The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  Chapter 31

  We have one more stop before Boston—a ten-minute diversion to Quincy, home of the very first Dunkin’ Donuts shop in 1950.

  “We diverted for this?”

  I know that’s what everyone is thinking, because I’m thinking it myself. What can I say? Not every stop on our itinerary is a winner. I suppose I expected the whole town to be in a time warp, which in some ways it is, just not in a cute pink neon/red Chevy kind of way.

  “Shall we just hop out for a quick pic?” The signage has got to be worth a snap.

  A few years ago, this particular branch went through a retrofication, returning to the original “handwriting” typeface and adding a sit-up counter. Mind you, the enduring pink and orange color scheme is pretty kitschy wherever you go.

  “Well?”

  No one seems keen to leave the bus.

  “They do a Boston Cream Donut—it might get us in the mood for tomorrow’s pie?”

  “I suppose I could do with a wee.” Ravenna hauls herself up.

  Our uneasiness increases as we enter. Let’s just say the clientele is less than chic. But what did I expect? We’re not in some Parisien macaroon store. It’s then I spy the couple holding hands in the corner. Eighty if they’re a day. They look equally affronted by the lack of grooming in the assembled youths. I can tell they still starch and iron and take the time to comb their hair just so.

  “Do you think they had their first date here?” Charles whispers to me.

  I smile back. “I think that’s the only possible explanation for them being here—nostalgia.”

  “Rather sweet, isn’t it?”

  “It really is,” I say as I look back at them, clinging on for dear life across the Formica tabletop. “At least they have each other.”

  “Here you go!” Pamela hands me my Boston Cream Donut.

  I take a distracted bite. And then my senses kick in. “Oh my!” She smiles at my reaction.

  “I rather like it!” I like the splurge of mild custard, the not-exactly-chocolate-as-we-Brits-know-it topping, and the doughnut aspect, which is more akin to a synthetic soft white roll than its deep-fried cousin.

  “Not overly sweet, is it?” Pamela notes.

  I shake my head as I take another bite.

  “Shame we’re not here in October.” Charles looks the picture of regret.

  “Why’s that?”

  “For Halloween they do a Boston Scream Donut!”

  We all laugh. Except Ravenna, obviously. She’s on her phone again.

  “He doesn’t seem to make her very happy, this boyfriend of hers,” Charles notes as he watches her pacing outside the window.

  “No,” Pamela and I agree.

  “Perhaps it’s time she moves on?” he suggests.

  “It’s definitely time for us to move on,” I say, as a series of low-slung jeans bundle in.

  • • •

  So much for a quick getaway.

  “What’s that noise?” Ravenna joins us at the front of the bus. “Can you hear it? That clunking-dragging sound?”

  “We hear it,” Charles replies. “I don’t know what it is but I know it’s not good.”

  “Are we going to make it to Boston?” I can’t think of anything worse than getting stuck here.

  “We’ve just got about ten miles to go, but I’m thinking we should go straight to the garage and get it looked at.” He catches my eye. “If that’s not going to mess with the schedule too much, Laurie?”

  “It’s fine,” I tell him. “We don’t have set appointments until tomorrow morning. Do you have a particular garage in mind?”

  “I do. The best mechanic in the business is in Cambridge, just across the bridge from Boston. It would be hell to park in the city, so we might be better off leaving the bus there until we head on to Maine.”

  So that becomes our plan.

  • • •

  I’m surprised by how daunting it feels, entering the grimy hustlings and honkings of a big city after the gently twittering countryside. I’m glad we’ve got a native Bostonian on board. Charles makes an excellent tour guide, pointing out assorted landmarks on our way. My Top Three are:

  1. Newton—this is actually just a road sign to a town twenty minutes away, but it’s where Fig Newtons got their name. No need to actually visit—I’ve learned my lesson there: just good to know.

  2. Fenway Park—home to the Boston Red Sox and a significant backdrop in Ben Affleck’s gritty bank-robber movie, The Town. Which is really good. I love Ben Affleck.

  3. Harvard University—be still my beating heart! It’s literally two blocks from where we pull in to the cavernous mechanic’s workshop.

  No sooner have we disembarked than Pamela is guiding me over to the garage entrance for “a quick word.”

  “Everything all right?” She seems a little flustered.

  “Yes. Um. I know you’ve supplied a list of places to visit today . . .”

  “Just suggestions, really. Nothing set in stone.”

  “I know. And I do want to visit them. Especially those cupcake places on Newton Street—”

  “Newbury,” I correct her.

  “Right. Got Fig Newtons on the brain now.”

  “But?”

  “Charles feels we really shouldn’t keep Ravenna in the dark any longer.”

  “Time for the big reveal?”

  She sighs. “It’s not the setting I would have chosen, too much going on, but he just feels that the longer we withhold the truth, the more betrayed she’s going to feel.”

  “So you need some time, just the three of you?”

  I can barely control my excitement—Free at last, free at last!

  “Would you mind?” She looks concerned.

  “Not at all,” I say, a picture of stoicism.

  “We could reconvene in the hotel lobby, say at six thirty P.M.?”

  “Sounds perfect. In fact, I’ll probably hang around here for a while, so why don’t I bring all the cases across with me in a taxi? That way you guys can head off straightaway?”

  “Really? Oh Laurie, you’re such a gem!” She throws her arms around me.

  “Just doing my job!”

  “Well, you’re doing an excellent one, thank you!” she pips before returning to the bus to gather her necessaries.

  I can’t believe it—four whole hours with no one to chivvy or cajole. I can do exactly as I please!

  “What’s going on?” Ravenna skulks over, looking suspicious.

  “Nothing. I just said you guys should go on and I’ll sort out the luggage and stuff.” I tilt my head at her. “Glad to be back in civilization?”

  “I suppose.”

  I want to say something to prepare her for the news she is about to receive. Some form of subtle heads-up to cushion the blow. It doesn’t matter how disconnected she claims to be, this is going to cause her whole world to tilt and shift. There will be a lot of confusion, a lot of questions, a lot of brain-swirl. Even though the upshot is that she gets a great new dad, the shock isn’t something I’d wish on anyone. Not even Ravenna.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. All weird.”

  “Ravenna!” Her mother calls to her. “Are you ready to go?”

  She looks back at me. “Why do I feel you’re up to something?”

  “I’m not!” I protest.

  “Well, what are you doing now?”

  “I’m just going to look around the university campus,” I say, nudging her on her way. “Just be open to having a good afternoon. Text me if you like . . .”

  She turns back with a sneer. “Are you getting separation anxiety or something?”

  “Ravenna!”

  “Coming!” she huffs.

&n
bsp; As they exit, Charles waves back at me. “Bye Laurie!”

  “Good luck!” I call after them.

  All three turn back.

  What did I just say?

  “You know, finding the perfect cupcake!” I chirrup.

  Oh god. What an idiot.

  I don’t like being privy to secrets. Something always seems to slip out. At least by 6:30 P.M. it should all be out in the open. Not that I think for a minute this is going to be a breeze. I should probably check to see if any extra rooms have opened up at the hotel—there’s a good chance Ravenna will need some private pillow-pummeling time. I know if it were me I’d need to be lying down to try and process it all—basically replaying my entire life from my first memory, scanning for clues or hints that this new truth was on its way.

  Anyway! This really is not my business and I don’t want my precious few hours of free time to be consumed by fretting over their family drama. My only concern right now is ditching the rather drab Pilgrim neutrals I dressed in this morning and switching to something more preppy—a sweater slung around my shoulders at the very least.

  I rummage through my suitcase, which is sadly devoid of petite blazers and cable-knit V-necks. I’ll have to settle for my studded lemon shirt-dress, with the collar upturned, of course. I must have something navy I can wear with it. Aha! This canvas belt. Now if I just had an armful of intellectual books—I’m not sure a stack of greasy cookery books is going to cut it.

  I clatter down the stairs with renewed vigor—I’m going to Harvard! And then I come to a halt beside the driver’s seat. There’s still no sign of the mechanic, though Charles insisted he’d be here any minute. I look around. All is still and quiet. When am I going to get another chance like this? I hop into position and grab the enormous steering wheel. I don’t know how Gracie maneuvered this great thing, I really don’t! I jiggle the gear stick and start making growly-chuggy engine noises like a five-year-old boy, bouncing in the seat and calling, “All aboard!” as I pull up beside my imaginary bus stop.

  “Fares please!” I do my best cockney accent. Actually, that would probably be the conductor. Either way I hear myself calling out, “That’ll be tuppence ha’penny. Ding, ding! Next stop Piccadilly Circus!”

  “Now that’s a deal!”

  I’m startled by a grinning face. My embarrassment is intensified by the fact that the man in question is so darn attractive—in just one glance, I register his Hugh Jackman quality (rugged mixed with a good-natured twinkle), tousled brown hair that probably never goes the same way twice and a light-up-your-life smile. I can’t even speak.

  “You must be Laurie,” he climbs aboard, extending his hand to me.

  I look down, expecting it to be blackened with axle grease, but it’s quite clean.

  “Are you the mechanic?”

  “I am.”

  “Did you just get here?” I’m a little concerned about my recent outfit change upstairs, although I like to think that being on the top level I was out of view.

  “About ten minutes ago. I’ve had a quick look at the engine. It’s simple enough to fix, but I won’t be able to get the part until tomorrow morning.”

  I nod, trying to get my brain back on track. “That’s fine, we don’t leave until the afternoon.”

  “Great,” he replies. “So what are your plans for the day?”

  “Um,” I pause. I have no idea if this is touristy or nerdy, but I say it anyway. “I want to go to Harvard!”

  “Really?” He looks intrigued.

  “Mostly so I can say, ‘I went to Harvard.’”

  He grins.

  “I hear they do really good tours.”

  “They do,” he says, consulting his watch. “But I think you just missed the last one.”

  “Oh no.” My face falls.

  “That’s okay. I can take you around if you like?”

  I hesitate.

  “I’ve heard their spiel enough times. Plus I can give you the inside scoop!”

  My head tilts like a curious dog. “Do you know someone who went there?”

  “Yes,” he confirms. “Me!”

  “You went to Harvard?” I gawp.

  He nods. “Class of ’96.”

  “And now you’re a mechanic?”

  He chuckles. “Not by profession. It’s just something I do on the side. My grandfather used to work at this garage. He taught me everything there is to know about cars and engines.”

  “Really?”

  “He said it was especially important since I was going to get a poncy education. Didn’t want me to be the kind of man who could write a twenty-thousand-word dissertation on Mayan culture but couldn’t tie his own shoelace.”

  I chuckle delightedly. “He sounds a good man.”

  “The best. He died three years ago but I’m named after him so . . .”

  “He lives on?” I suggest.

  “I hope so.”

  I feel an empathetic pang. I can tell he misses him.

  “What was his name?” I ask.

  “Harvey.”

  I smile to myself. Adorable. Suits his grandson well.

  “Ready?” he says, offering me a hand down from the driver’s seat.

  I nod, more than ready for a dream come true.

  Chapter 32

  As we round the corner, I can’t help but flinch.

  “Are you okay?” Harvey looks concerned.

  “This is Harvard Square?” There must be some mistake.

  “Not what you were expecting?”

  “Not at all.”

  I was picturing shiny-haired youths whirring by on bicycles, coattails fluttering in the breeze, highbrow chatter smattered with quotations from Thoreau, Sartre and Zuckerberg, maybe a few horsey laughs and a playful ping of a bow tie. What I get is grunge, and plenty of it. Slap-bang next to the Harvard subway, at the precise point where Harvey tells me the official tour begins, there is a menacing mess of skanky guys with matted hair, strung-out expressions and dogs on strings, hassling passersby for money. I step out of the way of some babbling looney-tune and nearly collide with an elderly gentleman who doesn’t appear to have bathed since the university was established in 1636.

  “I don’t want to be politically incorrect,” I begin, “but why are these particular people congregating here?”

  “Two reasons,” Harvey says matter-of-factly. “A steady flow of tourists to beg from, and a major homeless shelter two minutes’ walk from here—the Harvard Square Homeless Shelter to be precise.”

  “Gosh,” I can’t help but snort. “Talk about a dramatic juxtaposition.”

  “A lot of the students volunteer there.”

  “That must be quite a shock to their systems.”

  I imagine some toff trying to explain cutlery etiquette to a wild-haired man with crumbs in his bird’s-nest beard.

  “It’s not as privileged a group as you might expect.” Harvey challenges my presumption.

  “No?”

  “About seventy percent of the students are here on financial aid. I couldn’t have afforded the tuition any other way.” He places a protective hand on my back. “Come on, let’s get you on the campus.”

  We hurry across the road, away from the grime and onto the hallowed grounds.

  Now this is more like it. No sooner do we pass through the entrance arch than I find myself in the vast grassy courtyard of my imaginings. Historic redbrick buildings surround us, some with rather more recent history.

  “See this corner room up here?” He points upward. “That was Matt Damon’s dorm.”

  “No!”

  “Of course he dropped out, but all first-year students are obliged to reside here on the campus.”

  “Even if you’re Natalie Portman?”

  “Even if you’re Natalie Portman. Or Natalie Hershlag a
s she was known when she was here.”

  “I can’t believe it. Everyone must have been staring at her twenty-four/seven.” I know I would have been. “Any other celebs?”

  “Tons. Michelle Obama. Barack someone or other. Oh, and girls seem to get a kick out of knowing that Stockard Channing went here.”

  “Rizzo went to Harvard?” I hoot. “Oh, that’s brilliant.” I make a mental note to tell Krista.

  “You know the crazy thing? It’s only in the last twenty years that women have got the same certificate as the men.”

  “What, before that they got a girl’s version of a Harvard degree?”

  “Exactly.”

  I’m sure Alva Vanderbilt would have had a thing or two to say about that.

  “Now there’s actually more women getting degrees than men.”

  “That’s excellent,” I cheer.

  “For you,” he smirks, stepping into the shade of one of the elms. “Where did you study?”

  “I didn’t,” I confess. “I think that’s why I have this weird fascination for university life. I’m always wondering what I missed out on.”

  “It is a very particular experience,” he concedes, hand instinctively going to his liver.

  “It’s not just the partying, I love the idea of all that reading.”

  “Yeah, it’s a bummer that books aren’t accessible in the real world.”

  I give him a playful swat.

  “No libraries. No bookshops. No Amazon,” he taunts as he backs away from me.

  “You know what I mean,” I huff, instinctively following him.

  “Actually, I’ve got a couple of good Harvard book stories for you if you want to hear them?”

  “I’m all ears!”

  He directs me to a modest stone building. “This is the site of the old library. The night before it burned down, one student was so engrossed in the book he was reading that he decided to sneak it out, which was utterly forbidden—”

  “Do you know what it was?” I interrupt. “Which book?”

  “The Christian Warfare Against the Devil, World, and Flesh by John Downame.”

  “My point exactly—I’m fairly certain Barnes and Noble don’t stock that. Go on.”