The Traveling Tea Shop (26 page)

What a difference a day makes.

Yesterday, as we approached Mount Washington, everyone was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Today, as we wend on our way, there’s a heaviness in the air. The Road Trip has become a Guilt Trip, with at least three out of four of us feeling partially responsible for Ravenna’s anguish. Of course, Pamela feels
wholly
responsible, and has returned to the ragged, exhausted state she first arrived in.

“Perhaps you’d like to ride with Harvey?” Charles suggests, possibly wanting to give his beloved the freedom to complete her meltdown in private.

I am pleased to be with Harvey but it’s not the cheeriest atmosphere.

“I can’t imagine how fried her brain must be right now,” Harvey sighs as we meander through the greenery. “Can you imagine the shock?”

“I know. My biggest concern is that it might push her back into the arms of Eon.”

“Eon?!”

“The name says it all really. He’s not good for her. Not at all. But he’s an obvious person for her to call because he’s always so eager to bad-mouth Pamela.”

“That’s not cool.”

“No,” I sigh, genuinely concerned.

“Don’t worry,” he reaches for my hand. “We won’t let anything bad happen to her.”

I smile. “Is that your brotherly protection kicking in?”

“I think it is!” he grins and then adds: “Maybe you could drop Krista a line? See if she can keep an eye on that situation?”

“I certainly can.”

I take out my phone but, before I can tap the first word, the ringer jangles.

“Gracie!”

The one member of the group who is still in a state of blissful ignorance regarding last night’s farrago.

She’s so bursting with good news that I decide not to rain on her parade straightaway.

“Is young Harvey around?”

“Young Harvey is right here, let me put you on speakerphone.”

“It’s a long time since I was called young,” Harvey smiles.

“Well, everything’s relative,” Gracie replies. “Right! I think I’ve solved your accommodation issue.”

Harvey looks at me with wonder—can this be true?

“Last night, when you called, Laurie, Gerald and the gang were talking about the things they most miss in life, and nine out of ten of them said, ‘Having the grandchildren to stay.’ They miss that youthful energy, the surprising things they’d say, the new slang! Of course, some of them never did have any grandkids, and said they didn’t even know any teenagers.” She takes a breath. “So I said I might be able to help with that . . .”

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Well. Shirley said she’s got five guest bedrooms that can take two or three girls apiece. Eli lives next door and he said he could match that for the boys. Faye says her favorite thing is making a giant stack of pancakes in the morning—since her husband died, she’s stopped doing it, but she would love to get going again, so she’s offered to provide breakfast. Of course, now everyone wants to pitch in in some way. And you know I’ve got the transport covered with the bus. I can’t wait to get back behind the wheel.”

“Are you serious?” I gasp.

“You know very well I am.”

“Yes I do,” I puff.

“The kids will flip out at the bus—new Facebook profile pics all round!”

I laugh. “It might just upstage the yachts.”

“I can live with that!” Harvey grins. “Gracie, you are a marvel. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well, if you’re anything like as good-looking as your father—”

“Gracie!”

“I’m just teasing. But a little bit of flirtation wouldn’t go amiss. I get the feeling that Faye just wants to hear she’s pretty one more time.”

“As a matter of fact, Harvey does have a way with the older ladies,” I say, remembering the lovely woman at the Parker House Hotel in Boston.

“You my pimp now?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” I ask.

“In this context, no.”

“I think we have a deal, Gracie!”

“Great. We can firm up all the details and dates later. So, where are you now?”

I tell her we’re about half an hour from the Trapp Family Lodge in Vermont.

“Dare I ask whether any revelations have been made?”

My jaw juts to the side. What is the best way to phrase this?

“Ravenna does know—” I begin.

“Hallelujah!”

“Unfortunately she didn’t find out in the best possible way. She’s actually already at the lodge with my friend Krista. Not exactly in the best mood.”

“You mean she didn’t hear it from Pamela?”

“No. They haven’t actually had a chance to talk since she found out.”

“That daughter of mine,” Gracie despairs. “She brings these things on herself. She’s always been like this, always putting things off, waiting until tomorrow . . .”

Harvey looks a little uncomfortable.

“I know. It’s not ideal. But what’s done is done. Now we just need to try and make everything better.”

Gracie sighs. “Well, raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens and all that.”

“Indeed. We’ll keep you updated.”

•   •   •

Harvey and I spend the rest of the journey trying to name all the songs in
The Sound of Music
.

It’s crazy to think it’s based on a true story—a nun and a baron fleeing the Nazis with a gaggle of singing children in tow. Perhaps crazier to think that Ravenna is taking the role of Captain—one whistle blow and here we all come running.

“This is the road,” Harvey says as we turn off the main highway onto a rather more uneven, tree-crowded strip.

Pamela and Charles are following behind us, no doubt hearing the scrapings of a few branches on their rooftop.

I’m finding it hard to picture anything more than a tree house nestled in these environs when suddenly the lodge comes into view. Apparently the von Trapps fell in love with Vermont because it reminded them of their native Austria, both in its scenery and climate. In turn they’ve certainly added their own home-from-home flourishes: the main building is like a giant ski chalet—the windows have jutting triangular hoods, there are stencil-like cut-outs in the brown wooden balconies, and an abundance of window boxes brimming with bright orangey-red flowers.

If I could yodel I would.

“It looks so wholesome,” Harvey notes.

He’s right. I can’t think of a more inappropriate setting for a family drama. Mind you, I suppose the von Trapps had their fair share. At least we don’t have any Nazis to deal with.

•   •   •

We follow Krista’s instructions of getting a coffee and congregating on the terrace.

(She stayed up all night talking to Ravenna, letting her vent and release as much as she possibly could. I think it helped that Krista represented a fairly neutral stranger, as I once did.)

“So how does Krista advise that we play this?” Pamela is eager to begin.

I can’t help but smile—she makes her sound like a crisis negotiator, which in a way she is.

“Well, I would have thought Ravenna should see you first, but Krista wants Harvey to kick things off.”

“What?”

“She has to deal with the surface humiliation before the core betrayal. I think she wants to pick off the easiest ones first.”

“Are you part of this?” Pamela asks.

“I’m third in line apparently. After Charles.”

“And I see her last?” Pamela is aghast.

“You are the deepest pain. All of this stems from you. If you see what I mean, not wishing to—”

Pamela throws up her hands. “Oh, what do I know? I’ve done everything wrong so far.”

Charles pulls her in for a hug. “Don’t go down that road. You have to set a positive example.”

“Here’s Krista now!” I jump to my feet, ready to introduce her, having to slightly tone down our usual squealing pogo-fest.

As she assures them that Ravenna is still this side of sanity, we stand shoulder to shoulder, pressing into each other, communicating all manner of age-old friend messages from “I’m so glad you’re here!” to “Have you checked out Harvey? Isn’t he gorgeous?” and the obvious “I can’t wait to have a proper catch-up later.”

Krista explains that we’ll take our turns visiting Ravenna and she’ll act as mediator if necessary—there’s a little balcony she can wait out on while the conversation is taking place.

“So how exactly do you recommend I approach this?” Harvey wants to know.

“My guess is that she’s not even going to be able to look at you,” Krista replies. “So that’s your challenge, to make light of it and get some eye contact.”

He nods. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

I feel a little uncomfortable sitting with Charles and Pamela, so I excuse myself, saying I’m just going to find the loo. I dawdle as I do so, having a little nose around the property. It’s a sprawling affair with assorted alcoves and cabinets filled with Austrian memorabilia, and stairwells featuring vintage
Sound of Music
posters in every possible language—
La Famiglia Trapp! Sonrisas Y Lágrimas! Meine Lieder, Meine Träume!
Several have Julie Andrews’s drab pinafore reimagined in flouncy cerise with a baby-pink undershirt—Hollywood’s version of a nun’s modest dress.

I look at my watch. I probably should be heading back.

“Anyone need a top-up of coffee?” I ask as I approach the table. “Or perhaps a nice camomile tea?” I switch, realizing everyone is sufficiently twitchy as it is.

Within two minutes of me sitting down, Harvey appears.

“How did it go?”

“Not too bad,” he says as he pulls up a chair. “At first she just focused on the dog. I think he is a great comfort to her.”

I nod.

“I told her a few of my embarrassing drunk stories to break the ice and then I basically said it’s not as weird as it seems, it was just a misinterpretation of our instant bond. We got on really well, we’ll continue to get on well and I want to take her sailing.”

I smile. “Really?”

“Well, I figured there’s lots of hot yachtie guys to distract her from this Eon character . . . Can’t hurt?”

“No, that’s a good plan,” we confirm.

“Okay, Dad, you’re up.”

He seems uncharacteristically distant.

“Are you okay?”

He nods. “I just can’t bear to think of her in pain.”

“So tell her—tell her that exact thing.”

Charles nods, takes a bolstering breath and heads on his way. He is gone awhile. A long while. Then again, they do have twenty years of catching up to do.

In some ways it is in Pamela’s interest that Charles is going first. Ravenna knows how besotted he is with her mother, so the pair of them sitting there slagging her off for keeping them in the dark so long is not an option. But they will certainly be able to share that regret. All the missed years. I try to imagine how I would feel if I were Charles—all the significant birthdays, all those kiddy squeezes, falling asleep on your chest, waking up on Christmas morning, crayon cards to Daddy . . . It’s a lot to accept. I can’t help imagining how much nicer Ravenna might have turned out if he’d been there during her upbringing instead of Brian. All those years of tension and negative brainwashing. Oh dear, now I’m getting mad with Pamela! Hopefully they can focus on making up for lost time rather than lamenting the past. Which isn’t to say there won’t be a few tears . . .

When Charles finally reappears, his eyes are indeed red and watery.

Pamela is inspecting the flowers at the edge of the terrace and Harvey has gone to make some Newport/sailing calls, so he comes to me first.

“She let me hug her!” He’s so choked he can hardly speak. “I thought I’d lost her so soon after finding her . . .” His voice catches.

“Oh Charles!” Now I’m welling up.

“I don’t want her to go back to England.”

“University doesn’t start until autumn . . .” I trail off. I’d better not go making any promises that aren’t mine to keep.

“I hope she can stay on. Ohhh.” He clamps on his chest. “These women!” He looks over at Pamela.

“I know. They get under your skin.”

He looks shyly at me. “Ravenna said I give her hope that she can be a better person. She said she hasn’t felt right for a long time. She wants to be different.”

This is incredibly positive. Still I can feel the butterflies swirling at the prospect of my own impending encounter. I’m about to head to the room when I get a message from Krista.

“Ravenna wants to take a break for a couple of hours,” I update Pamela. “I think this might be a good time for us to meet the pastry chef?”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

I cock my head. “Have you never filmed an episode of
PamCakes
in the midst of a ding-dong with Brian?”

She sighs. “It’s what kept me going through it all.”

“Well then,” I smile, offering her my arm.

We’ve come too far to fall at the last hurdle.

We’ve seen some pretty fancy kitchens along the way, but Pamela declares this to be her outright favorite. It’s easy to see why. The DeliBakery is perched on a lookout point on the edge of a field bordered with sprightly pines leading to the slithers of mountains beyond. Better yet, the windows of the kitchens are so expansively panoramic you feel as if you are part of the view. Today it’s all about layers of sun-fueled green. In the winter, pure white; in the spring the meadows are sprigged with flowers. I can only imagine the autumn splendor.

Add to this a pastry chef with a major personality (whatever the American equivalent of Irish charm is, Robert Alger has it) and Pamela is back in the game.

Today certainly has an international flavor. Maria’s Linzertorte is, of course, of Austrian heritage, but all the while that Robert is setting out the ingredients for the base—butter, sugar, eggs, cinnamon, flour—he and Pamela are chatting about his time spent at the Shangri-La in Singapore.

“It’s a different world in pastry out there,” he notes.

“Their embellishments are sublime,” Pamela agrees. “So delicate.”

“I didn’t realize cakes were a big thing out there?” I chip in.

“Oh yes, afternoon tea is bigger there than in England. We used to serve two hundred and fifty a day. Everything was arranged on a big island and you could pick whatever you wanted. It was phenomenal.”

He tells us about a wedding cake he made for a 4,000-strong wedding party, including the Prime Minister of China and the Sultan of Brunei.

“The bottom tier was four feet wide!” he remembers.

“What?” I gasp.

“And they had private jets flying in orchids from Hawaii and Africa for the decoration.”

I can’t even begin to guess at the cost.

“Out there, a pastry chef is like a movie star.”

The thing that really gets Pamela chuckling is the fact that he used to make cakes and chocolates using Durian fruit—a notoriously pungent and thorny fruit (looks like a puffer fish). It is actually banned by many of the top hotels in Southeast Asia because the smell is so revoltingly pervasive.

“And you know what? I was selling a one-kilo cake for forty-nine dollars and I couldn’t make enough to keep up with the demand!”

He has a roguish twinkle that lets you know he took great pleasure in testing the patience of the general manager over this recipe.

“If you ever come across it, by the way, don’t drink alcohol along with it, because the fruit
ferments . . .
”

And so to the comparatively tame Linzertorte.

I was surprised how willing Pamela was to include it in her book. She said we had maple syrup covered in the recipes for Johnny Cakes and Popovers and, besides, who doesn’t love
The Sound of Music
?

Apparently the real Maria was a big fan of sweets in general, but it took the original chef—Marshall Faye—quite some time to get the American Linzertorte recipe to meet with Maria’s approval. He used to take a slice up to her apartment to taste and she would say, “It’s good, but it isn’t quite right.” Time after time.

Then one day her youngest son Johannes (who runs the hotel today) mentioned that a lot of currants were grown where Maria grew up, and he suggested mixing a little redcurrant in with the raspberry jam.

“Now that’s a Linzertorte!” was Maria’s enthusiastic response.

We watch now as Robert spreads the redcurrant jelly/raspberry jam combo over the base and then creates a crisscross lattice effect with the remaining pastry.

“Yum,” we say as we taste a slice of one he prepared earlier. It’s sweet but with a subtle tartness. “I like it!”

Robert smiles. “That for me is the best part of my job—seeing the enjoyment on my customers’ faces. It’s what makes my day better.”

“So true,” Pamela concurs. And then takes her turn with the similarly almond-y and jammy Bakewell Tart.

•   •   •

When we’ve finished in the kitchen we find Charles and Harvey testing the Johannes von Trapp lager out on the deck. For a moment I think we might get to relax in the sunshine with them, but my phone bleeps. I am summoned.

Harvey offers to escort me on the short walk back to the main building, to ward off any lonely goatherds.

“Ready to take your turn?” he asks as we pause before the entrance.

“I am,” I say. “All I can do is explain that I was desperate to give her a heads-up, but that it wasn’t my place to do so.”

“I think my dad mentioned that you wanted her told sooner.”

“That’s good of him.” I take a breath. “I don’t think she’ll be long with me. I’m not a significant person in her life. I was starting to get fond of her but, in reality, I’m the most easily dismissed.”

“Hardly,” Harvey laughs.

“You know what I mean. She never needs to see me again.”

“You know I do, don’t you?”

My heart skips a beat.

“You do?”

He takes a step closer. My internal organs do a fandango. He places his hands lightly on my hips. And then he leans down to kiss me.

“I can’t believe it.” The first time Ravenna says these words her voice is low with shock. The second time it’s a shriek. “
I can’t believe it!
”

Oh my god. She was right there in the entrance. Now she’s taken off running. Up the hill.

“I’ll go after her!” Krista appears, ready to break into a sprint, or possibly get Mitten to round her up.

“No,” I halt them. “This one’s on me.”