“My first thought for our trade was a Custard Slice because a) there’s the custard connection, b) it’s equally light and c) the top layer actually has a very similar design to the Boston Cream Pie, but with the colors in reverse. However, when I looked into it, I found it’s really defined as a mille-feuille of French origin, so I decided to go with an egg custard tart.” She shows them an image from one of her earlier cookbooks—little nubbly pastry case with a slightly sunken yellow filling and a smudgy dusting of brown on the top. “Now these aren’t the prettiest things to look at but they do have a unique texture and taste and I quite like the irony that they resemble little pies!”
I love watching Pamela work. She really comes into her own in the kitchen. All the hesitations and introspections of the day go out of the window and she is fully engaged. And, like Tuoi, she is ridiculously fast and dextrous.
“Do you know they even had these at the coronation banquet for Henry IV?” she notes as she brings the cream to a gentle simmer on the stove. The pastry case is already baking and she’s working on the filling with the eggs and sugar and vanilla. “Now it’s terribly important that the nutmeg is fresh,” she continues. “And freshly grated. Which shouldn’t be a problem seeing as you’re practically neighbors with the Nutmeg State!”
I must say I am a fan of an egg custard tart. I like the crumbly density of shortcrust pastry and the sleek slipperiness of the custard. You do need a cuppa with it, though, as the pastry can be a teensy bit clogging.
Pamela agrees, insisting on brewing up for everyone so they can have the full experience.
“Though really I do prefer these tarts cold as opposed to fresh from the oven.”
Sadly we don’t have time to chill, already it’s time to move on. A certain mechanic awaits . . .
Chapter 38
“Perfect timing!” Charles walks into the lobby just as we reach the top of the stairs.
He leans in to kiss Pamela on the cheek, which responds with a flush, and then he gives me a warm smile. “So, Harvey called . . .”
Now my cheeks are flushing. Dammit.
“And he needs another hour or so on the bus.”
“That’s fine,” I fluster.
“I thought I’d take you girls to the Boston Tea Party—it’s on the list, right Laurie?”
I nod vigorously.
It is, after all, the most famous tea-related activity in America.
“I’ll just go and see if Ravenna’s ready to go.”
• • •
Ravenna is more than ready. Washed, dressed, packed, she’s even got my suitcase in position by the door.
“How did it go with Eon?” I ask, checking the wardrobes and under the bed for anything left behind.
“Oh. You know . . .” She squirms a little so I don’t push the topic.
“Right. I think we’re all set,” I reach for my case. “We’ve got a little diversion before we go to the garage—”
“Why, what’s the matter?” She looks concerned.
“Nothing. Harvey just needs more time so we’re going to stop off at the Boston Tea Party attraction on the way.”
I see her disappointment. “Okay. But we won’t be there long, will we?”
“Just an hour, I think.”
She nods. “That’s all right.”
Well, as long as you’re happy, Ravenna . . .
As eager as she is to see Harvey again, I almost feel like I’d rather not. At least not with an audience—just the thought of trying to curtail any stray beams of adoration is stressing me out. And I don’t want him to think I’m being dismissive if I avert my gaze, as I almost certainly will. Gawd. Will I ever grow out of my teenage-girl mentality when it comes to men? I find any/all romance-related emotions so disruptive. I take a breath and tell myself to disengage—let go of any attachment to the outcome. Stay in the present moment.
Well, I say that. We’re actually being invited to go back to 1773.
• • •
The Boston Tea Party Ships & Museum is one of those interactive affairs with costumed reenactors. (Love the knee-britches, brass-buttoned waistcoats and tricorn hats!) We are given alter-ego name tags and invited to heckle and rally in the mock courtroom as we protest against the taxation on tea by the British Government (Boo! Hiss!). But the best part is boarding the ship and throwing chests of tea into Boston Harbor. Of course they’re attached to a rope and get hauled back in again, zero tea leaves swirling in the water. Just as well, because we have to get Pamela to do this multiple times to get the right shot.
“Let’s try and do one where it’s just you and the old ship and then one that also has the Boston skyline in the background, for a bit of contrast,” I suggest.
As I back away to get the right angle, I realize Charles is on the phone to his son and suddenly find it hard to hold the camera steady.
“Okay!” He beckons us on. “Time for a quick stop at Abigail’s Tea Room, then Harvey should be done.”
“Fat Rascal!”
“Excuse me?” Charles startles.
“It’s a cake!” Ravenna giggles, pointing to the display.
Basically a chunky-fruity-nutty-zesty scone, originally from Yorkshire.
“It seems to have a face,” Pamela peers closer.
The girl in the frilly bonnet serving behind the counter confirms that they use glacé cherries for the eyes and thinly sliced almonds for the teeth. A few are set askew, rather giving the look of the village idiot.
“How peculiar!” she giggles. “Do you think I might I have a quick word with your pastry chef?”
While the girl goes to check, we look around us—Newport’s mansion tea rooms could certainly learn a thing or two from here: ye olde recipes, real china teapots with historically significant designs and all the staff in period costume—a positive bustle of aprons and shawls and frilly cuffs.
“Would you like to come through to the kitchen?”
While Pamela trots on her way, Ravenna decides to return to the gift shop, leaving me with Charles.
“Listen, I want to thank you again for being so understanding and accommodating of the situation between me and Pamela,” he says as we settle into a table overlooking the water.
“Oh, of course,” I give a light shrug. “I’m happy to see her happy.”
“She said you raised a concern about Ravenna and Harvey?”
I want to die. “Nooo. I don’t mean to interfere. I was just concerned that any, um, attraction on her part might further complicate things . . .” I look around to check that Ravenna hasn’t returned.
He nods. “We’re going to tell her today. When we get to Maine. Much fewer distractions there.”
“Whatever you think is best,” I find myself backing down. “No rush.”
God, how embarrassing. I feel even more self-conscious when we arrive at the garage. Now I definitely can’t look at Harvey. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m stirring things up because I like him and want to keep him for myself. Even though I’m aware that he’s looking in my direction, I busy myself, pretending to be checking that everything is in order, all the cases are present and correct, etc., etc.
But then at one point my head does jerk up. And this is when Ravenna says:
“Why don’t you come with us?”
I look around for Pamela and Charles but he’s busy introducing her to one of the mechanics that used to work with his father.
“That would be okay, wouldn’t it Laurie?”
“Um . . .” Oh god, oh god!
“It does sound fun,” he says, looking directly at me. “I wouldn’t be able to leave right now, I’ve got a business dinner tonight, but maybe tomorrow? Where are you headed to after Maine?”
“Um. Er . . .” I am so thrown I have to check the itinerary that five minutes ago I knew by heart. “New Hampshire,” I sa
y, trying to will Pamela and Charles to come back and intervene. “We’re staying at the Mount Washington Hotel.”
“I’ve always wanted to go there,” Harvey enthuses.
“That’s settled then!” Ravenna looks pleased as punch.
“Isn’t that a terribly long drive from here?” I fret.
“Well, it is the way you’re going but, direct from here, it’ll just take me a couple of hours.”
“That’s nothing!” Ravenna confirms. “Hey Mum! Guess what?” she skips over and tells them the Good News.
Now Pamela and Charles are looking back at me with “What have you done?” eyes.
How did this happen on my watch?
“I haven’t messed up your plans, have I?” Harvey looks concerned.
“No, no. It’s a really big hotel, with a separate inn and a motel, so there’ll be no problem getting you a room—”
“But?”
I lean in and whisper. “I’m just very aware that everyone knows the situation except for Ravenna.”
He sighs. “I know. I was so tempted to tell her last night. There were so many opportunities. But I thought it wouldn’t be right, you know, coming from a relative stranger . . .”
I raise a brow. “That’s actually a very apt term!”
He smiles broadly. “I missed you last night.”
My stomach flips. Suddenly I’m so glad that I’ll get to see him tomorrow. Anything beyond that would be just Too Darn Long.
Chapter 39
I keep my head down during the good-byes and then opt for a seat at the back of the bus, pretending to be thoroughly absorbed with amending the itinerary, which is partly true. By the time we cross into New Hampshire, it seems as if everyone is vaguely pleased to hear from me again.
“So come on Laurie, tell us a bit about where we are and why we’re here.”
“Well, Charles,” I say, feeling as though we’re doing a local TV segment. “We’ve come to lovely Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to taste a local treat called the Popover.”
“The Popover, you say?”
“Yes, Charles, it’s actually akin to a British Yorkshire Pudding, but instead of being served with roast beef and gravy, it comes with butter and maple syrup.”
“What?” Ravenna splutters. “This country is weird.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it!” Pamela suggests.
“And where, pray tell, will we be tasting this rather unusual teatime treat?”
“Why, at none other than Popovers on the Square!” I say, leading us through this most English of towns, complete with market square, ye olde street lamps, and the occasional cyclist with a dring-dring bell.
The redbrick café with its black and gold frontage is rather more American in scale, with a capacious, tasteful interior, fully accommodating of mothers with prams. We gawp at the gaudy display of sugar-centric goodies and I give a ta-daaa flourish as I spot the Popover. But next to all the piped cream, drizzled caramel and fondant roses it looks rather drab—as if a taupe-coated caretaker had wandered on stage during a showgirl routine.
“Even the carrots on the carrot cake have little faces etched in them,” Ravenna notes.
“Well, the Popover dates back to the 1870s, which was a rather plainer time.” I try to defend its lack of pizzazz.
“I suppose we have to try it . . .”
We take our samples out onto the front terrace for a good peer and prod. Our assessment is that the batter is lighter, the texture crispier and the color darker than your average Yorkshire pud.
“And it rises up and over, as opposed to sinking in the middle.”
“And it’s dry inside,” I note as I prize mine open. “No sogginess.”
“More of a Yorkshire puff than a pud.”
“Yes, mine has a hollow interior, as if it’s been crossed with a choux pastry.”
“Could you trade them a profiterole recipe?” I suggest.
“Technically that’s French.”
“What’s a slightly puffy, not-terribly-attractive English cake?”
There’s a silence while we all think. Ravenna comes up with an Eccles cake, which pleases me greatly, but then we get distracted by a bleeping sound.
“It’s Gracie!” I locate its source. “She’s coming through on Skype!”
“She can speak again?” Ravenna looks faintly disappointed.
“Mum!” Pamela yelps as her face appears on screen. “How are you? You look so much better out of the bandages.”
“I’ve got the movement back in my jaw”—she jigs it and then yelps in pain.
“Mum!”
“Only joking! I’m fine! What about you?”
Pamela explains that we’re briefly passing through coastal New Hampshire but will be returning to spend more time inland tomorrow.
“I’ve been following your progress on the map. Looks like you’re bang on schedule.”
“We are,” Pamela shoots me an appreciative glance. “I’m just sorry you can’t be with us. Are you terribly bored?”
“Oh, how could I ever be bored here? Today I had a lovely tour of The Elms and discovered my new favorite cocktail—the White Lady. Apparently the former owner used to get everyone squiffy on it while they were playing mah-jong in the conservatory—”
“Wait!” Pamela cuts in. “Who’s that in the background?”
“Oh, that’s Gerald,” she breezes. “My new friend.”
“Is he staying with you?” Pamela peers more closely at the screen.
“Are you really in a position to judge?” Gracie peers back at her.
Charles slides his arm from around Pamela’s shoulder.
“Don’t be silly, Charles! Cuddle up! You know this is what I’ve wanted to see.”
“Granny!” Ravenna hoots. “Did you matchmake this whole thing?”
“Just a little. You know I want to see you all happy.”
“We are,” Ravenna confirms. “Thank you!”
Gracie does a double take at her granddaughter. “So you know? You’re pleased?”
“Mum!” Ravenna howls, leaping to her feet as Pamela sends a brown river of tea into her daughter’s lap. “What the—”
“Oh I’m so sorry, darling. Quick, let me mop you up in the ladies’!”
Gracie waits for them to scuttle out of earshot and then sighs, “I might have known it was too good to be true. I take it Pamela is still waiting for ‘the perfect moment’?”
“Something like that,” I whisper, as Charles goes to fetch some napkins to clean up the table. “She doesn’t want to spoil Ravenna’s good mood.”
“If walking on eggshells was an Olympic sport . . .” Gracie tuts.
“I have tried to encourage her.”
“Oh, I know what a thankless task that is.”
“Anyway, I think tonight could be the night. I’ll give you an update first thing in the morning.”
Gracie gets a funny look on her face.
“What?” I ask her.
“Can the others hear me?”
I step out on to the sidewalk, pretending to be showing her the square.
“What is it?”
“Gerald is taking me surfing tomorrow morning.”
“What? You’ve only been out of hospital five minutes!”
“Oh, I’m fine! I’m not going to miss out on a chance like this over a few bruises.”
“Gracie, you amaze me!”
“I think the hardest thing is going to be getting into the wet suit,” she grimaces. “Gerald says we should have a run-through tonight.”
I raise a brow.
“Well, why not, eh?”
I smile back at her.
“Why not indeed!”
Chapter 40
Within minutes of leaving Portsmouth, we cross another st
ate line.
“Welcome to Maine!” I cheer. “Home to two hundred and thirty miles of rugged coastline, top-notch lobsters and the infamous Whoopie Pie.”
“And Stephen King.”
“What?”
“He lives here,” confirms Charles. “Most of his books are set in Maine.”
“I didn’t know that!” I say, shuddering as I flash to the infamous sledgehammer scene in Misery.
“And The Shawshank Redemption was set here. And Murder She Wrote.”
“Do you have any more cheery information?”
Charles thinks for a moment and then offers, “Maine is the only state in the U.S. with a one-syllable name.”
“Is that true?” I’m quite impressed by this.
“And it produces ninety-nine percent of the blueberries in the U.S.”
“I’ve got a lovely blueberry muffin recipe here somewhere.” Pamela reaches for her recipe file. And then we all fall quiet. Each lost in our own thoughts.
I notice there’s a lot of yawning as we proceed. And yawns being contagious, it seems as if at least two sets of jaws are being extended at any given moment.
“I wonder . . .”
I take out the map and consult it.
To reach our scheduled destination of Camden, we’d have to be on the road for at least another three hours, allowing for one “bathroom break,” which always seem to take half an hour, what with the diversion off the freeway, stretching of legs and mulling over the wares at the local gas station.
I sigh. I was really set on the Hartstone Inn, not least because the husband is a chef. If you saw the images of the breakfasts on the website, you’d want to go there too. Caramelized French toast with cumin-dusted bacon. Need I say more?
“Oop! Sorry!” Charles swerves dangerously. “I think I just dropped off for a second.”
“Right! That settles it! I think we should find somewhere closer to spend the night. We’re not too far from Portland, which seems a decent-size town.”
“City,” Charles corrects me. “Maine’s largest.”
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