The Traveling Tea Shop (9 page)

“Is it just me or did everything get that little bit more beautiful?”

We’ve been driving for about twenty minutes through perfectly idyllic countryside, but now I’m getting the sense that the scenery is shifting up a gear.

“Ah, this is just a little
amuse-bouche
,” Gracie shimmers with anticipation. “First we cross the bridge to Jamestown . . .”

My chest swells with optimism as we elevate over the blue then enter an island of plush green foliage. We slow at the tollbooth ($2 per axle!), then I feel our collective hearts soar as we ascend the oh-so-elegant Newport suspension bridge, seemingly the gateway to heaven—at one point there is nothing ahead of us but a pale-mint arch and the sheerest blue sky.

Suddenly the ocean below us comes into view and I tumble in love at first sight.

Sapphire sparkling waters expand out as far as the eye can see. To our left the starched white kerchiefs of sailing boats glance across the water’s surface, curving around the headland, to the right the pointy masts of moored boats cluster around a lush harbor. Ahead, slashing through the waves in an ostentatious fashion, are the sleek yachts of the nouveaux riche. Looking on with suitably regal disdain is none other than the
Queen Mary 2.
I can almost hear her throaty whistle and feel a silk scarf rippling around my neck.

“Isn’t it glorious?” Gracie beams as we get a closer look at Newport’s legendary wharf, complete with historic tall ships and low, long rumrunners.

“It truly is,” I confirm.

As we transition from the bridge to land, we pass a giant lobster shack (you know you’re in New England when . . . ) and then a cemetery.

“Arby Poindexter, may he rest in peace.” Gracie crosses herself as we pass.

“How long has he been gone?” I ask.

“Just a year or two. Such a shame. But his son has been most helpful with all the bus arrangements. He thinks they should be done with the final modifications by tomorrow.”

“What kind of modifications have they been working on?”

“You’ll see,” she twinkles.

I look to Pamela, who merely shrugs. “God knows what she’s been up to this time.”

Ravenna, meanwhile, mirrors the stoicism of the
Queen Mary 2
, appearing utterly unmoved. I wonder what it does to your insides being so disconnected from life? I mean, if you’re holding in all the wonder, the curiosity, the enjoyment—where does it go? Perhaps she’s saving it up for the next
Hunger Games
movie.

“This is America’s Cup Avenue,” Gracie announces as we meet with a blaze of white sterns.

“I see everyone is dressed accordingly!”

Breton stripes seem to be a kind of uniform here. I have to confess it’s one of my favorite looks: so fresh and sporty, so Brigitte Bardot.

“Red, white and blue looks good on everyone,” Pamela opines.

And you just can’t have enough anchor and knotted rope motifs when you’re this close to the water.

“Look at that T-shirt logo,” Pamela points ahead. “HOLY SHIP!”

Even Ravenna gives a little snuffle at this one.

“You better watch your blasphemy now,” Gracie cautions as we pull into a spot outside a large redbrick building. “This is the Seamen’s Church Institute.”

“Ready to come aboard, Pamela?”

“Oh no, you go in,” she shrinks back. “We’re just dropping off the scones, aren’t we?”

“Okay,” I contain my sigh. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Lugging the teatime donation, I follow the sign welcoming “Mariners & Visitors” and head up the entrance steps, expecting to find assorted sea-ravaged characters grouped at plastic trestle tables. Instead I discover a wood-paneled lobby worthy of Captain Cook. Directly ahead of me is a marble fireplace with a shapely antique grate, above which hangs a lovely old map of Narragansett Bay in warm oranges, yellows and aquas, lit by a brass chandelier. Now that’s a cozy respite after being tossed around the high seas.

“Hello!” I call into the kitchen. “Anyone home?”

Nothing.

I set down my wares on the counter and then curiosity gets the better of me and I find myself tiptoeing up the stairs for a snoop. The first room I enter is the library, entirely stocked with maritime-themed tomes—
Courage at Sea
,
Bligh
,
Unsinkable.
I’m just reaching for
Voyages to Paradise
when I hear a voice coming from the next room. Perhaps it’s my contact, Deedra?

“Knock knock!”

I creak open the door and find myself interrupting some kind of prayer group.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I say backing out and directly into a woman with a white-blonde bob.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, yes, sorry! I’m Laurie Davis, I was just dropping off the scones for the sailors. And you. And anyone really. They’re downstairs . . .” I trail off.

She smiles. “Come show me.”

Her eyes light up as I lift the lid. “They’re really best served warmed and then you cut them down the middle and spread a thick layer of clotted cream and then strawberry jam. There’s a tub of each in the cooler here.”

“These will be very much appreciated,” she nods. “A nice change from soup! Are you in town for long?”

“Two nights.”

“Well, if Miss Pamela does any more baking . . .”

“As a matter of fact, we have another session tomorrow. I’m sure we could bring over a few extra items, say around three
P.M.
?”

“Oh that’s so kind! Thank you! We’ll alert our local groups, have a proper English tea.”

“Wonderful!”

I step out feeling like we’re doing a very good deed. Or should that be good Deedra?

•   •   •

“All set?” Gracie is keen to continue in tour mode as she steers us away from the waterfront and up through the center of town. “Now this is really something. I’m going to take you down Bellevue Avenue.” She sighs as we enter a dreamy, sun-dappled utopia.

“Gorgeous trees,” I murmur, taking in the majesty of the giant oaks, horse chestnuts and voluminously draping weeping beeches.

“These are the Newport skyscrapers,” Gracie quips. “And this was
the
summer address for the super-rich of the Gilded Age.”

And when she says “super-rich,” she’s not kidding. Imagine Britain’s finest stately homes set one after another, just a block apart.

“This is incredible!” I coo. “I had no idea there were so many mansions here.”

Of course, some are fancier than the others—one minute you’re looking at an immaculate white colonial clapboard with glossy black shutters and the brightest green lawn, the next a grand Italian palazzo, then a spooky-looking Gothic creation looms into view.

“Look to your left,” Gracie advises. “You’ll see Rosecliff.”

“Looks familiar,” Pamela squints at the pretty, snow-white building with its elegant central loggia/ballroom and burbling fountain, positively crying out for a wedding.

“That’s where they filmed the original Gatsby movie, with Robert Redford. Talk about a golden boy! People used to say Georgie looked like him. I think it was the hair—thick as a rug. More like a dog’s coat, really.”

“Do people actually live in these places?”

“For the most part. A number are open to the public. They’re even letting us into a couple, aren’t they Laurie?”

Before I can reply, Pamela jumps forward in her seat. “Oh, look at this one! Mum, can you stop a minute? There’s nobody behind us.”

I watch Pamela gawp at the former summer “cottage” of William and Alva Vanderbilt.

“That’s Marble House,” I tell her. “It’s modeled on the Petit Trianon in Versailles, though of course there’s nothing
petit
about it—that’s 500,000 cubic feet of Italy’s finest right there.”

“Wow.”

Gracie highlights the colossal Corinthian columns of the front portico and admires the circular driveway, brimming with confetti-petalled hydrangeas.

“Do you like
Downton Abbey
?” I turn to Ravenna.

“S’okay.”

I’ll take that as a yes. “This is where the inspiration for Cora’s character came from—the Dollar Princesses. Consuelo Vanderbilt was one—sent to marry an English duke, trading her family’s fortune for a title. But I’ll tell you all about that tomorrow.”

Finally I get to announce one of the biggest coups of the trip: “Pamela—this is where you’ll be baking tomorrow.”

“What?”

“They’re letting us use the mansion kitchens for the afternoon—a little trip back to 1892.”

“You’re kidding?” She gawps. “Gosh, I’m glad I packed my whites! So what’s the recipe?”

“Well, for a Marble House I thought a Marble Cake!”

“Oh, I love it!” she clasps her hands together. “I can’t wait.”

•   •   •

We’re nearing the bend at the end of the avenue, when Gracie takes a second pause and asks, “Ravenna, what can you see through those gates?”

She turns huffily but is sufficiently surprised to exclaim, “Camels!”

“Live ones?” I say, leaning across Pamela and spying no less than three, all the more surreal for having an ocean backdrop—mirage upon mirage.

“These are topiary but there used to be a couple of live ones roaming the grounds.”

“Whose house is this?”

“Doris Duke, the tobacco heiress. The camels were part of a trade when she bought a private jet from Adnan Khashoggi.”

My brow scrunches. “That name rings a bell . . .”

“Saudi businessman and arms dealer?” Gracie nudges my memory. “Dodi Fayed is his nephew.”

“Gosh! So this history is a little more recent?”

Gracie nods. “She only died about twenty years ago. The house is just as she left it. There’s an exhibition there I know you’d like—it showcases her world travels, along with her Louis Vuitton steamer trunk and all her passport photos throughout the years, blown up to poster-size.”

“Gosh, I don’t know how I’d feel about that,” I cringe. Mine are definitely less jet set, more mug shot.

“She was quite a woman,” Gracie whistles as we move on. “Both Lauren Bacall and Susan Sarandon have played her in movies, which I think gives you a small insight into her bold persona.”

We take a couple more curves, then the vista opens out as we merge into Ocean Drive with its present-day properties.

When you’re so busy with your life, focusing on making it to your next payday, you forget just how fantastically rich some people are. The house ahead of us has at least eight chimneys and what appears to be a private golf course for a front lawn. Well, why not, eh?

“How many bedrooms do you think these places have?” Pamela queries. “Ten? Twenty?”

“I don’t think I know enough people to fill a Newport holiday home.”

“Trust me, when you’ve got this kind of money, you find yourself with an awful lot of friends.”

“Well, I suppose it’s no good having all this if you don’t share it. I mean, what are you going to do? Sleep in a different bedroom every couple of weeks just to ring the changes? You’d want to fill it or it would seem a bit echoey and lonely.” I muse for a minute. “Do you think they invite people to stay in the same way that we might suggest meeting someone for coffee? You encounter some fun new people and say, ‘Come for the weekend!’”

“That’s what happened with Georgie and Arby. He was in England for a limited time, he wanted to chat more about the London busses, he was grateful for Georgie’s help with his purchase and he didn’t think twice about having us in his home.”

“What was it like?” I gurgle.

“A cross between a fairy-tale castle and the Ritz,” she decides. “On the second night they held a party to introduce everyone to their ‘new friends from England.’ We were quite the toast of the town!” She peers ahead. “His house is coming up next, though of course there are different owners now.”

We catch a glimpse through a stone archway of a Bavarian-themed fantasy—all twisting towers, curved balconies and decorative crenellations.

“They had this beautiful pool, right on the edge of the sea; you felt as if you could swim out to forever. Which reminds me, you know The Breakers—”

“Breakers?” Ravenna pipes up.

“It’s not a hip-hop dance crew, dear, it’s Newport’s ritziest mansion.”

“Oh.”

“They have this bath hewn from a single piece of marble, and it has four taps—two were for hot and cold running
sea
water!”

“Speaking of which,” Ravenna bristles. “Where exactly is the sea? Or do you have to own a mansion to get to see it?”

“Patience.” Gracie hushes her.

Two more sweeping bends in the road and there it is—flowing out like some socialite’s slinky-silky gown in the most exquisite shade of midnight blue.

I’ve driven coastal routes before, but none so close and so
level
with the water. Here there’s no barrier between tide and tarmac, just a grassy verge dotted with benches and strutting seagulls. At one point a wave rears up onto the rocks and sprays our windscreen.

“Now this is where I want a picture of me driving the bus,” Gracie announces as she applies the wipers. “I’m going to send it out with this year’s Christmas card!”

Pamela reaches for her mum’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I recognize it now—this is where you took that picture with Dad, isn’t it?”

She nods and points to a wall of rocks snaking out to sea. “If you three stood there and all took pictures as I passed by, I’m sure one would be just perfect.”

“We’ll be like paparazzi!” I laugh.

“God how embarrassing!” Ravenna mutters.

“Concerned what all the elderly leaf tourists will think of you?” I raise a brow.

Pamela intercepts any comeback from Ravenna by pointing ahead to a row of little beach houses set upon their own stretch of sand.

“Can you imagine?”

“You don’t have to,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s where we’re staying. Isn’t that right, Gracie?”

“I can’t believe it!” She seems genuinely giddy. “The Castle Hill Inn! What a dream!”

We’re wending down the hotel driveway now. And if I’ve learned one thing in my travels, it’s the longer the driveway, the more exclusive the property.

That said, compared to all the grand mansions we’ve just seen, the main building here looks more like a quirky guesthouse, with its jutting porches, higgledy-piggledy levels and bell-shaped turret. It’s made of wood, not marble, and painted an unassuming beige. But then you discover the
pièce de résistance
—it stands upon its own forty-acre peninsula. Complete with dinky lighthouse.

Plus there’s the cut-above welcome: Personal. Charming. Privileged. Everything will be taken care of while we enjoy a glass of champagne and that exceptional vantage point . . .

Ravenna brightens for a second as we approach the outdoor bar, until she realizes a) she has been relegated to sparkling cider and b) U.S. cider translates as apple juice and is thus nonalcoholic. What a swizz.

Glasses in hand, we roam beyond the deck, down to the white Adirondack chairs spaced around the slope of lawn that leads, via a tumble of rocks, to the glimmering sea.

Ravenna chooses to sit apart from us, hoodie yanked low over her face, headphones emitting a tinny blare of defiance.

I pretend she’s listening to Frank Sinatra, wooing her reluctant spirit with the laid-back, tilted-trilby vocals of “Summer Wind.” I have that song on loop in my mind as I look out across the bay to the bridge we so recently drove in on. A white sailing boat is sliding by, attaching to my heartstrings as it crosses the golden path laid out by the peach-on-fire sun.

“I’ll say one thing for the super-rich, they sure know how to pick a holiday spot.”

Speaking of which, I can’t believe we’ve never covered Newport on Va-Va-Vacation! Especially with the
Downton
connection.

Apparently The Elms even offers a “Servant Life” tour. I must talk to Krista about this: I think there’s a definite market for a more genteel experience. Especially one with such pretty skies.

“I don’t know the last time I saw a sunset . . .” Pamela whispers in a trance.

The sky responds by amping up its gold backlighting. The clouds are unusually long and streaky, with random flourishes like the expressions of a modern dance troupe. Blue becomes indigo, orange rages to red, the gold brightens to a glare.

“Best show in town,” Gracie raves.

“A toast,” Pamela leans forward and raises her glass. “To new beginnings in New England.”

“And to old friends,” Gracie adds.

“To Georgie,” I smile. Even though I’ve never met him, I love the sound of him.

We take a sip and then give a rueful look in Ravenna’s direction.

“Do you think she’s going to be like this the whole time?” Pamela frets.

“She is a willful child,” Gracie notes. “She’ll certainly try to maintain the disdain as long as is humanly possible.”

“Well, you never know,” I say, already feeling the effects of the champagne. “Travel has a way of transforming people, even when they are at their most resistant.”

Gracie’s lips purse. “Let’s just hope it’s for the better.”

•   •   •

Even though it’s getting a little chilly, the ever-changing colors of the sunset hold us in position. I don’t want this moment to end. Ravenna, on the other hand, has already headed off to unpack. I should join her; I do have to change for dinner. And I will. Just five minutes more of this burnished glory . . .

•   •   •

Trotting down the path to our beach house in the now dim, powdery light, I decide upon my white linen sundress, the navy cardi with the big anchor buttons and a sheeny red lip. At the very least I shall coordinate with the other wharfies.

“Knock, knock.” I turn the key in the latch but no sooner am I through the door, I find myself stalling. “Oh my!”

Not because I’ve caught Ravenna in a compromising position (she’s nowhere to be seen), but because I am in the presence of such tasteful, grown-up design.

The floors are a honeyed hardwood, the walls whitewashed, the loft-style ceiling painted the most serene hyacinth blue. The four-poster is hefty and masculine, sans canopy, but with duvet and pillows puffed to cloud status. There’s a stained mahogany armoire, a coffee table and a large brown leather sofa, all of a reassuringly classic persuasion.

I bet Ravenna wants to get out her spray can and graffiti the entire place, including the sea view that now draws me forward.

Oohhh, a fireplace. My hand reaches to touch the textured slate chimney breast. Nothing makes me swoon like a fireplace. And this one is directly opposite the bed. What could be toastier?

There’s even a little kitchenette with state-of-the-art coffee-making facilities, further fueling the fantasy that I have just arrived at my new apartment.

“Yes, I took a place by the sea,” I shall tell people. “Everyone needs a little time away from the city.”

I ease open the patio door and step onto the deck, taking a moment to listen to the waves’ rolling breath and the respondent drag of the shingle. It’s so peaceful here. So soothing. Right up until the point at which Ravenna emerges from the bathroom in a billow of fragrant steam.

“Oh, you’re here.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say as I make a beeline for my suitcase, foraging for my canvas wedges. Got one. I’ll have quite the peg-leg walk if I can’t find the other. I reach deeper within the folds of fabric until my fingertips meet with woven rope.

“So you’re not speaking to me now?” Ravenna snips as I pass her en route to the bathroom.

“I didn’t think you were speaking to anyone,” I say without looking back.

I’ve been here a million times before. The more you pander, the more they pout. Best let them come to you.

“It’s all right for you, you want to be here,” she calls after me.

I stick my head around the door. “Why don’t you just decide that this is what you want too?”

“Like it’s that easy.”

“Says the princess from her four-poster,” I tut. “Take a look around you, Ravenna. There are worst places to be.”

“It’s not the place, exactly, it’s the company.”

“Oh. Thanks for that.”

“I don’t mean you. In particular.”

I frown back at her. “You know, I never met anyone who didn’t like their granny before. Mothers yes, but—”

“She started it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She doesn’t like me.” She tugs at her robe. “She doesn’t want me here.”

“Maybe if you tried showing an interest in the things that mean so much to her . . .”

“Like old buildings?”

“You know, honestly, it’s hokum that you’re planning a career in interior design if you’re not interested in seeing these miraculous time capsules. Not pictures, not artifacts in museums, but a first-hand experience of how people
lived
—”

“How the elite lived.”

“The elite are your future clients,” I remind her. “Poor folk don’t hire interior decorators. Not unless they’re getting a freebie on a TV show.”

She shrugs. “It’s not my taste.”

“It’s not about you. Are you going to listen to your clients’ needs and wants, or are you just going to give them signature Ravenna every time?”

“If they choose me they’ll be choosing my style.”

“Do you even know what that is?”

She looks affronted. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“No, you don’t.” I really should be getting ready. I return to the bathroom and set my toilet bag on the glossy white sink. Right . . .

“I just don’t see how it’s relevant.”

I know I should just let it go, step into the shower and sluice off my irritation—from multiple directions given all the jet options. But I can’t let it lie yet.

I walk back to the nearest corner of the bed.

“I suppose you like Kelly Wearstler?”

Ravenna concedes a nod. “She’s cool.”

I thought she’d like her—she’s basically the supermodel of the interior design world, with a host of celebrity hotels and clients to her credit. I actually love her esthetic. She did the Bergdorf Goodman restaurant in New York in these sublime hues of duck-egg blue and olive. If I’m going there for afternoon tea, I book way in advance so I can cozy up in one of the French canopy chairs—they make me feel as if I’m on a secret assignation.

“What about her?” Ravenna is impatient.

“I was just thinking maybe you’d like to have your own book or two one day, just like her.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you know that the author of the first ever interior design book designed the bedrooms down the road at The Breakers?”

She looks mildly curious. “Who was that?”

“Ogden Codman Junior.”

“Who?”

“He was an architect from Boston.” And then I casually add: “He co-wrote the book with Edith Wharton. Have you heard of her?”

She nods. “We did
Age of Innocence
at school.”

“Well, she summered here in Newport, from when she was a tot.”

I wait for the “coo” of wonder that this is, in a sense, where it all began, but all I get is a “So?”

My jaw clenches. I’m done.