The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  My stomach flips at the thought of seeing Harvey later. Definite nerves. Though I think my greatest concern is that we won’t get any time alone. Sadly the odds of us being given a suite and encouraged to get room service are slim.

  • • •

  “Where’s Mum?” Ravenna asks Charles, when we locate him in the winter sports section.

  “Looking at the cookery books, where else?”

  “They have a cookery book section?” Ravenna is amazed.

  “What, like cooking by campfire?” I laugh.

  Within minutes I’m holding a book called Campfire Cookery.

  Ravenna squints at the cover image. “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “That’s a s’more.”

  “A s’more?”

  “As in the singular of s’mores—the great American campfire tradition. You toast marshmallows on a stick and then squidge them between two graham crackers—that’s a sweet crispy biscuit—with a layer of chocolate.”

  “Wow.”

  “Because when you take your children out to the wilderness you really want to get them hopped up on sugar before they go to bed,” Charles tuts behind us.

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience?”

  “My son has a very sweet tooth.”

  “Yes he does,” Ravenna and I confirm in unison. Which is rather embarrassing.

  “So did you go camping often, when he was a boy?”

  “Harvey was always more of a reading-with-his-flashlight-after-dark type than into whittling spears out of sticks. I’m surprised he turned out to be so good with engines.”

  I can’t help but smile at the image of him in his sleeping bag, poring over some childhood tome. Like War and Peace.

  “So the tent would glow orange into the wee small hours?” I ask.

  “A beacon for all the local bears.”

  “Did you ever see one?” Ravenna gawps. “A bear?”

  “Oh yes. The first time that happened was the last time Harvey’s mother came with us.”

  This is the first time Charles has mentioned his ex-wife. I realize we don’t know anything about her. I’d like to ask what she was like, but Ravenna has a more pressing concern: “Sh-she wasn’t eaten by the bear?”

  Charles laughs. “No.”

  And then he asks, almost shyly, “Do you think you’d ever want to try it, Ravenna?”

  She thinks for a minute. “A week ago I would’ve said ‘not in a million years,’ but now . . .”

  He smiles. “Maybe one day I’ll take you.”

  “Could we have s’mores?” Her eyes brighten like those of a six-year-old.

  “Until you couldn’t take any s’more!” he chuckles.

  I edge away, leaving them to it. It feels a little close to the mark: a glimpse of the childhood Ravenna might have experienced, if Pamela had chosen Charles.

  My fingers trace along the bookshelves, hooking out the ones that catch my eye, until I bump up against the woman herself, perusing Notes from a Maine Kitchen, with The Wild Blueberry Book tucked under her arm.

  “It all sounds so fresh and delicious I can’t stand it!” she reels as she turns the pages. “What have you got there?”

  I hold up A Moose and a Lobster Walk into a Bar and Cabinology—A Handbook to Your Private Hideaway.

  Until today, my fantasy property was a Carrie-esque walk-in wardrobe, but now I can’t help thinking how cozy it would be to have a log cabin or perhaps a converted lighthouse to retreat to every now and again. Especially if I had someone like Harvey to retreat with . . .

  “Do you think I could get away with antler chandeliers in a Little Italy apartment the size of a garden shed?”

  Charles takes the books from me and sets them back on the shelf.

  “I think it’s time for us to move on.”

  Chapter 43

  So what exactly is a Whoopie Pie? Does it in any way resemble a whoopee cushion? Yes—if whoopee cushions were made of sponge and you squished a pair of them together with a sticky marshmallowy filling. The shape is certainly similar—round, tapering off at the edges.

  “It’s sort of like the sweet version of a burger,” Ravenna decides. “Only flatter.”

  In all my research for the ultimate Whoopie Pie-maker, Amy Bouchard’s Wicked Whoopies had the greatest claim to fame—“As featured on the Oprah Winfrey show.”

  (Quite a boon for business, as you can imagine—her company, Isamax Snacks, now make over 10,000 Whoopie Pies a day!)

  We’ve opted to trade Battenburg because a) it’s got one of the stranger names and b) it looks like something a child might have invented—pink and yellow squares indeed!

  All the baking will take place aboard Red, but I hang back, keen to nose around Amy’s brightly painted café-shop, brimming over with baskets of goodies, each a-rustle with sprigs of cellophane. When I hear the company motto, I have to call Krista.

  “Did you know there are at least ten smiles in each Wicked Whoopie Pie?” I ask her.

  She chuckles and says she’s ready to place her order—she just needs a rundown of the flavor options.

  “You really wanna know?”

  “Hit me.”

  I take a deep breath and begin, “Peanut Butter, Strawberry, Raspberries and Cream—”

  “I want that one!”

  “I’ve only just begun! Chocolate Chip, Mocha, Red Velvet, Maple—”

  “I might like that!”

  “Mint—”

  “I might like that too.”

  “Vanilla Bean, Banana Cream,” I continue to progress along the baskets. “Gingerbread—”

  “That’s the one. For sure.”

  “Orange Creamsicle, Lip Lick’n Lemon and Black Forest.”

  “I want the Black Forest!”

  “I know. I’ve already got it for you.”

  “Oh, I love having a friend who knows me so well! I take it you got the Banana Cream?”

  “Of course.” I grin and then peer out of the window. “I can’t believe I’m going to see you tomorrow! It feels like longer because there’s still a whole state between us.”

  “And a potential love affair,” Krista teases. “Are you excited about seeing Harvey again?”

  We get the chance to chat awhile, until I notice that Pamela is beckoning me outside and down the street.

  “So,” she begins in a confidential tone. “Last night Charles was telling me that the Mount Washington Hotel is where the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank set the gold standard, back in 1944.”

  “Makes a change from whispering sweet nothings, I suppose.”

  Pamela gives me a look. “The point being, I think I’ve come up with the ideal match for that particular venue.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Pound cake!”

  I give a little chuckle. “That’s a good one!”

  “It’s such an easy recipe—pound of sugar, pound of flour, pound of eggs, pound of butter.” She recites the basic ingredients and then gives me a particular look. “So easy that anyone could make it.”

  I take a step back. “You’re not suggesting I do?”

  “Yes I am. And here’s why: remember you highlighted the spa at the Mount Washington because they invite guests into their herb garden to pick their own rosemary or candytuft or whatever to infuse their treatment? And you thought I might want to work that into my recipe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Charles pointed out that that might be a really good way to get Ravenna into a relaxed, receptive state. I mean, no one ever has a hissy fit in a spa.”

  There’s always a first time, I think to myself.

  “We looked into a mother-daughter room where we can get a massage and then a wrap, and they leave you alone for at least half an hour, so I’m thinking, ly
ing there, candlelight, soothing music playing . . .”

  Ideal place to drop the bomb.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I concede. “Most likely she’ll be covered in mud or some scrub so she wouldn’t be able to just run off.”

  “Exactly,” she concurs. “So will you do it? Make the pound cake?”

  I take a breath. Do I really have a choice? “Okay,” I tell her. “Provided we stop off and get some extra supplies in case I mess it up.”

  “You won’t mess it up,” she assures me. “If you apply the same care that you apply to making travel arrangements . . .”

  I give an uncertain smile, hoping I can live up to her confidence in me. “Are you ready to go now?”

  She claps her hands together. “One quick layer of marzipan and we’re outta here!”

  Chapter 44

  For the first hour and a half of our journey, we remain in Maine. Despite passing towns with a European flavor—Lisbon, Poland, Paris—the inland countryside looks all very English. But then we cross into New Hampshire, right at the border of the White Mountain National Forest, and suddenly I’m getting visions of all-American holidays spent hiking and biking, rafting and rollercoasting, all with pressed shorts, side-partings and freckle-faced children named Chip and Cindy.

  Personally I rather like the idea of touring the covered bridges and chugging along on the Conway Scenic Railroad, but we only have time for a quick pit stop at McKaella’s Sweet Shop. Pamela wants to trade a slice of Battenburg for McKaella’s legendary rainbow layer cake, which totally trumps us in the color spectrum—from the base up it’s pink sponge then tangerine, sunshine yellow, green, blue and lavender at the top, with layers of cream-cheese buttercream in between.

  “It really is beautiful!” Pamela admires the smudgy pastel effect. “As if a brush with multicolored stripes has been swept around the cake.”

  “This has certainly been our most colorful day,” I decide. “It’s just a shame they don’t make . . .” I stop suddenly.

  “Don’t make what?” asks Ravenna, as she holds up an Eat Cake First T-shirt to her mum.

  “Nothing,” I zip my lips.

  “Are you ready?” Charles sticks his head round the door. “We don’t want to be late for tea!”

  “I’ll catch you up in a minute,” I say as I usher the others back onto the bus.

  “What are you up to?” Pamela wants to know.

  “You’ll see tonight.”

  “Is my pound cake about to get a makeover?”

  “It depends if McKaella has what I need. And that’s all I’m saying for now.”

  • • •

  Back on board with my secret stash, I experience a sudden surge of fun and freedom—this has to be the most epically scenic stretch of road so far. I feel like a swooping, gliding bird as my eyes take in the undulations of prosperous green splaying out in every direction. Hard to believe that some of the coldest temperatures and strongest winds in the whole of the United States have been recorded here (gusts can reach up to 230 mph), for today it is pure perfection. Pure being the word—can you imagine how fresh the air is here? I inflate my lungs and marvel at the brightest blue sky.

  “Isn’t this glorious?”

  Everyone is in good spirits, their eyes a little wider and brighter.

  “You know Bill Bryson hiked around here for A Walk in the Woods?” Charles informs us.

  “I love Bill Bryson,” I coo. “Totally cracks me up.”

  “Me too,” Pamela concurs.

  “He used to live in New Hampshire,” Charles adds. “In the same town as Jodi Picoult. And less than two hours from Dan Brown.”

  “Wow. Imagine if they’d started a book club!”

  When Pamela laments her mum missing out on all this beauty, we decide to Skype her, giving her the full panorama.

  “Oh, I feel as if I’m on the bus with you,” she laughs. “Show me where you are heading.”

  Ravenna holds the iPad up to the front window and then gasps, “What’s that?”

  There, set against the most majestic of mountain ranges, and looking like its own gleaming white kingdom, is the legendary Mount Washington Resort.

  We give a collective “oooooh” of wonder. Can this really be our home for the night?

  We keep Gracie with us as we begin curving up the main driveway. Off on the left is the Bretton Arms Inn—that’s where I’ll be staying tonight. For the first time since we set off, I have my own room. I try not to dwell on my suspicion that Ravenna specifically requested separate quarters so she could entertain Harvey after hours. It’s actually a good thing that she has some space for her own thoughts tonight. And if she needs to talk, she is welcome to come and visit me. Unless of course I am entertaining Harvey . . .

  Up we go, ever closer to the magnificent main building—now we can see the wings extending out, the different levels accented by the signature red roofing and the circular entrance porch that makes you want to swirl in a ball gown. What can I say? Some places just swell your heart—you can feel your chest expanding, just to let in more wonder. Ravenna reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.

  “Happy?”

  She nods. “I feel like a different person.”

  I can’t help but think that within a few hours she will literally have a new identity.

  “Oh, I wish you could join us for tea,” Pamela sighs at her mother’s image.

  “Don’t worry,” Gracie trills. “I’m meeting the gang for cocktails.”

  “Cocktails? At this hour?”

  “Well, at our age you don’t want to risk waiting for five P.M. to roll around!”

  “Oh, Mum!”

  Gracie gives us a cheeky wave before signing off, “Enjoy the fairy tale!”

  • • •

  Most “grande dame” hotels I’ve experienced (including this trip’s Waldorf Astoria and Omni Parker House) have rather dark, wood-paneled lobbies. The Mount Washington is flooded with light. The walls are a lemony buttercream and the endless white columns add an airiness that puts you in mind of a health-enhancing promenade. Even the rugs have a fresh look—every flower, herb or tree depicted in the soft weave is indigenous to the area. I could probably do without the mounted moose’s head center stage, but I like the story behind the mural of a woman looking down on us from a white balcony—the owner’s wife, Carolyn Stickney, used to watch guests arrive from behind a net curtain, possibly so she could check out what the competition was wearing! I’m just relieved that Ravenna has taken a more girlie turn with her outfit today, even if she still looks as if she has used her mother’s whisk to style her hair.

  “Now the Princess Room where we’re having tea is so-named because Carolyn became one—eight years after her husband’s death, she married a French prince.”

  For a room with a pink arced ceiling garlanded with gold, it’s surprisingly cozy. Even the candelabra are more suggestive of candlelight. Snug beside the fireplace sits a pair of my favorite French canopy chairs, only this time in a rich red with ebony trim. But one particular detail causes my stomach to flip. For there, nestled amidst the bite-size scones, tangy lemon curd and sterling silver tea strainers, is Harvey.

  “You’re early!” Pamela startles.

  “I hope that’s all right? My meeting was over in minutes and I thought you’d probably be here for tea,” he smiles as he greets each of us.

  As I await my peck on the cheek, I can’t help but notice he’s gone a bit Clooney-suave with his slim suit trousers and tailored shirt. Even though Ravenna nabs the seat closest to him, it seems comfortingly significant to me that our outfits complement each other—his dark navy picking out the Wedgewood-inspired print of my dress. I rather like the idea that a stranger walking into the room might identify us as a pair. (You know you’re smitten when . . . )

  “Your Kir Royales.” The waiter sets a d
ark-pink flute of bubbly before each of us.

  “Cheers!”

  As we raise our glasses, I notice Ravenna’s cassis-splashed liquid has a subtly different hue, and suspect Charles has discreetly substituted her champagne for fizzy apple juice, keeping her this side of legal while also feeling included. Because he’s just that good.

  “So the meeting went well?” he asks Harvey as he makes his selection from the wooden chest of teas.

  “Quite the opposite,” Harvey grimaces. “They’ve officially pulled out now.” He turns to the rest of us. “The sponsor for a project I’ve been working on.”

  “What kind of project?” Pamela wants to know. As do I.

  “It’s something we do every July—get some urban kids out on the water, teach them to sail. It sounds pretty basic but it’s been life-changing for some of them—newfound focus, sense of teamwork; just being outdoors is a major plus.”

  “Anything but sitting in a darkened room playing video games,” Charles mutters.

  “This is the first year we were taking them to Newport, which is a pretty big deal in the sailing community, but the hotel that was going to accommodate us has opted out, so now we’ve got to find somewhere new for them to stay,” he heaves a sigh as he adds, “at the height of the season.”

  “So now you’re struggling with availability and price?” I empathize.

  “Exactly. I was on the phone the whole way here and all I’m getting is ‘fully booked.’ I really don’t know how we’re going to turn this around.”