The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  I think of all the people who have stood in this field, spinning around with their arms flung wide, whereas I just want to lie down until snowfall.

  I may well have done that very thing, had Krista not sent me a text to say that she’s nearly done and to meet me in our room.

  Suddenly I feel like I have a home to go to.

  • • •

  Mitten pulls me all the way there, ever eager to race ahead, even when there is no sled to pull.

  The room we’re sharing has a rustic Austrian design—pine beams and bedheads and a large booth embedded in the bay window, complete with a table I can set for dinner. I go ahead and order a pair of Wiener Schnitzels and Apfelstrudels so Krista will have some sustenance as soon as she gets in.

  Here she is now.

  As I open the door, she pretends to be wheezing her last breath, dragging herself in on her hands and knees.

  “Helluva day?” I chuckle.

  “I don’t know how therapists do it! I’m wrung out!”

  “How was it going with Ravenna and Pamela?”

  Krista pulls a face, flipping onto her back and letting Mitten tread on her splayed-out hair. “It’s messy, as you would expect. I think they’re going to be at it for most of the night. I just had to leave them to it.”

  “Absolutely, you’ve done more than your fair share.”

  “Do I smell food?”

  “And wine,” I confirm.

  “Praise be!” She jumps back to her feet. And then stops as she comes level with my face. “You’ve been crying!”

  I nod. “The noisiest kind.”

  “Oh honey!” She pulls me into a hug. “I’m here now. You can tell me all about it.”

  “Like you haven’t dealt with enough today already.”

  “Oh nonsense. I’ve always got time for you.”

  And so we hole up in our booth, chatting and sipping Riesling until it’s time for Mitten’s last wee of the day.

  • • •

  It’s so tranquil in the moonlight. So still. All I can hear is the sound of Mitten snuffling at the shrubbery.

  “You’re going to get culture shock when you go back to New York,” Krista notes.

  My heart feels a little heavy at the prospect. I don’t feel ready for this journey to be over.

  “I’m just sorry you didn’t get to meet Harvey properly.”

  “Oh, I saw enough of him to know he’s the real deal.”

  I look up at her. “He is, isn’t he?”

  “Hey, don’t give up on that working out, you said he wants to see you again.”

  “I know, but it feels a bit unseemly, all things considered. I mean, it’s not like we could have a relationship without Pamela and Charles knowing, which of course in turn means Ravenna.”

  “Listen, she knows you’re way overdue for a good man. She may give you her blessing yet.”

  “My lovely optimist!” I say, linking arms with my best friend as we stroll onward.

  “She said it herself,” Krista shrugs, “she wants to be a better person.”

  I nod, not entirely convinced it would stretch that far.

  “I meant to ask you, did Eon come up while you were together?”

  “He did,” Krista shudders. “But I managed to hold her off calling him, playing on the fact that she’d so recently been propelling herself at another man. Of course he’s flipping out that he hasn’t spoken to her, and posting all kinds of pictures of himself with super-skinny models on Facebook . . .”

  “Classy.”

  “He’s such an idiot. I know she doesn’t want to go back to him, she’s just in a bit of turmoil at the moment.”

  “I really hope she doesn’t.”

  Krista stifles a yawn, which in turn triggers one in me, and then Mitten gives the most comically exaggerated jaw stretch confirming, quite categorically, that it’s time for bed.

  “Tomorrow is a new day,” I say as we head back.

  Chapter 52

  When I first wake up, it seems as if all is well. The sky is a soaring blue, I’m here with Krista and Mitten, we have tickets to the von Trapp History Tour and breakfast is an extensive buffet.

  “Best meal of the day!” Krista cheers as we begin lifting assorted metal lids, wafting at the resulting steam and peering within. “I seriously think I could live off breakfast foods for the rest of my life—I mean, you’ve got your bacon and sausages and eggs and pancakes and waffles and oatmeal and cereal and yogurts and fruits and bagels and pastries and muffins—”

  “And no salad or vegetables.”

  “Well, there’s mushrooms and tomatoes. I love a cooked tomato.”

  I’m slightly on edge, expecting the others to walk in at any moment, but so far we’re safe, tucked in a far nook by the window overlooking those benevolent mountains.

  “Plus look at the breakfast drinks—coffee, tea, champagne for your Bucks Fizz or Mimosa, every kind of fruit juice and maybe some kind of smoothie—”

  “Okay, I’m convinced!” I laugh. “But I think that’s quite enough coffee for you.” I move her cup to the far side of the table.

  She expels a long sigh. “That was good.”

  I too set down my napkin, trying to sound casual as I say, “I wonder how everyone is doing today?”

  “Mmm, I wonder. Do you think all this will affect their plans to fly back to London tomorrow?”

  “Good point. I don’t know.”

  “I can’t see Gracie wanting to go back at all.”

  “I agree,” I sigh. “She’s found a new home. A new life.”

  I can’t help but feel a pang of envy.

  Krista checks her watch. “Come on, it’s time for our tour.”

  • • •

  We congregate in a barnlike building on the grounds, at least forty guests eager to learn the behind-the-scenes secrets of the story that inspired The Sound of Music.

  “This is so perfect!” Krista enthuses as she takes out her notebook. “You know we’re running a Salzburg guide to tie-in with the fiftieth anniversary next year? This should give us some nice tidbits!”

  I have to say the insider insights are a welcome distraction. The one that surprises me the most is that it was Maria, with her austere convent upbringing, who was the strict one, not the Captain! But the biggest gasp from the group comes when we learn that Maria signed away the film rights to her autobiography to a German producer for a modest sum, who then sold them on to Broadway and Hollywood. The von Trapps never got a cut of the blockbuster’s profits. Krista and I are just speculating how many millions they missed out on, when two latecomers join the group: Pamela and Ravenna.

  “Oh no!” I hiss at Krista, burying my head. “I think we should go. I don’t want them to feel uncomfortable.”

  “It’s fine,” Krista dismisses my concern. “If they are uncomfortable they can leave. We were here first.”

  “Since when did you get so assertive?” I blink back at her.

  “It’s dealing with the dogs all day—on the sled you have to let them know who’s boss.”

  “But that’s just it, I’m not the boss here.”

  “Sssssh!”

  Great, now we’ve peeved the people next to us. Perhaps if I just act as if I haven’t noticed them?

  It doesn’t help that the guide is now leading us to the family burial plot, even if it is an exceptionally pretty, peaceful, flower-entwined area of the garden. As the voices become a distant mumble, I think of standing beside Mum’s headstone, setting her favorite Gerbera daisies in the vase, and for the first time ever I wish that Jessica was standing beside me. And then my eyes stray to Pamela and Ravenna. Standing together, even after all they’ve been through. I don’t know if it’s because I got my meltdown out of my system yesterday, but suddenly I feel a little braver, a little more hopeful
. . . Could I see Jess? Could I forgive her? Could we be close again?

  “Laurie? Are you coming?” Krista chivvies me along, back into the hotel. Here we’re invited to watch a short documentary with Maria von Trapp. Gray hair braided atop her head, she is utterly disarming in her honesty, confessing that when the Captain proposed to her in real life, she burst into tears and ran all the way back to the convent!

  “Not quite the reaction he was going for,” Krista chuckles. And then I feel her nails digging into my arm. “Oh my gosh—look at the von Trapp we got!”

  At the end of every tour, an authentic member of the von Trapp family appears to answer questions and sign autographs. We get Sam von Trapp, Maria’s grandson, who just happens to be a former ski instructor and Ralph Lauren model.

  “I’m going to see if he’ll do an interview for our ‘Man of the World’ page.”

  “Good idea!” I’m just about to join Krista in the queue when Pamela approaches.

  Here we go.

  “I just wanted to talk to you about the schedule for the end of the trip.”

  I’m quick to react. “Yes, of course. There’s no problem with me finding my own way home. Krista can drop me at the nearest train station and I’ll just head on back to New York and tie up all the ends from there.”

  “Oh no, that’s not what I meant,” she reaches for my hand. “We still need you for the fund-raiser in Newport.”

  “The fund-raiser?”

  “Yes, we’re going ahead with your idea for the High Tea on the High Seas. Harvey is there making the arrangements now.”

  “About Harvey,” I gulp awkwardly. “I feel I should apologize to you for being so horribly unprofessional—”

  “Oh please,” she cuts me off. “As if we haven’t all gone a little astray on this trip. I mean, compared to my mother and me, you’ve been positively chaste.”

  I give a little snuffle. “Thank you, for being so understanding.”

  “Not at all. So, what I was going to say was, I really want to get back to Mum as soon as possible, and Charles says if we leave now we can get to Newport for happy hour. I know this isn’t quite what we had on the schedule—”

  “That’s fine,” I assure her. “I happen to be very familiar with the accommodation situation in Newport, so I can make those arrangements right now.”

  “Great,” she chirps. “We can all go and pack and see you back at the bus in an hour?”

  “I can do that, if you’re sure Ravenna won’t mind me being on board.”

  “It’s a big bus, it’ll be fine. I’m just sorry to cut short your time with Krista.”

  She’s got me there. For a moment I wonder about asking Krista to come with us—we could do with an extra pair of hands, and the fund-raiser was her idea, after all—but she and Jacques have a big event at the farm this weekend, so she needs to get back.

  “We’ll see each other very soon anyway,” she says, “what with Jessica’s visit on the cards.”

  “Yes,” I reply. Though I experience a queasy dip at the prospect, Krista’s presence is reassuring. Even if I do fall apart, I have someone to hold on to, someone who will get me through. “It’s going to be okay, isn’t it?”

  “It really is. I’ll make sure of that. And as far as this place goes,” Krista gives a fond look back at the lodge, “maybe we’ll come back here again in the autumn or when it’s all fireside-cozy with snow.”

  “That would be lovely,” I sigh.

  It’s always a wrench leaving Krista, always a bit stomach-churningly sentimental. “You’re the best,” I say as we share our final hug good-bye. “I couldn’t have got through any of this without you.”

  “We’re a good team,” she confirms. “Now go and savor every last moment of this trip. Fill your lungs with sea air!”

  She always knows the right thing to say—suddenly I can’t wait to get back to Newport . . .

  Chapter 53

  The drive takes us just over six hours with Ravenna and Pamela sleeping most of the way, clearly spent after all the emotional upheaval.

  I keep a low profile, but chat awhile with Charles when I notice he’s getting drowsy at the wheel.

  “So, seeing as we weren’t in the same vehicle when we crossed into Vermont, I never did get to hear about the native writers here.”

  Charles smiles. “Let me see. Vermont . . .”

  He mentions a few Nobel and Pulitzer prizewinners and then knocks it out of the park with, “Rudyard Kipling wrote The Jungle Book here. He lived in Vermont for four years after he married an American woman and his first child was born here.”

  “Please tell me he named him Mowgli!”

  “Actually it was a girl, and her name was Josephine!”

  The conversation moves on to Krista, with Charles asking how he might thank her for all her support; then he says how sorry he is to hear about my situation with my mother and sister.

  “If there’s any way I can be there for you as you have been here for us, please let me know.”

  I sigh. That’s so kind.

  Before too long we’re back in Newport. My heart smiles with relief.

  We’ve seen some beautiful places along the way, but there’s something extra-special about this one. Even the accommodation genie was working overtime, supplying us with a cancelation at the Cliffside Inn so I am able to place Pamela, Charles and Ravenna in the cottage suite next to Gracie. They seem very happy to be reunited. Even Ravenna hugs her granny and Gracie doesn’t roll her eyes as she clasps her to her chest. I actually think I see a little tear escape from her eye. It’s been a long time coming.

  “I’ll see you around noon tomorrow,” I say as I excuse myself. The outsider once more.

  I’m staying just fifteen minutes’ walk away at The Attwater. It’s absolutely perfect for our Va-Va-Vacation! readers. Bright and hip à la Jonathan Adler, you even get the use of an iPad for the duration of your stay. I picked up a pizza on the way here, and now I’m sitting out on the communal deck by myself, pulling apart the slices and trying not to think about Harvey and how much I loved to be in his presence. I suppose I could wander into town if I wanted, have a final Dark and Stormy, but something in me doesn’t want to move. So I stay out here until night falls, trying to stave off the notion that the trip is finally over. I just wish things hadn’t quite ended this way.

  • • •

  I awake to a beautiful bright morning. The perfect day for a sail. As I inhale the sunshine, hope radiates through my queasier emotions.

  For the first hour of the day I sip herbal tea in the hotel café. Soothed by the white and mint-green décor, I try to get centered and remember what it feels like to sit quietly and studiously by myself. It’s been chaotically sociable this past week. It’s a good thing I have this time to adjust and remember what my normal life is like, without them.

  Next to me are the parents of a gurgling baby. I smile as they interact with this pudgy-fingered, wobbling delight, faces lit up with glee. And then I’m surprised to find my eyes welling with tears. It just hits me now and again, that I don’t have anyone to call my own. I think I’m a little more stirred up than normal because of how it felt to be with Harvey. Just to have someone look at me that way—with such enchantment, as if our hearts were really resonating. It felt good to register in that way. Of course I know I always matter to Krista. But she has her own life now. I can’t build anything new with her. But that’s okay. I’m sure I’ll be fine once I’m back in Manhattan. It’s just every now and again this great wanting wells up inside of me and I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to really belong with someone.

  Feeling the need for fortification, I return to the breakfast bar for coffee and the comfort of a fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon-apple scone with juicy chunks of real apple. It’s so good that I’m tempted to ask the on-site baker to rustle up a batch for our fun
d-raising tea. But I haven’t been invited to contribute to that menu. I so wanted to be involved in the final bakerama, but instead Pamela has asked me to spend the morning sorting through the photos from the trip, captioning the best and forwarding them to her agent. Apparently the publisher wants to see whether they can incorporate some scrapbook-style montages. And yes, I probably have better skills in this area.

  I take out my laptop, slot in the memory card and watch the slideshow of the past week play out before my eyes:

  New York. There’s Charlie Romano! I smile at his familiar face. The vast kitchen at the Waldorf Astoria; Pamela inspecting the beetroot puree for the Red Velvet Cake. I think that was the most sophisticated taste sensation of the trip, though I wince recalling the bitterness of that pure chocolate. Of course there are no pictures of Ravenna at Tiffany’s, but I recall that episode all too well. And the hair-raising drive out of the city and into Connecticut. Mystic Pizza. Warren and the Nutmeg Spice Cupcakes. The glorious approach to Rhode Island over the bridge. All those boats in Newport Harbor. The mansions. Votes for Women teacups at the Chinese Tea House. The awful moment when Gracie crashed the bus. It’s quite bizarre seeing the pictures of the minutes before—ironically we have some great ones if she still wants an option for her Christmas cards.

  Here we are at the cranberry bog, now with Charles. Then Provincetown. I can’t help but chuckle at these ones. I didn’t realize Pamela had taken so many of Charles on the podium at the Tea Dance. And there’s such a nice sunset one on the beach with us all eating lobster rolls. Oh, and the Land’s End Inn! My favorite sleepover. And the first time Ravenna confided in me.

  And so it progresses. Plimoth Plantation. The retrofied Dunkin’ Donuts at Quincy. Boston. I’m privy now to the moment they bought their matching Johnny Cupcakes T-shirts—while I was waltzing around Harvard with Harvey. I think of our Alice in Wonderland–like tea at UpStairs on the Square and see they got their afternoon cake-fix at the Georgetown Cupcake, with a close-up of the Bubblegum Pink Vanilla option. Then there’s Tuoi, demonstrating the spider-web effect on the Boston Cream Pie. And Pamela and I trying our first bite.