’s not just the bus mechanic. That’s something.

“I think there’s a good chance of that, yes.”

Ravenna smiles. “Who wouldn’t be nice with a dad like that?”

“Well . . .” God, what can I say?

“Charles was telling us all about him today. I thought he sounded pretty cool. Wouldn’t it be funny if . . .” She stops suddenly.

“What?”

“Oh nothing.”

If she’s waiting for me to say “if you ended up dating the son of the man your mum is seeing,” it’s not going to happen.

“What shall I do with my hair?” She moves closer to the mirror. “Up or down?”

Thankfully there’s a knock at the door.

“Is it him?” she gasps. “Have I taken too long?”

It is in fact the maid, wanting to perform the turn-down service.

“Help yourself,” I welcome her in, tucking myself into the armchair beside the TV to give her room to maneuver around the bed.

As I watch Ravenna touching up her cat’s-eye flicks, I have a pang of sisterly sympathy for her. This happy high she’s experiencing is like a sugar rush—it’s not going to last. When I think of the amount of times I’ve got all dressed up only to come home in tears . . . If someone had tried to talk me out of my optimism, would I have listened? I can’t believe her mother is setting her up for an even bigger fall.

“Okay, I’m all ready!” Ravenna reaches for the macramé bag, and in one move destroys her chic.

“Oh, that won’t do.” I get to my feet.

“What?”

“The bag ruins it. Let me see what I’ve got.”

I drag my suitcase to the corner. It’s in here somewhere . . . “Ta-daaa!” I pull out her Mulberry.

Before she can speak, the maid gasps. “Is that an Alexa? I see it in the magazines!”

“Isn’t it cute?” Ravenna smirks at her.

“Ohhh!” She clicks her fingers in awe.

“Do you want it?”