The Traveling Tea Shop (13 page)

When I think of all the London busses I have boarded without blinking an eye—far too preoccupied with finding a seat or getting out of the rain or hurrying to my next appointment . . .

Out of its usual context, away from Oxford Street’s giant department stores and burly black cabs, this double-decker looks huge. And red!
So
red. And glossy. And iconic. I run my hand over the engine bonnet—goodness, these things are solid.

“Classic Routemaster 1956,” Gracie puffs with pride. “Feel free to step on board!”

The downstairs interior has the authentic itchy-fuzzy seat coverings, but the driver’s cab has been opened out so Gracie can interact with us along the way, as opposed to being sealed off in her own cube. Seatbelts have been added in the passenger area, and apparently there are a few more tweaks upstairs.

“Pamela, why don’t you lead the way?”

I hear a squeal and clatter before I’m halfway up the curved staircase.

“What is it?” I call ahead.

“Oh Mum! I can’t believe it!”

As my gopher head pops up, I see the entire upstairs level has been kitted out with a chintzy-fresh, Cath Kidston-style kitchen—there’s a baby-pink oven and fridge, an immaculate white preparation area lined with mixers and bowls and assorted lacy cake stands.

“Everything is secured so it won’t slide around as we take a tight corner,” Gracie explains. “And I got those cake tins you were talking about the other day.” She points to a vintage set in pale-blue enamel, not so very dissimilar to the cream ones at Marble House.

“Oh I love them! I love it all!” Pamela reaches to embrace her mother.

“Happy birthday, love.”

“It’s your birthday?” I startle.

“Next week,” Pamela replies, now stroking the stack of rose-print tea towels. “I just can’t believe it!”

I watch as she opens each drawer, holds up each spatula and pastry brush, turns each aluminum baking tray and then pauses beside a framed picture of the three Lambert-Leigh women a good fifteen years ago. Ravenna is up on Pamela’s hip, pointing to the candles on the cake Gracie is holding up.

“My forty-fifth birthday,” Pamela remembers. “You piped all those tiny roses yourself, didn’t you, Mum?”

“I did. One for every year that I wished the best for you.”

Pamela gives her a rueful look, as if to say, “I have no idea how things got so bad.”

I feel a little awkward, intruding on such a personal moment, and pretend to be intently studying the side of the box of Typhoo.

“One more surprise.” Gracie leads us back off the bus and gets us to look up at the destination panel.

The largest lettering spells out NEW ENGLAND. The states are listed in smaller type. But Gracie is most excited about the numbering.

240.

“D’you get it?”

We frown, looking at each other for clues. I was always on the 19 or the 390 in London.

“It’s not Golders Green, is it?”

“As a matter of fact it is, but you’re thinking too literally. Say it out loud.”

“Two hundred and forty.”

“Like the Americans do.”

I have to think for a moment. “Two-forty.”

“Again.”

“Two-forty.”

“A little slower.”

“Two-for . . .” Suddenly the penny drops. “Two for tea!”

Pamela and I laugh. “That’s brilliant!”

“Ready to go for a spin?”

The engine chugs to life.

•   •   •

Ravenna, who hasn’t said a word throughout the inspection, tucks herself directly into the back row, whereas Pamela and I sit as close to the front as possible, admiring Gracie’s dexterity with the giant horizontal steering wheel.

“It’s like coming home,” she beams as we set off.

This really is incredible—who gets to drive around New England in a double-decker bus with a celebrity chef and on-board cake-making facilities? Heaven or what?

Gracie’s living the dream too—blaring out Cliff Richard’s “Summer Holiday” and waving to all the fascinated faces we pass on the way to Ocean Drive. When we get there, the local trolley tour bus draws level and the driver calls across:

“Should I be worried about the competition?”

“Nooo!” she chuckles. “We’ll be gone by morning!”

“That’s a shame!” he says, giving her a flirty wink. “I like your style!”

“I like everything about this place,” Gracie sighs as we continue on. “I really do.”

“Here comes our photography spot.” I point ahead.

Ravenna grudgingly dislodges herself as we disembark and line up on the grassy bank by the water’s edge, preparing to snap an image worthy of Gracie’s Christmas cards.

“What she really wants is a picture to put on Georgie’s grave,” Pamela gives us an extra motivation to make a timely click. “Show him she’s still got it.”

As if anyone could doubt that.

I mean, look at her now—hugging the curves of the road in a vehicle that’s twice the size of my apartment, leaning out of the window giving us a joyful woo-hoo!

“She’s going pretty fast!” I express concern as I begin to snap.

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“Tell me that seagull isn’t thinking of crossing the road,” I fret, eyeing the puffed-chest fella making plodding progress from the rocks to the tarmac. “Can she see him?”

“Mum! Watch out!” Pamela tries to alert her with flailing arms.

She just gives a bigger wave back.

“
Mum!
”

“
Gracie!
”

“
Granny!
” even Ravenna gasps out loud as the bus swerves to avoid the strutting bird, rucks up onto the bank, grabs at the grass and halts just millimeters before plunging into the sea.

The three of us hurtle toward the bus.

“Oh my god! Mum!
Mum?
Are you all right?” Pamela claws her way onto the bus.

Gracie’s head is down on the steering wheel.

“She’s bleeding!” Pamela shrieks. “She’s bleeding!”

It seems to be coming from her jaw. I fumble for my phone, dialing 911 with a trembling hand.

As I hurriedly give our details, Gracie tilts back in her seat, looking dazed, hand going to her face. She tries to speak but winces in agony.

“I think she might have cracked her jaw, it doesn’t look right.”

I run and grab the stack of rose-print tea towels and use them to stem the flow of blood, which seems to be getting everywhere now.

I try telling myself it’s just food coloring, but still my stomach churns.

I can’t believe this happy-go-lucky moment has taken such a horrible turn. Did someone up there misunderstand when Gracie said she wanted to immortalize her drive along this stretch of coast?

“The ambulance is here,” Ravenna alerts us.

We step out of the way to give the paramedics full access. As they undo the seatbelt and ease her out, she grabs at her ribs. Looks like she might have cracked one of those too—that is a darn big steering wheel and she did brake with quite some force. No airbags here.

We’re all stunned to silence as she is strapped to the stretcher. This is real. Gracie is hurt.

I want to go with them to the hospital, but Pamela asks me to stay with the bus.

So what happens now? I want to believe it’s just a nasty bump, but I fear the worst. She certainly won’t be up to driving anytime soon. And even if she could, and as feisty as she is, would she even want to after this?

I sigh as I think of our original plans—quick spin on the bus, tour of The Breakers, then dinner at the oldest bar in America. Gracie had already decided she was having the local scallops.

I look back at the red behemoth—one minute the promise of unlimited fun, now our ruin.

When she said I should prepare for anything, she wasn’t kidding.

And then I well up thinking of her lovely face, all bashed and bleeding. I can’t even go there in terms of this being life-threatening. It could so easily have been, but it’s not, is it? She was still conscious. She just couldn’t speak. She’s going to be okay. Not straightaway, but she will be fine, she has to be. I drag my fingers across the front grille and then check my phone. And then check it again.

“Let me know the diagnosis as soon as you can,” I text Pamela.

I know Krista won’t be available for another few hours, so I call the garage and explain our predicament.

The worst part is having to convince every passing tourist that we are not a new landmark attraction.

But of course that’s not the worst part at all. The worst part is that Gracie is in hospital, in all kinds of shock and pain, with her dream in peril.

Once the bus has been returned to the garage, barely an hour after we collected it, I get a lift to the hospital.

“How is she?” I hurry to Pamela’s side.

“They’ve stitched up her jaw,” she replies, looking queasy. “We’re just waiting for her X-ray results, for her ribs.”

I nod. “And how is she in herself?”

“They’ve given her something to help her sleep so she’s a bit out of it. Obviously she can’t speak anyway because her face is all bandaged up.” Pamela’s brow crumples.

I put my arm around her.

“It really is best you go home and get some rest,” the doctor advises. “We’ll take good care of her and you can come back in the morning when she’s feeling brighter.”

“I can’t leave her!” Pamela protests. “I need to be here.”

But Ravenna is starting to shiver, her bony bare arms showing goose bumps.

“I don’t mind staying but can we at least go back to the hotel and get some warmer clothes?”

Pamela sighs, conflicted. “I suppose we could get a few of her things too. In case she has to be here a while.”

“Good idea,” I confirm. “I’ll wait here.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Okay, thank you. We won’t be long.”

“That’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

None of us are.

The second Pamela and Ravenna are out of sight, the doctor returns.

“Ms. Davis?”

“Yes?”

“She would like a word with you.”

“Gracie?”

He nods.

“With me? I thought she was sleeping?”

“Not yet. She’s resisting the medication—issuing commands to us via pen and paper.”

I feel my face light up. She’s still here! Feisty Gracie is in the house!

•   •   •

Gingerly I push open the door. She is expecting me—eagerly beckoning me to her side, keen to communicate before she goes under.

She taps at her notepad, having already prepared her first instruction:
You MUST continue on this trip!

Now she is pointing to her handbag, which I duly hand to her. I watch her rummage inside, pull out a small address book with a Monet print on the cover and then reach for her pen.

Charles Porter.

She taps the paper.

I say his name out loud to assure her I can read the words.

She mimes jiggling a steering wheel.

“Driving? He’s a driver?”

She nods vigorously.

“Is he in England?”

She shakes her head and writes
Boston.
And then begins copying out his phone number.

“Boston . . .” I remind myself of the distance via the map function on my phone. “That’s actually not too far from here. Not even two hours. So who is he?”

Silence.

“Gracie?” I look up and find her head lolling to the left, sound asleep. I give her a little jiggle. “Gracie?”

Nothing.

My shoulders slump. What now? Am I supposed to call him tonight? Is it really possible this man would drop everything and come to our rescue? Would he have any idea of what he’s letting himself in for? Would we?

“Gracie?” I try her again—if she could give me one last burst . . .

“She really needs to sleep now.” A nurse pops her head around the door.

“Yes, yes. Of course.” I retract my hand, feeling guilty for trying to stir her.

Then, as I reach for the piece of paper, I notice that Gracie has added a message beneath the phone number.

My stomach flips as I read these three little words:

He’s the one.

I decide not to mention this exchange to Pamela when she returns to the hospital, sans Ravenna.

Well, there’s no guarantee that the mysterious Mr. Porter will agree to the assignment and, besides, I suspect he could be a key factor in Gracie’s meddling.

“You don’t think she had the accident on purpose?” Krista gasps when I finally reach her.

“I wouldn’t put anything past her, but I don’t think even she can control the wanderings of the local seagulls.”

“True,” Krista concedes. “So what are you waiting for?”

I look back at the phone number in my hand. “You think I should call him?”

“Of course! Unless you’re planning on driving the bus yourself.”

“I’m not sure Pamela is going to want to leave her.”

“I don’t think Gracie’s going to give her any choice. Besides, you said she loves Newport. She’ll be perfectly happy staying put.”

“By herself?”

“She’s not exactly a shrinking violet, is she? And she knows her way around, if she gets back on her feet. Plus she can catch up with you guys the second she is able. You’ll never be that far away.”

“I suppose not.” I step out of the way of a trundling hospital trolley.

“Look. We know by now this is the nature of travel—unpredictable. You have to be flexible and accept that things don’t always go according to plan.”

“I know,” I sigh. “But this isn’t just a missed connection.”

“But it could be, if you don’t make that call.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gracie was emphatic about contacting this fella, right?”

“Yes,” I confirm.

“Maybe Pamela needs to meet him. Or maybe you do?”

“What would it have to do with me?” Now I’m feeling even more uneasy.

“I’m just saying. Everything happens for a reason.”

I’m quiet for a moment and then I mumble, “I don’t want to go without her.”

“Oh Laurie!”

“She’s so much fun! I mean, I like Pamela but she’s not in the most cheery place, and as for Ravenna . . .” My mouth twists in disgust.

“This is work,” Krista reminds me. “You’re on a mission. You can hang out with Gracie again once she’s well, but until then you have a job to do.”

I can’t help but smile. This isn’t like Krista, being so business-minded.

“Tough love?”

“Selfish love,” she clarifies. “We’ve got a date in Vermont, remember?”

She’s right: there really is so much to look forward to.

“Okay, I’m going to call him now.”

“Good girl,” Krista cheers. “Call me afterward, let me know how it goes.”

•   •   •

I decide I need a slug of Dark and Stormy. We’re just a mile from the wharf so I tell Pamela I’m going to get us a couple of chowders. She nods fretfully. I do feel sorry for her. This is all she needs. When it rains it sure does pour.

On the way there my imagination starts to whirr. Bus driver. Boston. Friend of Gracie’s. Could he be some old colleague of Georgie’s? Suddenly I’m picturing tattooed forearms, a cor-blimey accent and a smoker’s cough that causes him to hack out of the window, possibly incurring $2,000 fines all over New England. But Charles is hardly the most geezer-ish name. He sounds more like a gentrified chauffeur. All brass buttons, polished boots and a peaked cap. Or do I just have mansion fever?

There’s only one way to find out.

Drink in one hand, phone in the other, I begin to dial . . .

His number rings. And rings. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might not answer. Oh!

“Good evening!”

“Er, good evening. Is that Charles Porter?”

“It is.”

He sounds in good spirits. And American. I wasn’t sure if he was going to be an expat.

“Hello. My name is Laurie Davis, I’m calling on behalf of Gracie Lambert-Leigh.”

“Is everything all right?” Immediate concern.

“Well. Yes and no. She’s going to be fine, but at this moment she’s at the hospital here in Newport.”

I hear him gasp.

“She took a bit of a clunk to the jaw in the double-decker.”

“Oh Gracie!” He sounds wretched.

“I know, it’s awful.” I hesitate. “Um. She gave me your number. I realize this is a long shot, but we’re looking for someone to drive the bus.”

“When do you want me there?”

Wow.

“Well, according to the original schedule, we were due to leave at ten
A.M.
tomorrow but—”

“I’ll be there at nine.”

I can’t quite believe my ears. “Really?”

“I’ll start getting my things together now.”

“O-okay.” I falter. “Do you know what this trip is about?”

“Cakes, right?”

I give a little laugh. “Yes, cakes.” I start to explain a little more but he politely cuts me off.

“I’d better get on—I have a few calls to make; I wasn’t expecting to hear from Gracie for another couple of days.”

Interesting . . .

“Just text me the address and I’ll be there.”

“Thank you so much,” I marvel. “You’re a total lifesaver.”

“Well, there’s not much I won’t do for cake!”

A man after my own heart.

I dial Krista before I’ve even had a chance to process the conversation.

“He said yes!” I tell her. “He’s going to be here tomorrow morning.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Dropping everything to come to our aid.”

“He’s definitely in on The Meddle,” Krista decides.

“I think you’re right—it seems he was expecting to hear from Gracie anyway, possibly when we got to Boston.”

“What does Pamela say about all this?”

“I haven’t told her yet; you were my first call. Wait, I’m just getting a text from her now . . .”

I hold out the phone to read it.

“She’s decided to go back to the hotel to get a few hours’ sleep. That’s good,” I decide. “She needs the rest. And the chance to have the room to herself.”

“Speaking of which—what are you going to do about the sleeping arrangements now you have a man in your midst?”

“Oh.” My stomach sinks. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You three girls might have to bunk in together for the first night. Provincetown is going to be chock-a-block.”

“As a matter of fact, all four of us were supposed to be in one room there.”

“Cozy!”

“I found this really unusual suite . . .”

“Does it have a balcony?”

“Yes?”

“Well, let’s just hope he’s the outdoorsy type and he can sleep out there!”

“Oh Krista!”

“Come on, this isn’t the end of the world—you’re the Queen of Logistics. You can sort this in your sleep.”

“I might have to,” I say, looking at my watch.

“Don’t lose your enthusiasm. Everything is working out, you’ve got a driver, and tomorrow you’re going to Cape Cod!”

“I know, it’s just . . .” I look around me at the lights reflecting on the inky waters, the still gleam of the sleeping boats, and I feel a strange pang of attachment. “I’m going to miss Newport.”

I sense Krista smiling. “Don’t tell me Manhattan has a rival!”

“Well, of course you can’t compare the two, but it’s just so lovely here—the coast, the marina, the mansions, even the name of the university: Salve Regina . . .”

“Mater misericordiae!”
Krista sings.

“Why is that ringing a bell?” I frown.

“Evita. ‘Oh What a Circus’?”

“Oh yes!” I laugh.

“You never did tell me how Ricky Martin was as Che . . .”

And so we go off on that tangent, talking about Broadway shows and pop star crushes until everything starts to feel normal again.

Friends. They’re the best.

•   •   •

I put off going back to the room as late as I can, hoping that Ravenna will be asleep, but instead she is sitting up in bed changing channels in an angry ADD way, punishing the button on the remote for the sins of the world.

“Do you mind muting that or wearing your headphones?” I say absently. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about? We’re not going anywhere; we’re going to be stuck in yachtie hell until Granny’s fit to drive.”

“Actually, we’ve got another driver coming in. Charles Porter.”

I watch her face for any trace of recognition but there is none.

“So we’re just leaving Granny here?”

“It was her idea,” I reply. “Of course, if you want to stay on—”

“No, NO!” She gives me a sideways look. “So where are we going tomorrow?”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to stand the excitement,” I tell her, imagining her knee-deep in a cranberry bog. “Why don’t you just wait and see?”

“Whatever,” she humphs. “This whole thing is lame.”

I feel my annoyance flare. I do hope I don’t reach over and muffle her in the night with a pillow—you know, involuntarily, in my sleep.

“I think I’m going to sleep out on the deck tonight,” I announce.

“Do what you like!”

I take her at her word and make myself a cozy nest under the stars. I doubt I’ll last until morning, but for now it’s better than being in the presence of a moany spoiled teenager.

I breathe in the night air, and breathe out my exasperations. I wonder a little more about Charles. I couldn’t really tell his age from the phone call, but he certainly sounded like a grown-up. Like a real man.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”

Such a reassuring attitude. It’s good to know there are still people like that in the world.

As the minutes pass I realize that I am no longer tied to any concerns; out here in the black of night, I feel suspended in time and space.

Which is real, I wonder: all the flurry and scurry and practicalities of life; or these magical moments that feel weightless, connected to the starlight and the swishing of the ocean?

And so my eyes close.