The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  “Well, then, that should work!”

  “Wait a minute,” Ravenna reaches for my arm. “Does this mean we’re going to miss out on the outlet shopping?”

  I can’t believe it. She’s actually studied the itinerary.

  “No, no,” I assure her. “We can still do that tomorrow; that’s where our baking appointment is.”

  “We’re makin’ whoopee!” growls Pamela.

  “Are you going to sing that every time?” Ravenna rolls her eyes.

  “You know, Harvey was up this way last summer,” Charles muses. “He might be able to recommend somewhere . . .”

  “Actually, he was talking about Maine last night,” Ravenna perks up. “Shall we call him?”

  Before she can offer to do the deed, Charles has tapped his phone and plugged in his earphones.

  “Hey son! Yeah, good, she’s running great. Listen, we’re looking for suggestions of where to stay in Maine, somewhere in the Portland area . . . Yup. Uh-huh. Oh, that’s right, you went there with Molly. Really? That good? Okay.” He hands me the phone. “He’s going to text the number of the hotel.”

  Just knowing he’s about to send a message makes my hand tremble. I stare expectantly at the screen, resisting the temptation to text him first. As in, “Who’s Molly?”

  An ex, presumably? Everyone has exes. Nothing wrong with that. Provided she is an ex. I shudder again, remembering the minefield that is a new relationship. Not that this is a new relationship. It’s just wishful thinking. And breathe . . .

  “Here we go!” I announce as the number comes through. “Inn by the Sea, that sounds nice.”

  I press dial and then hold the phone to my ear, hyperaware that all eyes are upon me.

  “Hello, yes, I was wondering if you had a couple of rooms available for tonight? Bit short notice, I know . . .”

  I cross my fingers.

  “We’d be happy to accommodate you,” the receptionist smiles into the phone. “Allow me to review your options.”

  It seems we could each have our own room if we wanted. Which would leave certain possibilities open for certain parties . . .

  “Just a second!” I touch mute. “Pamela, how many rooms?”

  “Um,” she falters, face pinkening.

  “Two,” Ravenna cuts in.

  “Two?” I query.

  “Grown-ups in one. You and me in the other. I’m not sleeping by myself after the Stephen King comment. I don’t think anyone should.”

  I blink back at her. Did she just condone her parents sharing a room?

  Charles and Pamela exchange a look.

  “Unless you two are planning on a long courtship?” Ravenna teases.

  “I think twenty years is long enough!” Charles winks.

  “I thought you said you met ten years ago?”

  Pamela looks stricken.

  “Well,” Charles clears his throat. “It seems like twenty.”

  Chapter 41

  The Inn by the Sea is one of those places that makes you feel instantly soothed and in safe hands.

  Set on Cape Elizabeth amid five acres of certified wildlife habitat, this is where “luxury comes naturally.” As we check in, my attention repeatedly returns to the floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing the serene sprawl to the shoreline. It may be clouding over now but it’s still the perfect antidote to the bustle of Boston. I know everyone is going to get a good night’s sleep here.

  Well. Perhaps some of us still have more catching up to do than others.

  Charles and Pamela’s room is amazing—more akin to an architect’s apartment: on the left as you walk in is a bijou version of your basic dream kitchen, with white paneling and granite breakfast bar; ahead is a lounge area—groovy stripy carpet, tweedy-beige high-backed sofa and a texturally tantalizing armchair of woven seagrass; patio doors lead to a wooden deck, which in turn overlooks the swimming pool. Turn back inside, head upstairs and you find a vast expanse of bed with fresh flowers on the bedside table and an oversized bathroom of honeyed marble with a shower area that could easily accommodate a trawler-full of lobster fisherman.

  “You’d be crazy to leave all this,” Ravenna decides as she leans over the upstairs balcony. “Why don’t you just get cozy and order room service?”

  The look on Pamela’s face says, “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?” but she doesn’t argue.

  Charles, by contrast, steels himself for the task in hand: “Actually, Ravenna, perhaps you would care to join us? There’s something we wanted to talk to you about . . .”

  She pulls a face. “Can it wait till tomorrow?”

  “Well . . .” Charles looks at Pamela.

  Pamela looks at me.

  I can’t believe I’m the deciding vote! Oh gosh, I suppose it can’t do any harm leaving it a few more hours. Just as long as they tell her before we next see Harvey. I give Pamela the nod of approval.

  “Tomorrow’s fine,” Charles confirms, leaning in to give Ravenna a peck on the side of her head. “You have a good night.”

  She looks delighted by his affection and then turns to me, “Shall we see if we can get a table by the fire?”

  Ravenna is referring to the fireplace in the lounge bar—a cozy nook with seafaring art on the walls and a mantel illuminated with tea-light candles and a glass storm lantern. The windows are starting to spatter with rain, so we’re all the more grateful to nab the pink linen sofa beside the fire, even if our cheeks start to flush a matching hue before we’re halfway through the list of entrées.

  “Got to be the herb-grilled Kettle Cove lobster for me!” I set the menu down.

  Ravenna looks uncertain—perhaps it was too much to hope that she would eat two nights running.

  “Did you know that lobster has fifty percent fewer calories than an equal amount of chicken breast, and only a fraction of the fat?”

  “Is that true?”

  I nod. “To quote lobsterfrommaine.com: ‘If you swam every day in the cool, crystal waters off the coast of Maine, you’d be healthy too.’”

  She chuckles and then looks back at the menu. “Do you see how they’ve named their local suppliers—Fern Hill Farm goat cheese, Backyard Farm tomatoes—that’s rather nice, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I confirm.

  I can’t believe this new side to her—to think all this sweetness was hiding under that cloak of resentment! I wonder what she’s thinking right now? She looks so twinkly and content . . .

  “You know, this is where Harvey sat with Molly.” She hugs a cushion to her chest. “Apparently she couldn’t believe her luck. Chowed down under the table and then fell asleep in front of the fire.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “I love French bulldogs, don’t you?”

  A surprised smile spreads across my face. “Absolutely love them,” I concur.

  “They have a doggy menu here. Molly had meat “roaff” and a K-9 ice cream!”

  I experience a moment of concern. Is this why she wanted to come to the bar rather than the restaurant—to sit where he sat, then relive every moment of their evening together? Don’t make me regret postponing her chat with Charles and Pamela . . .

  I’m relieved when she starts talking about the dogs she grew up with—“Pixie was the first. She used to follow me everywhere. When she’d sleep she’d always nuzzle in and lay a paw across me, like she was cuddling me!”

  There she is—there’s Babycakes! For the first time I can see them as the same person.

  “Then there was Billy and Bonanza . . .”

  Our talk of dogs evolves to include the entire animal kingdom—from teacup piglets to giant pandas, and now North American cottontails.

  The bunny element was introduced by the waiter, explaining how the hotel has been involved in a habitat restoration project.

  “
I think it’s wonderful when hotels are environmentally conscious,” the formerly jaded Ravenna enthuses.

  “They’re big on that here,” he confirms. “Even the key cards are recycled and compostable!”

  “Goodness,” she gasps, and then laughs, “Quite literally!”

  Ravenna is being so easygoing, so amenable, that I find myself sliding my muddled blueberry martini over to her.

  She blinks back at me. “Really?”

  “You’ve earned it.”

  “Rewarding me with alcohol, eh?”

  “Oh, don’t put it like that!” I tut and then tilt my head. “Now you come to mention it, it’s the same thing when you’re a child, isn’t it? You get sweets for being a good girl. They’re the treat, the reward. And then you grow up and they become the naughty element.”

  Speaking of which . . . Our waiter is back.

  “Can I tempt you ladies with some dessert?”

  “You choose,” Ravenna diverts the menu to me.

  “Hmmm,” I deliberate. “Sea Glass is the name of the hotel restaurant?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well then, I guess we should have the Sea Glass Peanut Butter Buster Parfait with the fudge sauce. You know, something light.”

  He grins back at me. “Excellent choice.”

  “And another blueberry martini please.”

  Ravenna inhales happily. And then she drifts off. Gradually her expression changes and she stares deeper and deeper into the fire.

  I’m just wondering if I should give her a little pinch when she says: “You know, this is the longest I’ve been away from Eon.”

  I wait for her to continue.

  “It was weird at first. I felt all disorientated and unsettled but now . . .” She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t say I told you so!”

  “I won’t.”

  She sits back in her chair, sighing, “I feel so much better about myself when he’s not around.”

  I press my lips together. Not a word.

  “I told him in Boston that I wouldn’t have any reception in Maine. And it’s like I can breathe again.”

  I smile. “I know just what you mean.”

  “I can have my own thoughts and I’m not constantly worried or feeling like I’m doing something wrong.”

  I nod.

  “I don’t want to go back to him.” Her voice quavers. “Not now that I know I can feel this way.”

  I reach for her hand. “You don’t have to,” I tell her quietly.

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry about it now. Don’t let any thoughts of him spoil the enjoyment of where you are. He can’t get to you here. No one knows where we are, except us four, and Harvey. We’ve dropped off the itinerary altogether!”

  She smiles back at me. “I like the sound of that.” And then she twists around, waves at a passing Labrador and asserts, “And I like it here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Harvey has good taste.”

  I give a subtle nod. And then change the subject. To his father.

  “So, you actually approve of your mum and Charles getting together?”

  She shrugs. “I read online today that my dad had been seeing his secretary for the past seven years.”

  “Oh gosh.” I falter. “That can’t have been nice, to hear about it like that.”

  She shrugs. “He’s an arse.”

  I’m confused. “But—”

  “He’s always been an arse. They should have split up years ago.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “I thought you were in his corner.”

  “Only to piss Mum off.”

  I lean back and study her. “When did it all begin?” I ask. “Hating your mum?”

  She takes another sip of martini and then starts picking at the silver studs on the chair arm.

  “We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I don’t mind. She’s not so bad really. I mean, I’ve been thinking, you know, about what you said . . .”

  “Which bit?”

  “Well. Thinking about if she was dead, for one thing. How I’d feel then.”

  “And how would you feel?”

  “I’d hate myself for the rest of my life.”

  Her eyes look a little glossy now.

  “You know, I’ve just heard one thing for a really long time—about how she exploited me and tries to control me and doesn’t want me to have my own identity.”

  “Is this some kind of voice in your head?”

  “It’s Eon’s voice. All the time.”

  “Why would he say those things?”

  She sighs. “Probably because it’s what I wanted to hear when we first met. I was really angry with her. About something. I don’t even remember what now. Maybe a piercing or a party . . . Either way, he was on my side. He was always on my side, it seemed.”

  “Against her?”

  She nods.

  “It was like he was the only one who could see what I could see.”

  “So he fanned the flames.”

  She squirms, rubbing her brow. “I feel bad now. Some of the things I said . . .”

  “To her or to him?”

  “Both.”

  “Well. The good news is that your mum will forgive in a second. In fact, she’s already forgiven you everything—past, present and future. That’s just how she is.”

  “She’s too soft with me.”

  “You’re too precious to her.”

  Ravenna crumbles, hair falling forward, eyes spilling over. “I’ve been such a cow!”

  “I know,” I say as I gently rub her back.

  She laughs through her tears.

  “Well, I do know. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  She peers back at me. “Do you hate me?”

  “No,” I say sincerely. “I mean, at the moment, quite the opposite.”

  “Really?” she gulps, wiping her nose with the napkin.

  “I admire you. For being able to see things with new eyes. For being honest about your mistakes.”

  “I have to make it up to her,” she insists.

  “All you have to do is be nice. And forgive her.”

  “Forgive her for what?”

  Now that’s the million-dollar question.

  “Well. For spoiling you. Because you’re right. She did. And perhaps for trying to protect you from things . . .”

  “What kind of things?”

  Careful, Laurie! This isn’t your secret to tell.

  “Just life,” I shrug. “And hurt. And people on public transport.”

  She laughs.

  “And for bringing you here against your wishes.”

  “Oh, she’s so forgiven for that. I’m having a really good time now.”

  “Really?”

  “You know I am!” she grins.

  “So that just leaves the future.” I get a twisty sense of foreboding as I say the words.

  “Is that really part of the deal—I have to forgive her for everything she does in the future too?”

  “Well, it’s a lot to ask, but if you could—that would be really something.”

  “I’m going to try.”

  I smile proudly. “Loganberry nightcap?”

  “Don’t mind if I do!”

  Chapter 42

  The next morning Ravenna is up before me.

  “I felt a little muzzy-headed so I went down the beach,” she tells me as she hunts through her case for something respectable to wear. “It’s pretty wild down there. Not a soul around.” She gets up and shows me her shots of the deserted coastline. “I went to post these picture on Facebook but then I thought he’d see. And I want to keep it for myself a while longer!”

  “You k
now, I think there’s going to be very little chance of a signal today—weaving through the White Mountains, the elevation has got to be six thousand feet . . .”

  Her face brightens. “You reckon I’ve got one more day?”

  “At least,” I confirm.

  • • •

  Her pep continues all the way to the breakfast room—she walks straight up to our assigned table, gives Charles a peck on the cheek, chirrups, “Morning Mum!” and leans in for a skinny-armed hug.

  It’s fleeting but it’s there, and to Pamela’s credit she doesn’t fall to the floor and start praising the sweet baby Jesus. She just stares at the breakfast menu, taking in absolutely nothing.

  “The crab cake and avocado Benedict looks good,” I nudge her, discreetly pointing to a neighboring table.

  “Everything looks good,” she says, still in a daze. “Everything.”

  “So Ms. Organizer Extraordinaire,” Charles addresses me. “What do we have on the schedule today?”

  “Well, it was a toss-up between the Barns and Quilts Tour and a Dry-Stone Wall Building Workshop . . .”

  “So Maine!” He smirks contentedly.

  “In actual fact we are going to begin with a bit of outlet shopping.”

  Ravenna raises her juice skyward.

  “But! Before you despair, you should know that there’s a very manly component—as in the L.L.Bean flagship store.”

  L.L.Bean is the U.S. equivalent of Millets, providing all the kit you need for camping/kayaking/hunting/fishing/geocaching, etc. One unique aspect to this store is that it’s open twenty-four hours a day. (And has been since 1951!) Because you just never know when you’re going to need a pocket-size water purifier or a critter-proof backpack.

  The other notable aspect is the giant tan and brown hiking boot beside the main entrance, standing sixteen feet high.

  “Excuse me, would you mind taking our picture?” I hand my camera to a stout gentleman as we assemble around it.

  We smile, each of us kicking a leg in the air. And then break into a spontaneous rendition of “These Boots Are Made for Walking . . .”

  Gosh! I puff as I press my heart back inside my body—this is starting to feel like a family.

  • • •

  Main Street Freeport has to be the nicest outlet setup of all time—instead of a low-rise lineup of identikit shops, each store is housed in its own—well—house. Each more historic-looking and picturesque than the last. Even McDonald’s is disguised within colonial clapboard. Despite the Coach outlet calling Ravenna’s name, she decides to join us first inside L.L.Bean. Just out of curiosity. If she starts showing an interest in the “RV chic” drawstring shorts and chambray skirts, then I really will start to worry. But I think it’s legitimate that we city girls are so transfixed by the softness of the fleeces that we each get one (hers in plum, mine a dark teal) with the aim of being extra cozy in the mountains tonight.