The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  He twinkles back at me and then continues. “Well. He had every intention of returning it the next morning, but of course only burning embers greeted him. Now he was conflicted—he was in possession of the only remaining book in the entire collection, but by unscrupulous means.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He went to the president and confessed.”

  “Good for him! And what did the president do?”

  “Expelled him.”

  “He didn’t!”

  “He did.” Harvey chuckles.

  I shake my head. “That’s harsh.”

  “Rules is rules.”

  I look back at the building. “So is this the new library?”

  “Oh no. That’s over here.” He offers me his arm. I like the feel of his linen shirtsleeve on his forearm. He has a very manly physique for an intellectual. Takes after his granddad, no doubt.

  “This,” he says, motioning to a vast beaux-arts beauty, a mere twelve columns to the front portico, “is The Widener. Named for Harry Elkins Widener. Another bibliophile graduate.”

  “Stunning,” I murmur in reverence.

  “Off he goes to Europe on a book-buying voyage, and he happens upon a copy of Bacon’s Essays—as in Francis Bacon—circa 1598.”

  Talk about an ancient tome.

  “So eager is he to get back, that he takes the first Atlantic crossing he can get passage on.” Harvey pauses, looking expectantly at me.

  “What?”

  “The year is 1912.”

  I think for a moment. “Not the Titanic?”

  “Yes! He’s traveling first class so he gets a spot on one of the lifeboats, but he loses it when he goes back to the cabin to get the book—”

  “Oh, he didn’t!”

  “He did. And consequently he drowned.”

  “Do all your stories have such downbeat endings?”

  “I’m not done with this one yet,” he grins, inviting me to splay a little beneath a nearby tree. “His mother is keen to honor him and so she approaches the president of Harvard and says she wants to build a library in his honor, sweetening the deal with a multimillion-dollar donation. Eager to please, Harvard says they’ll demolish the current building and start afresh. Well, this worried her—what if they did that to the Widener Library a few years down the line, when a mother with a greater sob story comes a-calling? So she made certain conditions to her donation: firstly, not a brick could be altered. So as the collection expanded—and there’s fifty-seven miles of bookshelves in there—they had to go underground. Four stories.”

  “What?” I look back over at the building now, viewing it as something Bruce Wayne might have devised.

  “There must always be fresh flowers in the office and, on account of the way her son died, every Harvardian must be able to swim in order to graduate.”

  My eyebrows rise. “You had to swim for your degree?”

  “Well, actually they had to stop that when the various disability laws came in.”

  “Amazing. You just don’t get stories like these at your local polytechnic.”

  “Don’t sound so hard done by—your people have got Oxford and Cambridge!”

  “I know! My people do. I don’t.” My eyes narrow. “What’s it like, really? To be a part of something so legendary?”

  He leans back against the tree trunk and ponders. “Well, you certainly feel a sense of honor and responsibility in a way, to do your best. I mean, you’re walking in the footsteps of presidents here. But at the end of the day, a class is a class.”

  “This is just a classier class of class.”

  “Who says you’re not smart?” He beams at me.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t smart, I’m just not educated.” I watch as a group of Bright Young Things jolly across the quad and wonder if I might get some glasses when I get back to New York. “I’d like to be inside one of these brains for just ten minutes. To know what it’s like to be that clever.”

  Harvey sits forward. “You know, these aren’t all straight-A kids.”

  I frown. “Surely, to get in—”

  “Grades are one aspect. But a third of the assessment is what you do that’s different—they want to know in what other ways you excel.”

  He gives me some examples from his year—one guy had volunteered with Habitat for Humanity in EI Salvador; another organized a sponsored cycle around Peru to raise money for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation; someone invented a system to keep zoo animals more mentally stimulated and, rather bizarrely, there was a flying trapeze artist named Montana who, after graduating, became the first woman to dive off the perilous cliffs in Acapulco.

  Visionaries. Questers. Daredevils. Men and women of action.

  “I love that!” I marvel. “Bonus points for having a souped-up zest for life. So what was yours?”

  He looks shy for the first time. “It wasn’t such a big deal. No exotic locations or daredevil feats.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  “No,” he smiles. “It concerns old people, so I didn’t win any of the sexy points.”

  I find that hard to believe.

  He takes a breath. “I compiled the autobiographies of sixteen octogenarians.”

  My head tilts. He’s going to have to go into more detail.

  “It was actually my grandfather’s idea. He had all these friends who didn’t have any family and were destined to become Nursing Home Zombies, his words, and he said they would die in there and no one would know all their incredible stories. Even if no one ever read them, he felt there should be a record. And so we started this project—This Is My Life. I teamed up with some English majors and we started interviewing his friends. And then their friends.” He plucks a blade of grass. “It was remarkable how lively they became when they were reminiscing, their childhood memories were so keen, and it was fascinating to hear of love lives, the choices they made, their regrets, their triumphs. It seemed to be a very satisfying process for them, reviewing all the events that had led them to this day, reflecting on their life, making peace with it and now feeling that they had some kind of legacy, that they wouldn’t be forgotten.”

  My eyes are a little damp.

  “We put together all their photographs, labeled and dated, and even did a present-day portrait—for the women we got their hair and nails done, for the gents, we arranged a proper hot-towel shave and trimmed their ears!”

  I chuckle in delight.

  “The project is still running now, and of course these days we can create e-books so their stories will always be accessible.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Plus we do a bit of advocacy in these homes—if anyone is having any issues, we make sure that everything is taken care of in a prompt manner.”

  “Something tells me you don’t take no for an answer.”

  He gets a playful look in his eye. “They call me The Heavy.”

  If I found him attractive before, I am now heart-heavingly smitten.

  My whole life, it seemed as though the dating choices were Man A who drinks too much or Man B who considers video games a participation sport. I couldn’t even really list the redeeming qualities of the men I dated—I just fixed on them after some passing physical attraction. They paid me some attention and that was that. Sold to the lady with low self-esteem! Did I ever once take the time to consider their admirable qualities or review their acts of valor? I did not. It was enough that they had a good head of hair. Just the idea of dating someone inspirational or altruistic is Blowing My Mind.

  “I need a minute!”

  I lie flat out on the grass and stare up at the sky, imagining what life might have been like had I teamed up with someone like that. What it might have triggered in me. Could I too have done something vigorous and life-enhancing?

  And then I think of Pink’s dad�
��s words: Be what you want to attract . . . and I jolt upright.

  Harvey laughs. “Talk about wishing you could step inside someone’s brain for ten minutes! It looks very busy in there.”

  “I was just wondering what my contribution might have been—what I would have chosen to do to make my mark.”

  He shuffles around to face me, the sunlight filtering through the trees, casting patterns on his shoulders. “Let’s see—I’m guessing you’ve traveled a fair bit?”

  “I’ve traveled a lot,” I tell him, explaining a little more about my job. “But I never left a place better for my being there.”

  “Are you sure?” His voice softens.

  I look back at him. Something weird just happened to my insides.

  “I mean, you’ve inspired people to take journeys off the beaten path; you’ve brought money to local families; maybe made a certain worker feel special or take extra pride in his job.”

  Goodness, it’s like listening to Sherlock.

  “Maybe you smiled at someone—and you have a lovely sunny smile—and they passed it on and made someone else’s day better.”

  I blink back at him. “You’ve got a good imagination.”

  “None of us knows what our legacy will be—who we touch and impact without even realizing.”

  I wonder if he knows, if he can tell the impact he is having on me right now.

  I hear some distant clock chiming.

  “So.” He claps his hands together. “I hear you ladies like cake?”

  “Yes,” I sigh, feeling more trivial than ever. “That, in essence, is my major.”

  “In essence?” He conjures his best egghead look. “Now would that be almond essence or perhaps rose?”

  I want to fall on top of him and roll playfully in the grass until he ends up on top of me, panting down, gradually lowering his face to mine in my very first campus kiss.

  “Laurie?”

  “Yes, sorry, you were saying?”

  He jumps to his feet and then reaches back to pull me up. “I’ve just thought of the perfect place to take you for afternoon tea.”

  Well that’s it then. My life is complete.

  Chapter 33

  If Alice in Wonderland and Cyndi Lauper opened a restaurant, it would look like this.

  Eye-jazzlingly lurid paintwork of thick purple gloss slams up against leprechaun green and hot pink. Zebra-print banquettes, giant diamond-patterned flooring and sprayed-gold chairs. One piece of wall art looks like Klimt, another like Scottish tartan.

  I can’t quite believe my eyes. “What is this place?”

  “UpStairs on the Square,” Harvey says, way too matter-of-factly for such a fantasyland. “Have you heard of the Hasty Pudding Club?”

  “Maybe,” I mumble, still trying to adjust to the assault of color.

  “It’s the oldest college social club in America, founded 1770. Notorious hangout for Harvard types. This was the restaurant upstairs from that club, open to all. Quite the scene.”

  “I bet.”

  “People used to say it was like stepping into the third installment of Brideshead Revisited!”

  I chuckle delightedly and then turn to face him, “Did you hang out here?”

  “Inasmuch as I used to work here.”

  I catch my breath. “Did you make cakes?” Please tell me you made cakes, please, please, please . . .

  He laughs. “I was just a waiter.”

  I don’t know if my face falls but he quickly adds, “I could probably get hold of the recipe for the Zebra Cake if you like?”

  “Zebra Cake?” In this setting I wouldn’t be surprised if it was served by a stripy pantomime horse.

  “It’s basically a big wedge of chocolate cake with multiple layers of dulce de leche buttercream.”

  “So, not sickly at all,” I confirm.

  “You know, when I used to work here, there was this young girl who always wore her best party dresses and she would eat candied violets and sleep under the bar.”

  “A real girl?”

  “Yes,” he laughs. “She was the owner’s daughter. Is the owner’s daughter, all grown-up now. She wrote a book about her life within these walls.” He looks around, seemingly searching for a familiar face.

  “Hey Dom, do you have a copy of Charlotte’s book?”

  The raven-haired waiter ducks behinds the counter, waves one in the air and then scoots to our table, serving cloth over his arm, presenting it with full panache.

  While Harvey explains my particular interest, I admire the cover—a young girl peeking over the top of a pink-clothed table, reaching for a lone slice of cake (a woman after my own heart). The backdrop is a creamy mint and the red lettering (which wouldn’t be out of place in the window of a French café) reads: CHARLOTTE AU CHOCOLAT—Memories of a Restaurant Girlhood by Charlotte Silver.

  “This looks wonderful!”

  Dom leans in. “I’ll let you keep it if I can borrow this man’s brawn for ten minutes.”

  I raise a brow.

  “We need to shift a dresser upstairs and the youngsters just aren’t cutting it.”

  “Do you mind?” Harvey asks me.

  “Of course not—I couldn’t be happier sitting here.”

  “Ah yes,” he smirks. “Finally you have your hands on one of those elusive books!”

  I watch him and Dom exit and then take a breath, my heart so high in my chest it feels as if it’s nudging at my chin.

  Look at me—reading a book in a Harvard hangout by a girl who used to hang out here! Well, more than hang out, I discover as I flick through the pages, this was her true home: “It was as if the lights were always on at the Pudding and off everywhere else.”

  I must say the author does have a lovely turn of phrase. Even the chapters have such evocative titles: The Lavender Blonde, Cabana Boys, Anything Can Absorb Champagne . . .

  “Your tea, madam.” A waitress sets down a cake stand, quite the opposite of what I was expecting. I envisaged some Mad Hatter affair, but instead I see three tiers of plain stainless steel topped with a Captain Hook loop. Curiouser still, the cup and saucer wouldn’t look out of place at Lady M, they are so simple and white.

  Well, I suppose they’d hate anything to clash with the décor.

  “Would you like me to take you through your treats?”

  “Oh, yes please!”

  Savory-wise, the waitress references Gruyère quiche and salmon on pumpernickel, then come the scones and lemon tarts with blueberries and the signature chocolate-dipped pecan turtles.

  Obviously I have to take a photo. Or ten. I feel a little guilty that I’m enjoying such a treat when Pamela is probably in the midst of a maelstrom of abuse about now. I picture Ravenna pelting her with an armory of cupcakes and curses—torn between the fact that she actually likes and respects Charles, and wanting to punish her mother for deceiving her for the past twenty years. Of course, sugary tea is meant to be good for a shock, and I did recommend the Boston Tea Party attraction, but then again I don’t want any one of them going overboard with the tea chests . . .

  “Gosh, I wish your brain had subtitles!” Harvey slides back into the booth beside me. “You look troubled.”

  “I am. It’s the hellish decision of which bauble of yumminess to enjoy first.” I decide to spare him the family saga.

  “Hmmm. May I recommend the rather understated almond cookie?”

  “You may!”

  Between sugar surges, Harvey asks me if my mother baked.

  I tell him she was more of a Mr. Kipling aficionado.

  He looks confused.

  “What you would call store-bought.” I speak American to him. “They came in little wrappers.”

  “Like Twinkies?”

  “No, no!” I recoil in horror. “These actually had an expiry date. And th
ey were good. Still are. You can get little Country Slices and French Fancies. And individual Bakewell Tarts. Oh! I’ve got to write that down. That would be the perfect trade for Maria’s Linzertorte.”

  “Me with the Harvard degree and I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “It’s just the girl equivalent of car parts.” I grin. “Gosh. That was incredibly sexist of me.”

  “Incredibly,” he says, his voice turning low and flirtatious. “So if I said carburetor . . . ?”

  “I’d say cannoli.”

  “Manifold.”

  “Mille-feuille.”

  “Muffler.”

  “Muffin.”

  “Cylinder head.”

  “Banana bread.”

  “Let’s call the whole thing off!” he sings.

  We burst out laughing.

  I’m having the best time!

  Our conversation hops all over the place, from the songs we can listen to twenty times in a row to the awful clothes we used to wear as teenagers. And then my phone jangles. It’s just a nudge for me to watch the time. I don’t want to be late for Pamela.

  “Do you know the Omni Parker House Hotel?” I ask Harvey.

  “Of course. Everyone knows the Parker House.”

  “How long would it take to get there from here?”

  “’Bout twenty minutes.”

  I nod. “I’ve got to take the suitcases over and get everyone checked in.”

  “No problem. I’ll drive you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. I’d be happy to.” He holds my gaze.

  I look back into his eyes. They really are blue. But not in a glittery prism way, more of a classic Paul Newman hue.

  “I’ve got one more for you.”

  I can just about manage a nod.

  His lips part to form the word “Chassis.”

  This throws me for two reasons. One is that “chassis” in America often refers to a woman’s bottom, and thus gives me a mild sexual thrill. Secondly my brain is short-circuiting because all I want to do is kiss him—melt onto his mouth like icing on a lemon drizzle cake. I know it would feel so good, unleashing the longing and surrendering to that spinning-out sensation. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.