The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  “It’s perfectly understandable. I think it’s so brave of you to undertake a trip like this with so much going on in your personal life.”

  “I thought it would be a good distraction, and the publishers were adamant about it being now or never—”

  “That’s why we’re going to make it work,” I assert. “And I really think it will. I know you’ve had some glimmers of joy already—with Charlie at the Waldorf, that slice of Mystic Pizza, tonight’s champagne sunset . . .”

  “I have,” she acknowledges. “I just feel like I’m being attacked from every angle.”

  “You have to tune them out. We can use some mini-marsh-mallows as earplugs if it comes to it.”

  She snuffles a smile then reaches for my hand. “Thank you for being so nice.”

  I give a little “no problem” shrug.

  She reaches for the menu. “Shall we order some dessert?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I reply. “And I think you should try one of these Dark and Stormy cocktails. For research.”

  “Research?”

  “I was thinking how great a rum and ginger cupcake would be, especially for the sailors . . .”

  Now she really brightens. “You’re on!”

  • • •

  Later, back at the beach house, I try broaching the subject with Ravenna.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your parents’ divorce,” I say as I light the fire, hoping to create a comforting vibe.

  She doesn’t even look up from her phone.

  “If you want to talk about it—”

  “Why would I want to talk about it with you?”

  She has a point.

  “No reason,” I concede. “Other than I’m here.” And then I shake my head. “You’re right. I just wanted to say I was sorry.”

  “Thank you,” she snarks. “That makes it all better.”

  Chapter 15

  Next morning I wake up way ahead of my alarm. Ordinarily I might re-squish my pillow and settle back down, but the second I recall our private cove I’m out of bed.

  I open the patio door with the stealth of a cat burglar, take a quick look back at Ravenna—no movement. Crossing the fibrous deck, I creak down the steps and transfer onto the cold, wet sand. The sensation thrills the soles of my bare feet, luring me to the edge of the discreetly lapping water.

  I have to say, paddling at this hour feels slightly illicit—possibly because I am still in my pajamas. I look back at the other beach houses to see if any curtains are drawn or lights on. And that’s when I notice a figure on the rocks.

  “Gracie! What are you doing up?” I gasp as I take in her form, elegantly draped in a silver silk robe, as if she is waiting to be painted by some world-renowned artist with a wiry beard.

  “I wanted to make the most of every moment here,” she sighs.

  “Oh, me too!”

  Together we take in the straggles of seaweed on the shore, the slanting layers of the low-lying rocks and the translucent blue of the early morning sky.

  “Are you a walker, Laurie?”

  “Well,” I take a moment to decide. “I am an honorary New Yorker, so I suppose I’d have to say yes.”

  She beckons me closer. “I know Pamela won’t want to come and Ravenna will sleep through breakfast . . .”

  “What did you have in mind?” I’m curious.

  “Cliff Walk.”

  “Is that as perilous as it sounds?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Yes and no?” I wasn’t expecting that answer.

  “Are there opportunities to plunge to your death, yes. Will that be our fate? No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because we’ll stick to the path.”

  “Okay . . .” I say. Sounds simple enough.

  I manage to get into my jeans, sweatshirt and purple Converse without prompting so much as a stir in Ravenna. As I head out to the car, I scrape my sleep-mussed hair into a Pebbles ponytail. All I need now is a baseball hat. I look so ridiculously sports bar next to Gracie’s neutral-hued Dame Judi drapery. Not that she bats an eye. I suppose she’s seen worse on Ravenna.

  Gracie takes an alternative route to Ocean Drive now, weaving us inland past ever more mansions, but also some ragged fields and farm shacks.

  “Gracie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did I just see a llama?”

  “Yes, dear. They’ve got all sorts here. That’s Hammersmith Farm, childhood home of Jackie O. It’s where she and JFK had their wedding reception. Obviously before she became an O.”

  We pass Fort Adams and a new perspective on the marina, then cruise up Memorial Boulevard—the broadest artery of the city.

  “Now. There are several access points to Cliff Walk,” Gracie informs me as we crest the hill. “But begin at the beginning, I say.”

  “Oh wow!” I gasp as we’re greeted by the wide-open sprawl of a beach.

  “Easton’s Beach.” She smiles at its sandy curve.

  I’m surprised to see so many surfers bobbing astride their boards, especially when the waters seem so placid.

  “You’ll be even more surprised when you see them up close,” Gracie gets a twinkle in her eye.

  “What do you mean?” I look back at their lithe, licorice-clad bodies.

  It’s only when a couple of guys come over to load up their car that I see their salty tufts of hair are silver-gray.

  “Are they all that age?” I whisper.

  “From what I remember from my last visit, yes!”

  “I can’t believe it. They look so limber and healthy!” And handsome too, I think to myself. “There must be something in the water here.”

  “Yes,” Gracie titters. “Senior citizens!”

  • • •

  The path ahead of us is spilling over with fragrant honeysuckle, delicate pink dog roses and sprays of miniature daisies. Less picturesque are the “CAUTION” signs showing a figure pitching headfirst into the abyss.

  Welcome to Cliff Walk.

  It’s actually not that risky. Though there are undeniably opportunities for you to come a cropper, there is no pressing need to do so. The path is broad and stable and, after a certain point, even offers handrails.

  “You know how yesterday we drove past the front gates of the mansions?” Gracie takes my arm. “Now we’re going to walk along the back of them.”

  “Really?” I’m intrigued. “Will we get a glimpse of any?”

  “Oh yes,” she confirms. “You’ll see.”

  That’s if I can prize my eyes away from the shimmering ocean—it’s as if Mr. Swarovski himself cast a million crystals across the water’s surface, leaving me blinking in bedazzlement. We have a better vantage point of the beach from up here and the little town beyond, complete with English-village-style church spire.

  “Morning!”

  “Morning!”

  We exchange greetings with fellow early risers, including a joyful array of lolloping dogs.

  I can’t imagine this being my regular morning jaunt. Would you ever become blasé, I wonder, or would you start every day chanting, “I’m the luckiest person in the world!”

  “Quite breathtaking, isn’t it?” Gracie notices my awe.

  “I love how curvy it is; you never know what’s around the next . . .” I come to a halt. There’s a mansion right there in front of us, completely accessible, not even a “Keep Off the Grass” sign. “Don’t the owners mind people ambling around their back lawn?”

  “This is actually one of the university buildings now.”

  “You can study here?” I practically pass out with longing.

  Gracie chuckles. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Less so that!” I point ahead to a modern block monstrosity.

  “We
have to count ourselves lucky that the fancy building is still standing. They tried to demolish a lot of the treasures to build apartments.”

  “Nooo!” I’m scandalized.

  “Don’t worry, nothing can touch the jewel in Newport’s crown.” Gracie leads me on and then, with a grand flourish, presents a vast burgundy-roofed villa with all manner of ornate archways, colonnades and balustrades—not to mention acres and acres of methodically mown lawn.

  “This is The Breakers,” she announces. “Built by Cornelius Vanderbilt II in 1893. For twelve million dollars.”

  “In today’s money?”

  “About three hundred and fifty million.”

  “Wow,” I gawp, stepping up to the wire fencing, hooking my fingers in the wire so I can peer a little closer. “Is it really as lavish as they say?”

  “Way beyond lavish. Beyond Gatsby even. There’s one room that has these silver wall panels and the preservationists couldn’t understand why they never tarnished, until they discovered they were coated in platinum.”

  “Talk about one-upmanship!” I chuckle. “I can’t wait to see inside!”

  “But we’re going to start with Marble House?”

  “Yes, I wanted to save the glitziest till last, in a vain attempt to blow Ravenna’s mind.”

  Gracie rolls her eyes. “You’d think with her interest in interior design . . .”

  “You’d think.”

  “Shall we take a wee break by The Breakers?”

  We head to a bench on the stepped lookout point and sit for a while in companionable silence. When Gracie speaks again, her tone has softened.

  “I didn’t mean to upset Pamela last night.”

  I glance her way.

  “I try to bite my tongue but every now and again . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “Years of frustration.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad you were there,” she pats my hand, “you know, to offer her some support. It’s a very trying time, and things could get trickier before this trip is through.”

  Trickier? “In what way?” I ask.

  Gracie looks as if she’s about to tell me something. Something specific and significant. But instead she withdraws her hand and favors ambiguity: “You know, as a mother, you always want the best for your child. It’s hard when you see them making choices that take them in the opposite direction.”

  “I know,” I tell her as I tuck the wind-ruffled strands of hair behind my ear. “Not that I’m a mother, but I had one just like that.”

  “Really?”

  I nod but don’t go into further detail.

  “It’s not easy, is it?” She sighs. “Georgie used to tell me not to interfere—that it was Pamela’s life and she had to make her own mistakes. But even he said, just before he passed on, that he didn’t like leaving her as she was. He had hoped things would have changed for her by then. He didn’t want to say good-bye when she was still so unhappy.”

  “So things have been bad for a while?”

  “Not that she ever complains. I don’t think she even feels entitled to.”

  “I’ve made my bed?”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes meet mine. “Did you ever try to intervene, with your mother and—?”

  “My sister.” I complete the sentence. “Oh yes. All the time. But ultimately I think I was just a second source of stress for her.”

  “So you wish you’d done things differently?”

  “I don’t know what I could have done, short of hiring the Albanian gang from Taken to snatch my sister.”

  Gracie raises a brow.

  “It’s this film with Liam Neeson.”

  “I know the film,” she replies. “I’m just wondering if that gang really is for hire.”

  I chuckle. “It seems simple, doesn’t it?—this person is ruining the other person’s life so we must separate them. But it’s a hard bond to break, mother–child. Harder even than husband–wife.”

  Gracie nods.

  “And it seems they must make the choice themselves or they will fight it all the more.”

  “Pamela won’t hear a bad word said about Ravenna,” Gracie concurs. “Even when she is evil incarnate.”

  I sigh. “Mothers seem to have an infinite capacity to withstand hurt from their children. All they see is their pain and I think they feel responsible for it, as if it is their fault that the child in question is feeling so bad and acting so selfishly—and thus the very least they can do is take it.”

  “But is that any way to live?”

  “No, of course not. But you know what they say—if you keep doing what you’re doing, you’re going to keep getting what you’re getting.”

  “That’s just it,” Gracie turns toward me. “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around, and if it’s not me interfering, helping to break the pattern, then who? I can’t stand the thought of this going on and on ad infinitum.” She lowers her voice as a couple pause beside us to take in the view. “I thought this trip might at least give Pamela the chance to start thinking in a different way, to see that she has other options, but I wasn’t counting on Ravenna being a part of it.”

  “That is unfortunate.”

  “To say the least. It makes things very complicated. Very complicated indeed . . .”

  I study Gracie’s troubled face. “Is there something I should know?”

  She looks back at me. Uncertain. Conflicted. “You seem like a nice girl, I don’t want to burden you.”

  “Well, if it’s something that is going to affect our itinerary . . .”

  She grimaces. “It’s just . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been meddling,” she whispers.

  “In what way?”

  “I can’t say exactly, not yet.” She pauses. “I don’t know if Pamela has any inkling, I have to imagine it’s crossed her mind, but, well, I just want you to be prepared.”

  “For what?”

  “For anything.”

  I wait for her to expand on this dramatic vagueness, but instead she gets to her feet and brisks, “Anyway, no point in worrying now.”

  “You realize I’ll be doing nothing but worrying unless you tell me?” I scuttle after her.

  “It’ll probably come to nothing,” she wafts her hand. “And it’s certainly of no concern today.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.” At least one day out of the next week should be smooth sailing.

  Gracie stops suddenly. “Unless—should I call it off? This thing—”

  “This thing you can’t tell me anything about?”

  I wonder how she expects me to answer when I have so little information. Of course I know her intentions are good. And I know things need to change for Pamela and Ravenna. However much that may inconvenience me.

  I take a breath. “I think you should do everything in your power to make a difference.”

  “Really?” she looks encouraged.

  “I regret every day not doing more to protect my mother. An Albanian gang would be too good for my sister. I should have done the deed myself.”

  Gracie reaches over and touches my face. “Then you’ll stick with us, no matter what?”

  “No matter what,” I confirm.

  Chapter 16

  As predicted, Ravenna skips breakfast. Well, when your stomach is that concave, I’m guessing you’ve got to be pretty selective about which days you choose to eat.

  In a bid to redress the balance, I partake of a double portion. And then it falls to me to chivvy her up.

  “You need to be dressed in five minutes,” I tell her as I re-enter the beach house.

  “I am dressed!” she protests.

  “Cut-off denim shorts with pockets hanging lower than the fraying hem do not a mansion to
ur outfit make,” I tut under my breath.

  “Do you know that the women who summered here in Newport’s heyday used to change up to seven times a day?”

  She looks back at me. “Is that a hint?”

  “They had a breakfast outfit, another for lunch, tea, dinner—and of course tennis and swimming have their particulars. Even walking required an oversized feather bonnet. And that’s all before we get into the dozens of one-of-a-kind ball gowns commissioned for each season,” I rattle on.

  “So you think I should change?”

  “Well,” I grimace. “We may not be dining with the Astors, but I think a level of respect would be nice.”

  “Such as?” she huffs impatiently.

  “Do you have any dresses?”

  She holds up two options.

  “Any dresses not made out of T-shirt material bearing offensive language?”

  The only F-word on this trip should be frosting.

  We end up with a compromise—my white broderie anglaise skirt worn as a strapless dress with a studded belt and clompy black boots.

  I’d do anything to drag a comb through the straggles of her half-up, half-down hair, but I don’t want to push my luck.

  I myself opt for a tea dress, which instantly meets with Gracie’s approval.

  “My mother had a frock with just the same print,” she says as she inspects the apricot chintz. “Is this vintage?”

  “Vintage style,” I tell her. “I was spoiled for choice in my twenties, but now I can only fit into the beaded cardis—I can’t believe how teeny-tiny the waists were back then.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something about that,” Gracie motions for us to get into the car. “This fashion curator once explained to me that the reason historical displays of clothes are dominated by petite sizes is that those were the garments that tended to survive intact, whereas the larger sizes were easier to alter to accommodate new trends, and then typically passed on to someone a little more slender. So it’s not just that everyone back then was a Skinny Minnie, like madam here.” She gives Ravenna a pinch.

  I expect her granddaughter to twist away in a sulk, but she seems more than content to be called skinny.