“So how does Krista advise that we play this?” Pamela is eager to begin.
I can’t help but smile—she makes her sound like a crisis negotiator, which in a way she is.
“Well, I would have thought Ravenna should see you first, but Krista wants Harvey to kick things off.”
“What?”
“She has to deal with the surface humiliation before the core betrayal. I think she wants to pick off the easiest ones first.”
“Are you part of this?” Pamela asks.
“I’m third in line apparently. After Charles.”
“And I see her last?” Pamela is aghast.
“You are the deepest pain. All of this stems from you. If you see what I mean, not wishing to—”
Pamela throws up her hands. “Oh, what do I know? I’ve done everything wrong so far.”
Charles pulls her in for a hug. “Don’t go down that road. You have to set a positive example.”
“Here’s Krista now!” I jump to my feet, ready to introduce her, having to slightly tone down our usual squealing pogo-fest.
As she assures them that Ravenna is still this side of sanity, we stand shoulder to shoulder, pressing into each other, communicating all manner of age-old friend messages from “I’m so glad you’re here!” to “Have you checked out Harvey? Isn’t he gorgeous?” and the obvious “I can’t wait to have a proper catch-up later.”
Krista explains that we’ll take our turns visiting Ravenna and she’ll act as mediator if necessary—there’s a little balcony she can wait out on while the conversation is taking place.
“So how exactly do you recommend I approach this?” Harvey wants to know.
“My guess is that she’s not even going to be able to look at you,” Krista replies. “So that’s your challenge, to make light of it and get some eye contact.”
He nods. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
I feel a little uncomfortable sitting with Charles and Pamela, so I excuse myself, saying I’m just going to find the loo. I dawdle as I do so, having a little nose around the property. It’s a sprawling affair with assorted alcoves and cabinets filled with Austrian memorabilia, and stairwells featuring vintage Sound of Music posters in every possible language—La Famiglia Trapp! Sonrisas Y Lágrimas! Meine Lieder, Meine Träume! Several have Julie Andrews’s drab pinafore reimagined in flouncy cerise with a baby-pink undershirt—Hollywood’s version of a nun’s modest dress.
I look at my watch. I probably should be heading back.
“Anyone need a top-up of coffee?” I ask as I approach the table. “Or perhaps a nice camomile tea?” I switch, realizing everyone is sufficiently twitchy as it is.
Within two minutes of me sitting down, Harvey appears.
“How did it go?”
“Not too bad,” he says as he pulls up a chair. “At first she just focused on the dog. I think he is a great comfort to her.”
I nod.
“I told her a few of my embarrassing drunk stories to break the ice and then I basically said it’s not as weird as it seems, it was just a misinterpretation of our instant bond. We got on really well, we’ll continue to get on well and I want to take her sailing.”
I smile. “Really?”
“Well, I figured there’s lots of hot yachtie guys to distract her from this Eon character . . . Can’t hurt?”
“No, that’s a good plan,” we confirm.
“Okay, Dad, you’re up.”
He seems uncharacteristically distant.
“Are you okay?”
He nods. “I just can’t bear to think of her in pain.”
“So tell her—tell her that exact thing.”
Charles nods, takes a bolstering breath and heads on his way. He is gone awhile. A long while. Then again, they do have twenty years of catching up to do.
In some ways it is in Pamela’s interest that Charles is going first. Ravenna knows how besotted he is with her mother, so the pair of them sitting there slagging her off for keeping them in the dark so long is not an option. But they will certainly be able to share that regret. All the missed years. I try to imagine how I would feel if I were Charles—all the significant birthdays, all those kiddy squeezes, falling asleep on your chest, waking up on Christmas morning, crayon cards to Daddy . . . It’s a lot to accept. I can’t help imagining how much nicer Ravenna might have turned out if he’d been there during her upbringing instead of Brian. All those years of tension and negative brainwashing. Oh dear, now I’m getting mad with Pamela! Hopefully they can focus on making up for lost time rather than lamenting the past. Which isn’t to say there won’t be a few tears . . .
When Charles finally reappears, his eyes are indeed red and watery.
Pamela is inspecting the flowers at the edge of the terrace and Harvey has gone to make some Newport/sailing calls, so he comes to me first.
“She let me hug her!” He’s so choked he can hardly speak. “I thought I’d lost her so soon after finding her . . .” His voice catches.
“Oh Charles!” Now I’m welling up.
“I don’t want her to go back to England.”
“University doesn’t start until autumn . . .” I trail off. I’d better not go making any promises that aren’t mine to keep.
“I hope she can stay on. Ohhh.” He clamps on his chest. “These women!” He looks over at Pamela.
“I know. They get under your skin.”
He looks shyly at me. “Ravenna said I give her hope that she can be a better person. She said she hasn’t felt right for a long time. She wants to be different.”
This is incredibly positive. Still I can feel the butterflies swirling at the prospect of my own impending encounter. I’m about to head to the room when I get a message from Krista.
“Ravenna wants to take a break for a couple of hours,” I update Pamela. “I think this might be a good time for us to meet the pastry chef?”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
I cock my head. “Have you never filmed an episode of PamCakes in the midst of a ding-dong with Brian?”
She sighs. “It’s what kept me going through it all.”
“Well then,” I smile, offering her my arm.
We’ve come too far to fall at the last hurdle.
Chapter 50
We’ve seen some pretty fancy kitchens along the way, but Pamela declares this to be her outright favorite. It’s easy to see why. The DeliBakery is perched on a lookout point on the edge of a field bordered with sprightly pines leading to the slithers of mountains beyond. Better yet, the windows of the kitchens are so expansively panoramic you feel as if you are part of the view. Today it’s all about layers of sun-fueled green. In the winter, pure white; in the spring the meadows are sprigged with flowers. I can only imagine the autumn splendor.
Add to this a pastry chef with a major personality (whatever the American equivalent of Irish charm is, Robert Alger has it) and Pamela is back in the game.
Today certainly has an international flavor. Maria’s Linzertorte is, of course, of Austrian heritage, but all the while that Robert is setting out the ingredients for the base—butter, sugar, eggs, cinnamon, flour—he and Pamela are chatting about his time spent at the Shangri-La in Singapore.
“It’s a different world in pastry out there,” he notes.
“Their embellishments are sublime,” Pamela agrees. “So delicate.”
“I didn’t realize cakes were a big thing out there?” I chip in.
“Oh yes, afternoon tea is bigger there than in England. We used to serve two hundred and fifty a day. Everything was arranged on a big island and you could pick whatever you wanted. It was phenomenal.”
He tells us about a wedding cake he made for a 4,000-strong wedding party, including the Prime Minister of China and the Sultan of Brunei.
“The bottom tier was four feet wide!” h
e remembers.
“What?” I gasp.
“And they had private jets flying in orchids from Hawaii and Africa for the decoration.”
I can’t even begin to guess at the cost.
“Out there, a pastry chef is like a movie star.”
The thing that really gets Pamela chuckling is the fact that he used to make cakes and chocolates using Durian fruit—a notoriously pungent and thorny fruit (looks like a puffer fish). It is actually banned by many of the top hotels in Southeast Asia because the smell is so revoltingly pervasive.
“And you know what? I was selling a one-kilo cake for forty-nine dollars and I couldn’t make enough to keep up with the demand!”
He has a roguish twinkle that lets you know he took great pleasure in testing the patience of the general manager over this recipe.
“If you ever come across it, by the way, don’t drink alcohol along with it, because the fruit ferments . . .”
And so to the comparatively tame Linzertorte.
I was surprised how willing Pamela was to include it in her book. She said we had maple syrup covered in the recipes for Johnny Cakes and Popovers and, besides, who doesn’t love The Sound of Music?
Apparently the real Maria was a big fan of sweets in general, but it took the original chef—Marshall Faye—quite some time to get the American Linzertorte recipe to meet with Maria’s approval. He used to take a slice up to her apartment to taste and she would say, “It’s good, but it isn’t quite right.” Time after time.
Then one day her youngest son Johannes (who runs the hotel today) mentioned that a lot of currants were grown where Maria grew up, and he suggested mixing a little redcurrant in with the raspberry jam.
“Now that’s a Linzertorte!” was Maria’s enthusiastic response.
We watch now as Robert spreads the redcurrant jelly/raspberry jam combo over the base and then creates a crisscross lattice effect with the remaining pastry.
“Yum,” we say as we taste a slice of one he prepared earlier. It’s sweet but with a subtle tartness. “I like it!”
Robert smiles. “That for me is the best part of my job—seeing the enjoyment on my customers’ faces. It’s what makes my day better.”
“So true,” Pamela concurs. And then takes her turn with the similarly almond-y and jammy Bakewell Tart.
• • •
When we’ve finished in the kitchen we find Charles and Harvey testing the Johannes von Trapp lager out on the deck. For a moment I think we might get to relax in the sunshine with them, but my phone bleeps. I am summoned.
Harvey offers to escort me on the short walk back to the main building, to ward off any lonely goatherds.
“Ready to take your turn?” he asks as we pause before the entrance.
“I am,” I say. “All I can do is explain that I was desperate to give her a heads-up, but that it wasn’t my place to do so.”
“I think my dad mentioned that you wanted her told sooner.”
“That’s good of him.” I take a breath. “I don’t think she’ll be long with me. I’m not a significant person in her life. I was starting to get fond of her but, in reality, I’m the most easily dismissed.”
“Hardly,” Harvey laughs.
“You know what I mean. She never needs to see me again.”
“You know I do, don’t you?”
My heart skips a beat.
“You do?”
He takes a step closer. My internal organs do a fandango. He places his hands lightly on my hips. And then he leans down to kiss me.
“I can’t believe it.” The first time Ravenna says these words her voice is low with shock. The second time it’s a shriek. “I can’t believe it!”
Oh my god. She was right there in the entrance. Now she’s taken off running. Up the hill.
“I’ll go after her!” Krista appears, ready to break into a sprint, or possibly get Mitten to round her up.
“No,” I halt them. “This one’s on me.”
Chapter 51
“Don’t come near me!” Ravenna howls as I catch up with her in the middle of a field.
“I have to talk to you about this!”
“It’s not bad enough that you let me make a fool of myself, but then you have to get it on with him! Oh my god!”
Suddenly I realize just how grotesque this must seem. To me, Ravenna was never a reason to hold back because she was his sister. But is that really an excuse? Is this really something I should have been indulging in while I was working? It just seemed like the most marvelously irresistible perk. Until now. Now I’m utterly disgusted with myself.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Really?” she scoffs. “How long has this been going on?”
“It was just one moment yesterday, that’s—”
“We both kissed him on the same day? Gross! Gross!”
I don’t know what to say. I just feel so tacky.
Ravenna continues to pace like a wild cat while I descend into a slump of shame.
Finally she stops dead in front of me.
“You know your sister is here.”
“What?” I turn cold.
“She’s here at the hotel. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but I’m not as big on the secrets and lies as the rest of you.”
“H-how is that even possible?”
“She flew in this morning.”
I feel my breathing accelerate. My god. This is all happening too fast.
“Takes the wind out of your sails, doesn’t it?” Ravenna taunts.
I nod.
“So now it’s your turn.”
She goes to turn on her heel but the sound of my world crashing stalls her.
“I can’t do it!” I cry. “I can’t face her.”
“You have to. I had to.”
“I can’t!” I whimper. “I can’t feel all that pain again.”
My face falls into my hands. Suddenly there is no more holding back the emotion; it has to come out, full force, like a gushing, roaring eruption from the very core of me. And then, somewhere in the midst of the chugging tears and gasps for breath, these words escape me: “I want my mum back!”
Then they come again, “I just want her back.” And my heart splits open.
“Ravenna!” Pamela is calling to her daughter from the gate.
But she doesn’t move.
“You should go.” My breath catches as I try to speak. “And I don’t blame you for being angry with me. I would despise me in your shoes. I’d hate everybody.”
“Ravenna!” Pamela calls again.
“Wait there.”
As Ravenna hurries away, I let it all stream out of me, surrendering to the swirling, engulfing pain.
“She’s never coming back,” a voice in my head taunts me. “You’re never going to see your mother again.”
My face is dripping faster than I can wipe away the fluids, when suddenly assistance arrives in the form of a pink husky tongue.
“Mitten!” I can’t help but laugh at his fervent attempt to clean me up.
And then I realize that Ravenna is standing beside me.
“He did a good job with me last night,” she says. “I thought you might want a turn.”
Her expression is different now. Her eyes are no longer lasers trying to destroy me; she actually looks concerned.
“This is so backward!” I gasp as I try to calm the pup, my voice still juddering and jerking. “I’m supposed to be comforting you.”
“I made you cry.”
“It’s not you, it’s—”
“She’s not really here. Your sister. I just said that so you’d know how it feels to get sideswiped.”
“What?”
“Krista told me about your situation last night. I think she was using it as an example of a bigger sc
ale of forgiveness.”
My hand goes to my chest. “I thought I was going to have a panic attack.”
“You kind of did.”
I sit back on my heels and shake my head. “I don’t think there’s any hope for me. I thought I might be ready to face her, but obviously I’m not.”
“Not today. But you might be in a week or two.”
“I don’t know,” I sniff. “How am I ever going to look at her and not think of my mother?”
“I wish I could just trade you mine.”
“Don’t say that! You don’t mean it.”
She looks back over at Pamela. “No. I probably don’t. I’d better go and face her.”
I watch the pair of them heading back toward the hotel and then hang my head. I have not handled this whole thing well. What was I thinking with Harvey?
“Laurie?”
Oh god, that’s him now.
He’s standing at a cautious distance.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
I nod, wiping under my eyes as I scramble to my feet. “I think it’s best we keep a bit of distance between each other for a while.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong, you know that?”
I sigh. “Well, I don’t know. I was supposed to be working, not . . . Anyway. I can’t bear to hurt Ravenna any more than I already have, so . . .”
He nods. “I was thinking, I should probably go. At least that way she won’t be wondering if we’re meeting up behind her back.”
Though it makes sense, I definitely feel a wrench at the thought of him leaving.
“I’ll most likely go on to Newport, firm up the arrangements with Gracie’s crew.”
“Good idea.” I can’t even look at him.
“I hate to leave you like this.”
“I’m fine,” I force a smile, ignoring my urge to run to him and burrow into his chest. “I have Krista. And Mitten here.”
“He does look like pretty good company,” he smiles.
“He’s the best.”
“Okay. Well. You take care.”
I nod, unable to speak.
Once I’m sure he’s out of sight, I experience another flow of tears. My heart hurts so badly right now.
The Traveling Tea Shop Page 28