The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  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 k
now 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.

  Chapter 14

  And so to the wharf. It’s an interesting mix of tourists and locals, restaurants and boutiques, upmarket charm and ye olde pirate hideaway—there’s even a tavern called the Black Pearl. Though what Captain Jack Sparrow would make of all the yachtie types in their belted shorts and pastel polo shirts, I don’t know.

  “Mum, look!”

  For a second Ravenna forgets to be sullen and shut-down, so dazzled is she by an entire window filled with outsize cupcakes sparkling blush and lavender.

  “Are they real?”

  We all peer closer looking for clues amid the glitter, only to realize we are looking into a fancy beauty shop.

  “Bath bombs,” I conclude. “You know those things that fizz and go crazy when you add them to water?”

  “Ohhhh!” Pamela and Gracie nod understanding.

  “Can we go inside?” Ravenna asks.

  “After dinner.”

  “Won’t it be closed?”

  “All the shops here stay open late,” Gracie assures her.

  We follow some poshly boisterous spirits to the Clarke Cooke House (which has a reputation for hosting the swankiest of the sailing crowd) and opt for the waterfront dining option, both for its scenic aspect and its name: The Candy Store.

  As with the beauty shop, there are no actual sugary confections at large, just plenty of candy-colored director’s chairs in gobstopper pink, lemon-sherbet yellow and flying-saucer turquoise, set around white-clothed tables.

  We are positioned near the “missing wall” overlooking the harbor and beside the bar—a grand, wood-paneled affair with a low ceiling fan and mirrored backdrop. Silver champagne buckets glisten on the countertop, chilly with condensation. Cashmere sweaters drape over shoulders. Everyone has good hair. Pamela dubs it Sloanes-by-the-Sea, but without the snobbery.

  While studying the booze selection for inspiration, I see a couple perched on bar stools displaying intense “someone’s getting lucky tonight” body language and feel a tug of longing for that heady state of first-date flirtation when you’re feeling giddily tipsy and entranced, bodies cleaving toward one another, heavy with anticipation of the spinning surrender to come . . .

  “Is there a local cocktail you could recommend?” I rasp. I may need a couple.

  “Dark and Stormy,” Gracie points to the menu. “Dark rum and ginger beer.”

  “Is that what you’re having?”

  “Actually, I’m going to try the Newport Water.”

  Which sounds all very pure and abstaining until you read that it is, in fact, a mix of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label champagne, Grand Marnier and St-Germain (a sophisticated elderflower liqueur).

  “Ooh, I like the sound of that!” enthuses Pamela.

  “Ravenna?”

  “I’ll just have a glass of seawater, perhaps with a dash of leaked engine fuel?”

  I can’t help but have a little chuckle.

  At least she can’t complain about the food.

  “This is the best swordfish I’ve ever eaten,” I announce. Aside from the fact that it is cooked to juicy perfection, it comes served with minuscule baubles of couscous and a spoonful of aubergine caponata. “Just delicious.”

  “Same goes double for the clam chowder,” Gracie raves. “Taste it.” She offers me a spoon.

  “Oh.” I wince. “I don’t know about clams.”

  “Have you ever had them?”

  “Not on purpose.” I look around me. “I don’t know if I should say this out loud in New England, but I’m not really much of a seafood person.”

  “Just taste it.” She is determined.

  Slimy, salty, chewy and inducing of the gag reflex.

  That is what I was expecting.

  Instead my taste buds are met with a light but hearty, creamy but fresh delight.

  “What’s that herb?” I ask.

  “Dill.”

  “And these little white cubes?”

  “Potato.”

  “Oh, it’s so yummy!”

  I can’t even taste the clam.

  “I knew you’d like it.” Gracie is smug.

  “Do you think they used to serve it at the mansions, you know, back in the day?”

  “Well, it’s actually rather interesting about the food.” Gracie dabs her mouth with her napkin. “French cuisine was held in the highest regard, so it was all French chefs presenting their food à la française, which was basically an extremely lavish buffet display. But then fashions changed and the Vanderbilts led the way by serving à la russe.”

  “Russe?” I frown.

  “Russian style.”

  “Gosh, whatever is that?” I ask, imagining a chain of Cossacks circling the table shouting “Hah!” as each domed plate cover is removed.

  “Well, it’s actually what we are used to today: being served one course at a time.”

  “Oh.”

  “The significant difference being they had eight courses.”

  “What?” I splutter, secretly envious.

  “They began with oysters, then soup, then fish, meat and two vegetables, the entrée, some kind of alcoholic sorbet before the roast—”

  “A roast on top of meat and two veg?”

  She nods. “Then a salad and dessert. Never mind the wines and coffees and the cognacs . . .”

  “That’s bonkers.”

  “But!” She pauses for emphasis. “All of this was served at such a pace that you were lucky to get a bite. No sooner was the last plate set down than they began to remove the rest and serve the next course.”

  “You’re joking!”

  Gracie shakes her head. “One young girl was advised by her father to keep a finger on the plate while she was eating, lest it be whipped away.”

  I’m reeling. “So you could sit down to a never-ending banquet and leave the table hungry?”

  “As was frequently the case,” Gracie confirms. “They even went so far as to say that the greatest pleasure you got from the food was watching it all come and go.”

  “Talk about a feast for the eyes,” I quip.

  “Bet the servants enjoyed the leftovers,” Ravenna smirks.

  “They probably ate better than their employers and assorted royals.”

  I turn to Pamela, surprised that she hasn’t voiced a response, and find her looking distracted. Again.

  “Everything all right?” I check with her as our plates are cleared away. (With every last morsel scraped from them.)

  She looks undecided, then leans forward. “I think I should probably tell you . . . No,” she corrects herself, “I want to tell you. Before you read about it . . .” She waits for the waitress to finish up and then begins anew: “My husband and I—”

  “Ex-husband,” snips Ravenna.

  “Ex?” I query.

  “Not yet.” She grimaces. “But yes, we’re getting a divorce.”

  “Can I go to the shops now?” Ravenna gets to her feet. “You can call me when you’re done.”

  “Yes, yes.” Pamela waves off her daughter.

  Now I feel guilty for being so mean to her. Her parents are splitting up. She’s playing up. N
ot that it’s any excuse but . . .

  I turn back to Pamela. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

  “No, no. It’s—”

  “Long overdue,” Gracie cuts in. “Long, long—”

  “All right, Mum!” Pamela tenses.

  I bite my lip.

  “It’s one of the reasons I was so eager to get away. And get Ravenna away.”

  I nod.

  “I have a feeling that Brian might not behave in the most dignified manner.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Gracie mutters. “The man is the antithesis of dignity—a mean-spirited, parasitic—”

  “Mum, please.”

  “You don’t agree?” she challenges.

  “Wholeheartedly, but I’m trying to maintain a neutrality for Ravenna’s sake.”

  “Ravenna’s not here.”

  “Well, I don’t want to get into the habit of bad-mouthing him.”

  “That’s commendable,” I opine.

  “It’s also part of the problem,” Gracie counters.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Pamela huffs.

  “You never said out loud all the awful, humiliating—”

  “Um!” I scrape back my chair. “I think I might go and check on Ravenna.”

  “No,” Pamela reaches for my arm. “Don’t leave on our account. We can contain our bickering.”

  “But you shouldn’t have to.”

  “I don’t want to argue,” Pamela reasons.

  “Again. Part of the problem.”

  Pamela closes her eyes, desperate to shut it all out.

  Only now does Gracie see that she’s gone too far.

  She gets to her feet. “I think I’m going to go and see if I can get Ravenna to eat one of those exploding cupcakes.”

  I wait until she’s out of earshot and then scoot my chair closer.

  “Pamela—”

  “I’m so embarrassed!” She covers her face with her hands.

  “There’s no need to be,” I soothe, lightly touching her forearm. “Not now, and regardless of what happens on this trip.”

  Her face remains covered.

  “We’re in this together,” I tell her. “We’ve got a cake sisterhood going here: that’s a pretty strong bond.”

  She peeks out at me. “I just feel such a wreck at the moment. I’m all over the place.”