The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  “Oh my god!” Krista blurts. “I’ve just thought of somewhere I’ve been dying to go!”

  “Where?”

  “In Vermont—the Trapp Family Lodge.”

  “Sounds like something from The Sound of Music.”

  “It is! After they escaped the Nazis, this is where they set up home.”

  “Right . . .” I frown. “Where’s the cake connection?”

  “Maria’s Linzertorte. They make it there from her original recipe.”

  “It’s supposed to be American recipes.”

  “Well, it’s the American dream, isn’t it? Come on!”

  “I’ll think about it. What about New Hampshire? I don’t really know what that state is famous for—except for Mitt Romney.” I pull a face.

  Krista gives a little chuckle. “Did you hear about the bakery that makes the presidential cookies? They do a red border for Republican, blue for Democrat and then stencil on the face of the respective candidate in the middle.”

  “Really?”

  “They’ve been doing it for the past seven elections and every time they correctly predict who will win based on the number of cookies sold—the percentages even match up!”

  “And they’re in New Hampshire?” This could be fun.

  “Ohio.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hold on, Jacques just got in. Chéri!” She calls to him.

  Their voices are muffled across the room. I look around me, wondering how loudly I’ve been talking and what on earth an eavesdropper would make of our conversation. One of the turtles does look particularly bemused. I’m becoming transfixed by his beaky-gummy mouth when Krista rejoins me.

  “Well, this sounds promising—a year or two ago, Jacques went to a friend’s wedding at the Mount Washington Resort. Can you check it out on your phone?”

  “Wow,” I say as the pictures come into view. “Talk about presidential! This place is stunning.”

  “Kind of like a mountain version of the Hotel del Coronado,” Krista notes, comparing the grand white building and distinctive red roofing. “I’m betting they do a lovely afternoon tea there.” I hear a rattling of keys. “Oh my god! They do three: The Victorian, The Royal and The Mad Hatter.”

  “Mad Hatter for sure,” I cheer, picturing Pamela seated between the White Rabbit and the Red Queen.

  “Wait. That’s just for kids under ten: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

  “Oh.”

  “You want The Royal, that’s the one with the champagne. And it’s served in the Princess Room. How divine!”

  “You’re brilliant!” I whoop. “I feel so much better already.”

  “I’m here for you, kiddo.”

  “Thank you,” I sigh.

  “Seriously, don’t worry about a thing. It’s going to be a piece of cake!”

  I give a little snort. “Did I mention that we’re traveling in a London bus, driven by her half-blind, aging mother?”

  Silence.

  “Krista?”

  “You might want to double up on the travel insurance.”

  Chapter 5

  And so begins an all-consuming blur of Googling, cross-referencing, route-planning, hotel-pricing, negotiating, scheduling and salivating. All those online images of cakes with their glistening richness and perfectly piped fondant swirls! There was one Ice Cream Sundae Cupcake that was drizzled with chocolate sauce, scattered with sprinkles and topped with a glacé cherry! I could barely keep from licking my laptop screen.

  By day three I find my cupboards to be bare (I work from home), so I part with my pajamas and hole up in a back-room nook at Bread (my favorite local Little Italy café) and enjoy the convenience of having a steady stream of lattes and nibbles delivered to my table, literally from breakfast till close at midnight. (Highly recommend an apple-pie Martini to revive one’s flagging fingertips around 7 P.M.) Every now and again I find something so cool I can barely keep from grabbing the waitress—“Look at this! We’re going to the place where the doughnut hole was invented!”

  At least Krista is always good for a squeal. I do my due diligence and check out her suggestions for New Hampshire and Vermont and I have to say they can’t be bettered! She’s even going to meet up with us at the Trapp Family Lodge as it’s the last destination on the itinerary.

  “I have to be there to see Pamela’s face when she checks out the view from the on-site bakery. The hills are alive, I’m telling you!”

  I wanted to get the final seal of approval from the woman herself before I confirmed everything, but her agent told me that her plate was too full to trouble her with details. They trusted my judgment. Pamela’s mother wanted to know the exact driving route but, other than that, I could do a big reveal when she gets to New York. So, as you can imagine, by the time I arrive at the airport to collect the Lambert-Leigh ladies, I am beside myself.

  I have the itinerary all printed up in a special ribbon-tie folder with different-colored information sheets for each state including a cutely designed recipe card for each of the featured cakes. I’ve even bought a new camera so I can properly document the journey. This trip is going to be a dream! An absolute dream!

  Just as soon as we get out of the hellhole that is JFK.

  • • •

  “Don’t mind me!” I mutter as I get bashed for the umpteenth time, trying to hold my position at the Arrivals barrier. I’ve been elbowed, jostled, lunged across and had several signs held directly in front of my face. But I’m not budging. I patiently continue to fend off the fray and track every face as it rounds the corner.

  I wonder what Pamela’s mother will look like? I did try and Google her but there were very few family pictures available. Despite all her on-screen success, Pamela seems to be an otherwise private person. Perhaps that is why her marriage has lasted an impressive twenty-one years. I can’t quite figure out what her husband does for a living. Or did. He’s probably retired now but I’m guessing something suit-y at some point. There was one anniversary picture of them in Paris, taking a boat trip down the Seine, and I thought, I wonder what that’s like, to have a smooth-flowing love life. One that glides ever onward through the years. Mine has been more of a series of leaky, slowly sinking rowing boats.

  A while back, Krista asked me to name the defining quality of my ideal man. I said someone who would make me orange-scented brioche on a Sunday morning. And then I saw Pink on TV talking about the advice her dad gave her in terms of attracting an ideal partner—whatever qualities you are searching for in someone else, be those things yourself; be honest, be adventurous, be affectionate. Or, in my case, be a brioche baker. I was seriously looking into some classes when The Traveling Tea Shop offer came in. Talk about learning on the job! Oh that just being in the presence of Pamela Lambert-Leigh could cause me to attract someone lightly smudged with flour and smelling of orange zest—

  “Laurie!”

  I can’t believe it! She’s here! I snap out of my daydream and into pro mode as I hurry over to greet her, and the two uniformed men she has with her.

  One is pushing a trolley heaped with luggage. The other has charge of a woman in a wheelchair. This surely cannot be her mother—she looks like a collapsed blancmange, held together with a velvet wrap. Her neck is concertina’d into her chest, her coiffure tips forward concealing her face, all bar her mouth, which is distinctly glistening at the left corner.

  Surely not?

  I force my brightest smile. “Welcome back!”

  “Laurie, I’d like you to meet my mother Gracie.”

  I look down at her limp hands, one of which has just slid off her lap and is hanging dangerously close to the wheel.

  “But now is not the time.” Pamela looks rueful, securing her mother’s straying hand under the voluminous wrap. “I’m afraid she overdid the sleeping pills on the flight.”

  “Oh, d
ear. Well, we’ll get her straight to the hotel and into bed. I’m sure she’ll be as right as rain in the morning.”

  “I do hope so.”

  I go to turn to lead the way to the limo but Pamela halts me.

  “There’s one more thing. I’m so sorry I didn’t get a chance to forewarn you . . .”

  “Forewarn?” This doesn’t sound good.

  “I didn’t have a minute at Heathrow, we were running so late . . .”

  “Yes?” I mentally put myself in the brace position.

  “There’s going to be four of us on the trip.”

  “Okay.”

  “My daughter will be joining us.”

  “Babycakes?” I can’t help but gasp. Oh this is quite a coup!

  “Well, she doesn’t really like to be called that anymore.”

  “No, no of course, I’m sorry.”

  “Her name is Ravenna.”

  “Yes. Lovely. When will she be arriving?” I reach for my notepad.

  Pamela looks behind her. “Any minute.”

  “She was on your flight?”

  She nods. “I think she nipped into one of the shops.”

  I join her in scanning the flow of pedestrian traffic, looking for a blonde halo, expecting a pair of blue eyes to flash out to me like sapphires. The Babycakes of my mind would by now have grown into an Amanda Seyfried-like beauty. She’d be carrying a candy-pink vanity case and probably the phone number of the pilot, eager to take her on a date.

  “So, Laurie . . .”

  “Mmm?” I turn back to Pamela.

  “Would you be able to arrange an extra room for Ravenna?”

  “I’ll certainly try. I know a few of the places were fully booked.”

  “Oh.” Pamela’s face falls. “Well. Perhaps a camp bed in with us?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, she can have my room. I can always stay elsewhere.”

  “Or perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing? Only where necessary of course.”

  I’m torn. From my past experience I need every moment of privacy I can muster on these escorted trips. On the other hand, the story-potential of having Babycakes as a roomie . . . Already my mind races ahead—what if we were to bond so seamlessly she became like a baby sister to me? Her rosy smiles the perfect antidote to Jessica’s druggy glaze. Perhaps my own mother has engineered this whole thing from her office in the clouds! I’m about to wink heavenward when the girl in question comes into view.

  It’s only the scowl of derision at her mother that gives her away.

  Ravenna Lambert-Leigh, the face that launched a thousand vanilla sponge puffs, is wearing a dingy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, drooping so low on one side that it’s hanging off her elbow. The vest beneath is flatteningly unflattering. Her skin-tight jeans are indecently low-cut, revealing jutting hipbones, her boots thuggishly tough and straggling neon laces. What is going on with this family? She’s not even properly blonde anymore.

  I turn to Pamela, looking for some kind of explanation.

  “I know,” she shakes her head. “It shocks me every day too.”

  I look back at Traveler Number Four. Much as I wish I could put her on the next flight to Los Angeles and get Rachel Zoe to give her a makeover to fit with my ideal, I have to face the horrible reality.

  Deep breath!

  “Welcome to New York, Ravenna! I’m Laurie.” I step forward, searching her face for some kind of proof that it’s actually her in there, under the cat-flick eyeliner and Amy Winehouse bouffant.

  Her look conveys one word, “So?”

  “I’ll be making sure everything on this trip runs smoothly, so if you have any special requests, just let me know.”

  Her eyebrow twitches in a way that makes me want to add, “No drugs.”

  I look back at Pamela. “Is that everyone?”

  She concedes a smile. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

  • • •

  On the way to the limo, I snap a sneaky picture of Ravenna and send it to Krista with the message, “Can you imagine this face on a pack of Babycakes?”

  She taps back in seconds. “Special Halloween edition?”

  And then she adds, “You know, for all her don’t-care street-kid styling, that handbag is a Mulberry?”

  For some reason this irritates me all the more, though Krista makes me smile when she suggests this caption: Rebel with a Purse.

  I’d love to break away and bring her up to date, but for now I need to direct the Skycaps and limo driver as they try to maneuver Gracie’s dead weight into the backseat.

  “Mind her head!”

  I hear one of them muttering something about Weekend at Bernie’s. I’m about to check that Gracie is still breathing when she starts to snore.

  Well that’s one less thing to worry about.

  “All right! We’re all set. The journey into town should take about forty minutes, if it’s not too bumper-to-bumper, so I thought I’d take this opportunity to run through our itinerary.”

  Ravenna makes for the drinks cabinet.

  I have to bleep out her reaction when she opens it.

  “I switched the decanters for Red Velvet Cheesecake!” I explain, reaching for the plates, admiring the neat two-tone stripes of textured red and smooth cream. “I thought it was the perfect combination of New York’s finest! Here you go . . .”

  Ravenna turns away like a baby refusing its spoon of stewed carrot.

  “She doesn’t really eat,” Pamela grimaces.

  I wait for her to finish her sentence. She doesn’t really eat cakes. Or, She doesn’t really eat anything with refined sugar. Or anything that tastes good. But that’s where she stops.

  Ravenna is certainly skinny enough to verify this. As she reaches to adjust the air-conditioning above her head, she reveals a stomach that is positively concave.

  “Oh. Well. All the more for the rest of us,” I chirp.

  “Actually, I’m not hungry,” Pamela also declines.

  I look over at Gracie. Her mouth is lolling open . . . But no. I guess we’ll just keep them for later.

  “So. The itinerary—”

  Pamela holds up a weary hand. “Do you mind if we go through all that tomorrow?”

  I gulp back my disappointment. “No, of course not. I’m sure you’re all really tired after your journey.”

  I look down at the package. Perhaps I could just tell her about the Downton Abbey connection with Newport, Rhode Island? Just to lift her spirits? I look up at her, but already she’s a million miles away, staring lifelessly out of the window. I sigh. It’s a look I saw all too often on my own mother’s face. Emotional and physical exhaustion. My eyes narrow at Ravenna. Outsize graffiti-print headphones denting her backcombed hair, picking at her blue nail polish, big ole boots up on the seats. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the prime cause.

  And then I remember I offered to share a room with her.

  Not wanting anyone to pick up on the desperation in my voice as I call around the list of hotels, I text my request to Krista.

  “I’ll literally take the broom cupboard. Or the spa massage table after hours. Anything.”

  And then I sigh. This is so not what I had planned. I have selected the most elegant accommodations, the kinds of genteel, historic places that make you want to carry a lace fan and curtsey at the doorman. When I think of rolling up with this motley crew . . . I shake my head—it comes to something when I’m the best-dressed person in the room. And with all their money too.

  The last I read, Pamela was worth an estimated £15 million. Surely you could buy a new daughter for that?

  “Sorry kiddo,” Krista taps back. “The first place I could get you in is Maine.”

  I scan the itinerary. That’s over halfway into the trip.

  “I’ve got you on the waiting list
though.”

  “Thank you.”

  “At least tonight you get your own bed—just as soon as you’ve got them all tucked up at the Waldorf, right?”

  • • •

  I suppose I should count my blessings that everyone wants an early night, even if I did get Pamela front-row seats for Evita. Obviously she can’t leave her mother unattended. And Ravenna wouldn’t be caught dead viewing anything as cheesy as a musical. Even if there are some pretty edgy ones on Broadway these days.

  I see them all checked in. (Fortunately I am able to add an adjoining room, which keeps everyone happy. Relatively speaking.) And then I prepare to head home.

  “All right. Well I wish you a good sleep and I’ll see you here in the lobby at nine A.M. for our Red Velvet Cake-making demonstration!”

  I’m about to step into the revolving door when Ravenna comes scurrying down the carpeted steps toward me.

  “You said you can get whatever we need?”

  Here we go. “Within reason.”

  “I need a fake ID. For tonight.”

  I stare back at her. “Really?”

  “It’s totally ridiculous—this morning I was legal drinking age and I get here and suddenly it’s off limits. I mean, I’m twenty years old.”

  Diplomacy, remember diplomacy. “I totally understand your frustration—”

  “Great. You can just have it sent up to the room.” She turns to leave.

  “Ravenna.” I lay a hand on her bony shoulder. “I’m sorry. That won’t be possible.”

  “Why not?” She looks outraged.

  “Because I like living here. And I don’t want to get deported.”

  “So it’s all about you? I thought you were supposed to be taking care of us.”

  “Without turning to a life of crime, yes.”

  “It’s just one lousy ID!”

  “That’s all it would take.”

  “So you’re saying no?”

  “I’m saying no.”

  She steps closer, eyes flitting with desperation. “If I’m going to get through this trip, I’m going to need to drink.”

  “Well, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement in the hotel rooms, with your mother’s approval of course, but as far as going out on the town goes . . .” I give a little shrug. “Not going to happen.”