The Traveling Tea Shop (24 page)

We agreed to park Red beside the Bretton Arms and use the shuttle to and from the main building, not least to spare the valet parker the trauma of wrangling seven tons of London Transport’s finest. (You should have seen his face when we first pulled up!) I don’t know which is more intimidating to me—being left in charge of the bus, or being alone in Red’s kitchen.

Ah cooking, how you intimidate me. Suddenly I’m all fingers and thumbs. Even this shortest of recipes takes on the gravity of Tolstoy. I’m getting a twisty, out-of-my-depth feeling, and all I’ve done so far is set out the ingredients.

“Knock, knock! Laurie, are you up there?”

Harvey! My heart flusters and I instantly get the shakes. “Yes, yes! Come on up!”

“I wanted to see if you’d like a hand.” He smiles willingly.

“I thought you were going to play golf with your dad?” Not the most welcoming response.

“Well, I convinced him that he’d really rather take a nap so I could do what I’d rather be doing—”

“Cracking eggs? Mixing gloop?”

“Just can’t get enough of it!”

“All right.” I take a breath. “But let’s be clear. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing here, so I need you to cross-check my every move.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he says with mock lasciviousness.

My heart is properly palpitating now. How on earth am I supposed to concentrate in such close quarters?

“Right. First things first—we need to sieve the flour and salt.”

I begin tapping the sieve as Harvey goes to pour the flour through, only instead of a gradual sprinkling it comes out in a big dump, creating a great genie-like puff in the air. Which then gently layers onto his shirt. I go to flick it away with the tea towel, but I’ve picked the only damp one and now I’ve made a white paste across his navy sheen.

Oh jeez.

“It’s my fault, I should have changed before I got here—I only packed one smart outfit.”

“We can rinse it off under the tap,” I beckon him to the sink. “It’ll dry in no time with all this oven heat.”

He tries to maneuver under the water flow, but can’t get close enough. “Perhaps it’s best if I just take it off. Do you have anything . . . ?”

I hold up one of Pamela’s flouncier aprons.

“Not exactly the most masculine design,” I note, “but it will do the trick.”

He gives a hapless shrug. “In for a penny, in for a pound cake!”

I chuckle at his wit. “You’re quite au fait with English sayings, aren’t you?”

“I had a Brit in my class,” he says as he unbuttons his shirt and reveals a broad chest with a tantalizing whisk of hair—the ultimate in come-lay-upon-me burliness.

“What about your trousers?” I push my luck.

“You want me to take them off too?” He looks most amused.

“Well. It is a risky situation for them,” I say, holding up my white-dusted hands.

“This is not how I saw my afternoon going,” he says as he reaches for the zip. “Well, not exactly anyway.”

As he turns to set them off to the side I get to admire his boxers. Banana Republic, I’m guessing. His legs are nice too. Strong thighs. I reckon he could pick me up and carry me without them buckling at all. And what a nice change that would be.

“Laurie?”

“Yes?”

“Something’s bleeping.”

“Oh, it’s just the oven reaching the desired temperature,” I say, wrenching my attention back to the job in hand. “Right! We need to cream the butter and the sugar with the handheld mixer set to high, until light and fluffy.”

Let the shrill whirring begin.

“Next add the vanilla extract,” I continue to read.

“How much?” Harvey queries.

“One teaspoon. Then the eggs.”

This is when all hell breaks loose. There’s nine of them. We were supposed to add them gradually and reduce the mixer speed to low, but we don’t do either, and the fact that I’ve opted for way too shallow a bowl means that in a matter of seconds we look as if we’ve been ambushed by a paint-baller.

“Noooo!”

In my desperation to cut off the power I knock over the bowl, creating a vanilla-scented Vesuvius oozing into a skiddy pool on the floor. As I frantically attempt to push back the countertop drippings, Harvey goes to reach across me to the paper towels, but slips as he does so. I try to grab him from falling flat on his lovely boxers, and end up lunging over him, covering his arms with slimy gunk, my chin jolting into his chest. “Youch!” Some part of me just wants to say to hell with it and writhe on the floor like a pair of cake-mix mud-wrestlers, but a new voice enters the fray:

“Hellooo! Anyone home?”

We freeze.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Charles’s head pop up from the stairwell. I watch with horror as he takes in his half-naked son, our compromising position, and the overall mucky devastation.

“Just wanted to check that everything is going okay.”

I can’t speak.

“Right! Good! See you later!”

“Oh my god!” I mouth to Harvey, waiting for the jolt of his father disembarking. “What will Pamela think?” I squeak.

“Don’t worry, he won’t tell her.”

“How can you be sure?”

He raises a brow. “You don’t think my father can keep a secret?”

He’s got me there.

“God! He must think I’m so unprofessional!” My hands cover my face.

Harvey smirks. “Nice face mask. Very Mrs. Doubtfire.”

“Oh no!” I wail as I catch sight of my reflection.

“Here. Allow me . . .” He reaches for one of the tea towels and gently wipes away the gunk.

It feels oddly soothing. When I think of how I scrub at my face with my Neutrogena wipes, and here he is, big ole mechanic hands, barely glancing my skin.

“What?” He catches me studying him.

I take a breath. “I want to be nosey.”

“Okay,” he pauses, waiting for me to ask my question.

“How is it possible that someone as lovely as you doesn’t have a significant other?”

He looks shy for the first time. “I could ask you the same question.”

“Well, you could, but I asked first.”

He laughs and then sits back as he answers, “I really just had to take a break. I kept making the same bad choices over and over, so I thought it would be a good idea to step back and try to figure out what I was doing wrong.”

Sounds familiar.

“And have you figured it out?” I ask.

“Nope,” he deadpans. “Except for one thing: lately my grandfather’s advice has been coming back to me—he used to talk about choosing a woman with a strong work ethic.”

“Really?”

“He said as pretty as women are, they are not here as decoration—each must find their true purpose. And the harder they work at their purpose, the happier they’ll be. And the happier they are, the happier you are.”

I smile. “Wise words. You know what my grandfather used to say to me?”

Harvey cocks his head.

“What the hell are you doing with that idiot?”

•   •   •

After a speedy cleanup we go back to square one with the recipe. Things go a lot more smoothly this time—we read one line ahead before making any moves and use Harvey’s muscles instead of the electric mixer. Now the loaf tins are safely baking away, we can resume our chat.

“You know, I don’t think there was ever a sense in our family of making a conscious choice with relationships,” I say as I set down the oven gloves. “They just seemed to happen, and then you dealt with the fallout as best you could.”

“It’s pretty daunting stuff, isn’t it? In terms of how much damage the wrong person can do to your life.”

“It really is,” I concur.

“I’ve had a few horrors. My own mother was no peach—when I think of how she treated my dad . . .” He shakes his head.

“There’re some crazy women out there,” I admit.

“And some crazy guys,” he acknowledges. “And then there’s us.”

Oh, how I love the idea of an “us.”

He reaches for one of Pamela’s rosebud teacups. “Did you see the painting in the Princess Room of all those guys in suits sitting round sipping tea?”

“No,” I say, slightly disappointed that he’s changing the subject.

“Apparently it’s a Prohibition-era painting and that wasn’t tea they were drinking.”

“Ohhhh.”

He leans closer. “There’s this speakeasy burrowed into the lowest level of the hotel . . .”

“Mmm-hmm?” I try to focus.

“It’s called The Cave, and it’s where all the illegal boozing went on in the Twenties. They had a spyhole down there so they could see when the police were coming up that long driveway for a raid, and when there was an alert they used to empty all their liquor into this one container and then sit there pretending to be sipping tea.”

“Ingenious!”

“Well, here’s the best part—when the coast was clear, they would line up at the container and scoop out a teacupful of all the mixed whiskies, brandies, rums and gins!”

“Sort of like a Long Island Iced Tea but without the Coke!”

“Exactly!”

“I say all this because I was thinking we could meet there tonight, after dinner. Say around ten?”

“You want me to meet you in a dark cave with a history of corruption and excess to drink hard liquor?”

“I do.”

“Sounds like heaven.”

•   •   •

When the timer pings, I feel a curious stomach-flip of nerves. Oh, please let the cakes have cooked well.

I reach for a toothpick.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“Etch my initials in the side—you know, like gold bars have markings stamped on them?”

“Really?”

“No!” I chuckle. “Pamela said it’s a good way to see if the cake is sufficiently cooked. I stick it in; if it pulls out clean, it’s done.”

“Ah, the moment of truth!”

I do the deed. “I think that’s all right, don’t you?”

“It certainly smells done.”

“Too done?”

“No, delicious done.”

I smile proudly as I turn them out onto the cooling rack. “Right, now for the finishing touch.” I reach into my bag and pull out my secret stash from McKaella’s Sweet Shop—a can of gold spray paint.

“You’re spraying it gold.” Harvey doesn’t miss a trick.

“Yes,” I cheer. “Like a gold bar—for the gold standard that was set here. What do you think?”

“Aren’t you worried that might be a teeny bit on the toxic side?”

“It’s not like the kind of paint you use on cars,” I tut. “It’s edible.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

I shrug. “We were dealing with a lot of colored sponges today, and it got me wondering about metallic cakes.”

“Because people love the idea of chewing on metal.” Harvey’s brow twists.

“Well, you Yanks are always going on about buns of steel!”

He splutters out loud at this one, and then asks if he can have one quick spray.

“Of course.”

He turns his back to me. Shakes the clickety can and turns back holding up his index finger.

“What James Bond movie am I?”

I roll my eyes. “
Goldfinger
.”

“I would have done
The Man with the Golden Gun
, but I didn’t come armed today.”

“How very un-American of you.”

He looks serious for a moment. “I shouldn’t even joke about it. America’s great shame is its gun crime.”

“I must say it does seem bonkers to an outsider. So much senseless violence.”

He sighs heavily and then asks, “Should we go?”

I nod, the mood sober. Until he turns to pick up his clothes.

“Ah.” He hesitates. His hands may be clean but his body is a mess of batter-spatter. “I didn’t really think this through . . .”

I have visions of him riding the shuttle bus in his undies and then streaking through the main reception.

“You know, my room is just across the way,” I try to sound casual. “If you’d like to take a shower?”

He sighs with relief. “I would. But how am I going to get between here and your room?”

I think for a minute. “We could put a second apron on to cover your back?” I try that, but now he looks as though he’s wearing a young girl’s pinafore dress.

I bite my lip.

“I know you want to laugh.”

“I so do!” I confess. “You know, short of wrapping you in greaseproof paper like a deli sandwich, I have no solution. I think you’re just going to have to make a run for it.”

He tuts himself. “If my grandfather could see me now . . .”

“At least if you hold a tray of the cakes it will put your look in some context.”

He cocks a skeptical brow.

“Come on, everyone’s heard of the Naked Chef, the Barefoot Contessa . . . You can be the Bicep’d Baker!”

He pulls a joke strongman pose—gosh, I wish taking a photograph was as simple as blinking your eyes.

“All right,” he says. “I shall attempt this with as much dignity as I can muster.”

And then promptly falls down the stairs.

“Just kidding!” he calls back to me as I rush to his aid.

I shake my head. “Perhaps it’s best if I go first?”

Scurrying through the lobby, we give a cheery wave to the receptionist, then take the stairs two at a time.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” I say as I reach for my room key.

He looks back at the dark carpet. And the white flour footprints we have left behind.

“Don’t worry, I’ll ask to borrow the Hoover from Housekeeping.”

“You like to take care of everything, don’t you?”

“Try to.”

“These rooms are nice,” he says as he surveys the home-from-home décor—a mix of floral and plaids, with one of those sumptuously deep beds that would inevitably elicit a sigh of contentment on contact. And I’m not just saying that because he’s standing so temptingly close to it.

The bathroom is particularly lovely, with streaky marble, bright chrome accents and streaming sunlight.

“Do you want to go in first?”

“No, no,” I insist. “After you. Let me just grab a towel.”

I spread it over the tartan armchair by the window and settle in, relishing the thought of this gorgeous man naked on the other side of the door. I hear the shower turn on and power-jet over him. He’s singing “Come Fly with Me.” Well, a version of singing. I’m relieved to know he has at least one flaw—it makes me like him all the more.

And then the door opens and from the steamy haze he steps forth.

“Good as new!”

Better, I think to myself. Better than anything I’ve ever seen. I want to touch him but he’s all sheeny-clean and fragrant and I’m still a dusty mess. Nevertheless he stands daringly close, smiling, just smiling, right into me.

“Why don’t I wait for you?” he offers. “I can help carry the cakes.”

“If you like . . .” I love that he wants to linger.

“I’ll sort the Hoover, then wait downstairs while you’re getting ready. Give you a bit of space.”

For the first minute after the door closes behind him, I just stand in wonder. That is so considerate. The former men in my life would have switched on the TV then repeatedly asked what was taking so long as I flustered to find something to wear under their disapproving gaze.

Today I calmly opt for my strawberry-red Forties-style dress to color-match the roofing of the hotel. Like you do. Then I decide to speed up my hairstyling by scooping it into a bun on the top of my head, pinning a tiny scarlet velvet ribbon at its base.

“Wow!” Harvey scrambles to his feet as I appear before him. “When did the team of hairstylists arrive?” He peers more closely at my bun. “Did you really do that by yourself?”

“I used a hair doughnut, it’s really easy!”

“A hair doughnut?” he hoots. “Gosh, you really take this cake stuff seriously!”

“Which reminds me,” I laugh, “I never did tell the others about the man who invented the doughnut hole!”

His eyes narrow. “You’re just messing with me now, aren’t you?”

“No!” I laugh as we step aboard the shuttle. “We were supposed to visit Rockport in Maine, but we never got that far.”

“Okay,” he turns to face me. “You have the duration of this shuttle ride to bring the story to life.”

“You don’t want to hear it!”

“Yes I do,” he replies. “I like listening to you.”

The feeling is
so
mutual.

“Let me take you back to New England in 1847,” I begin with my grandest intonation. “Elizabeth Gregory, mother of ship’s captain Hansen Gregory, would often make deep-fried dough treats for her son and his crew, filling the center with hazelnuts or walnuts and thus call them dough
nuts
.”

“But what about the hole?”

“Well, that came about during a terrible storm at sea. Hansen suddenly needed both hands free to steer so he jammed his doughnut onto one of the wooden spokes, thus creating the first hole.”

Harvey looks unblinkingly at me.

“Of course, there is another theory that says the dough was rarely cooked properly in the middle so that’s why they poked it out.”

“My money’s on that,” Harvey opines.

“You know the funniest thing?” I add, as we pull up outside the main hotel. “Hansen Gregory was buried at Quincy—home to the very first Dunkin’ Donuts. Coincidence? You decide!”

•   •   •

We’re just about to step through the entrance when my phone rings—Krista! I explain that I just need to check that everything is on schedule for our meet-up tomorrow.

“No problem, take your time. I’ll rustle up some drinks and meet you on the veranda.”

“Perfect!” I grin. “Hello? Is that the loveliest friend any girl could wish for?”

“Someone’s in good spirits!”

“Yes I am! Everything is going peachily. Well, except for a new accommodation challenge which I’ll e-mail you about later. Anyway! Is everything cool with you? Are you driving?”

“I am! I’ve just found out about this dog-themed chapel at St. Johnsbury—I thought I’d take Mitten for a quick nose!”

“Sounds absolutely barking.”

“Funny . . . So listen,” I notice a change in her voice, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

Why does my stomach drop at her tone?

“It’s Jessica. She called.”

That’s why.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know. But I feel duty-bound to tell you.”

“Why?” I challenge. “Has something happened?”

“No. Well, nothing bad.”

“Okay, then I don’t want to know.”

Krista sighs. “She’s coming over to America and she really wants to meet up with you.”

“Well I don’t want to meet up with her.” I step away from the doors. “Look. I know you want me to face this thing, Krista, but honestly, I think it would make matters worse.”

“Okay, okay,” Krista backs down. “I’m just saying.”

I huff. “You know I don’t mean to be rude to you.”

“And you know I don’t mean to be a killjoy. It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“You’ve been talking a lot about forgiveness lately, with Ravenna anyway, and I thought some of it might have rubbed off.”

Oh, that’s a low blow.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Okay,” she chirps. “See you tomorrow.”

I sigh. Now I feel like a horrible person.

•   •   •

The veranda at the Mount Washington resort is beyond compare. Stretching for nearly a thousand feet, the broad expanse of whitewashed wood is lined with elegant Grecian pillars interspersed with hanging baskets spilling pretty pink petunias. Beguiling enough in its own right, but then you layer in the spectacular view: the gracious curve of the lawn, the turquoise pool, the wedding terrace and, in the distance, the Presidential mountain range. So much to marvel at, and yet, try as I might to conjure my brightest smile, Harvey instantly senses something is awry.

“Not bad news I hope?”

“No, no,” I say as I settle into the white rocker beside him. “She was just letting me know that my sister is trying to get in touch.”

“Are you guys
out
of touch?”

“Very much so.”

He cocks a brow. “So who’s not forgiving who?”

I don’t react well to this. Does he think this is a case of one sister having borrowed the other’s dress and spilling red wine on it?

“Some things are just unforgivable,” I clip.

“Yes,” he nods. “I used to think that.”

I wait for him to expand on his comment but instead he hands me my drink—another elegant flute of champagne. We chink. We sip. We look at the view. I can’t let it lie.

“My friend seems to think I’m being a hypocrite, having spent the week preaching forgiveness to Ravenna.”

“Regarding her mother?”

“Yes. But their situation is different. Pamela didn’t have any bad intentions. She was trying to make the best choice for herself and her child. Admittedly she’s been a bit of a slowpoke in terms of bringing Ravenna up to speed—”

“So the intention is key?”

“I think so, yes.”

“And with your sister . . . ?”

“Well, I’m not saying she intended for my mother to die, but she was certainly fully aware of how destructive her behavior was.”

Harvey looks shaken. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

I shrug and look away.

“What happened?” he asks gently.

I hesitate. I never talk about the details. But the words start to form of their own accord.

“They were arguing again. Jess wanted money. Again. For once my mother said no to her. My sister flew into a rage, stormed out of the house, my mother followed. She was so upset she didn’t check the street and a car . . .”

His hand reaches for me.

“It’s okay. No need to continue.”

“She didn’t even look back,” my voice wobbles. “Jessica. She just kept running.”

He sighs.

“I had to hear about it from one of the neighbors.”

“Oh Laurie.”

As he expresses his sympathies, his words feel like a gentle stroking of my hair.

“So when you think of your mother now . . .” he ventures.

“I’m just so sad. Like my heart is broken. I can’t bear to think of how distressed she was in her last moments. I hate that there’s nothing I can do to make it better.”

He nods. “And when you think of your sister?”

“I’m just so angry.” My eyes flare as I look up at him.

“Understandably.” He holds my gaze.

I get the feeling he wants to say something more.

“What is it?”

He sighs. “Well, you know the problem with holding on to the anger is that you’re the one who suffers the most.”

“I know,” I huff. “It’s like holding on to a burning coal with the intention of throwing it at the other person, but you’re the one who gets burned.” I quote my pal Buddha. “I do get it. In theory.”

“Sooner or later you have to put it into practice or it will be the ruin of you. And I wouldn’t want to see that.”

His eyes are so kind. I can tell his concern is genuine.

“Do you want me to help you try and break this down?” he offers.

“Right now?”

“Right here, right now, with this beautiful view to motivate us.”

I feel uneasy.

“It’s just a conversation.”

I take another sip of fizz. If there is anything he can say that can ease the pain, I suppose it has to be worth a try. “Okay,” I say in my tiniest voice.

“So. First question: have you ever done anything you’re not proud of?”

“Yes, of course.”

“A few things you regret, a few things you’re a little ashamed of?”

I nod.

“Where you could, did you try and make amends?”

“Yes.”

“You seem annoyed with your sister for trying to do the same.”

“It’s too late with her,” I explain. “Too much damage has been done.”

“What if it had been you who caused the accident?”

I feel instantly sick.

“How would you feel?”

“I would never forgive myself,” I reply. “I’d be haunted every day.”

He lets me sit with this feeling for a while. Which I don’t really appreciate. It’s just too awful to comprehend. The burden would be unbearable. The same burden that Jessica carries . . .

“Let’s talk about the drugs for a minute. You’re not buying that the addiction is something beyond her control—you see it as a personal weakness.”

“I know it sounds harsh, but yes I do.”

“Is there any aspect of your life where you’ve felt you don’t have complete control? Any actions you have taken that weren’t really in your best interests?”

He’s got me there. When I think of all the appalling, degrading choices I have made regarding men. If anyone really knew what I had tolerated without speaking up and defending myself—well, I don’t suppose they’d have a very high opinion of me. They would wonder what on earth was holding me in such a toxic place. Why I didn’t just walk away and leave the relationship. Oh my goodness—was that my addiction? I just happened to get the less visible, more socially acceptable version?

I look up at Harvey.

“Different weaknesses have different taboos,” he observes. “We’re none of us so very different from the other.”

I let my head fall back in the chair, glad I’m sitting down.

“Ultimately I think it comes down to this question: What do you want to honor? The crime, as in the awful thing that happened that day, because that’s what you’re holding on to the tightest, or do you want to honor your mother’s memory? All her wonderful qualities.”

My heart aches as I answer. “I want to honor her.”

“The thing is, she’s still here in you, isn’t she? Half of you is made up of her DNA.”

I nod.

“And half of your sister. She lives on in your sister too. Do you really want to turn your back on her? Is that what your mother would want?”

“Not at all,” my face crumples. “She’d want me to take care of her. But I just can’t seem to find those feelings for her anymore; all the trust has gone. I don’t even think of her as my sister now.”

“I know the drugs can do that. They can create a whole new persona with no redeeming qualities. But what if Jessica is still in there? What if your little sister is trying to come back to you?”

My eyes instantly well up—little Jess! My little Jess, the one I used to protect so fiercely. Perhaps too much. Perhaps I didn’t let her fight enough of her own battles, so that when temptation came a-knocking she didn’t know how to say no.

Harvey reaches for my hand. “There are no guarantees with this. Much as we wish things could go back to the way they were before, they will never be quite the same. But she is your mother’s daughter. And she needs you.”