Chapter 14

And so to the wharf. It’s an interesting mix of tourists and locals, restaurants and boutiques, upmarket charm and ye olde pirate hideaway—there’s even a tavern called the Black Pearl. Though what Captain Jack Sparrow would make of all the yachtie types in their belted shorts and pastel polo shirts, I don’t know.

“Mum, look!”

For a second Ravenna forgets to be sullen and shut-down, so dazzled is she by an entire window filled with outsize cupcakes sparkling blush and lavender.

“Are they real?”

We all peer closer looking for clues amid the glitter, only to realize we are looking into a fancy beauty shop.

“Bath bombs,” I conclude. “You know those things that fizz and go crazy when you add them to water?”

“Ohhhh!” Pamela and Gracie nod understanding.

“Can we go inside?” Ravenna asks.

“After dinner.”

“Won’t it be closed?”

“All the shops here stay open late,” Gracie assures her.

We follow some poshly boisterous spirits to the Clarke Cooke House (which has a reputation for hosting the swankiest of the sailing crowd) and opt for the waterfront dining option, both for its scenic aspect and its name: The Candy Store.

As with the beauty shop, there are no actual sugary confections at large, just plenty of candy-colored director’s chairs in gobstopper pink, lemon-sherbet yellow and flying-saucer turquoise, set around white-clothed tables.

We are positioned near the “missing wall” overlooking the harbor and beside the bar—a grand, wood-paneled affair with a low ceiling fan and mirrored backdrop. Silver champagne buckets glisten on the countertop, chilly with condensation. Cashmere sweaters drape over shoulders. Everyone has good hair. Pamela dubs it Sloanes-by-the-Sea, but without the snobbery.

While studying the booze selection for inspiration, I see a couple perched on bar stools displaying intense “someone’s getting lucky tonight” body language and feel a tug of longing for that heady state of first-date flirtation when you’re feeling giddily tipsy and entranced, bodies cleaving toward one another, heavy with anticipation of the spinning surrender to come . . .

“Is there a local cocktail you could recommend?” I rasp. I may need a couple.

“Dark and Stormy,” Gracie points to the menu. “Dark rum and ginger beer.”

“Is that what you’re having?”

“Actually, I’m going to try the Newport Water.”

Which sounds all very pure and abstaining until you read that it is, in fact, a mix of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label champagne, Grand Marnier and St-Germain (a sophisticated elderflower liqueur).

“Ooh, I like the sound of that!” enthuses Pamela.

“Ravenna?”

“I’ll just have a glass of seawater, perhaps with a dash of leaked engine fuel?”

I can’t help but have a little chuckle.

At least she can’t complain about the food.

“This is the best swordfish I’ve ever eaten,” I announce. Aside from the fact that it is cooked to juicy perfection, it comes served with minuscule baubles of couscous and a spoonful of aubergine caponata. “Just delicious.”

“Same goes double for the clam chowder,” Gracie raves. “Taste it.” She offers me a spoon.

“Oh.” I wince. “I don’t know about clams.”

“Have you ever had them?”

“Not on purpose.” I look around me. “I don’t know if I should say this out loud in New England, but I’m not really much of a seafood person.”

“Just taste it.” She is determined.

Slimy, salty, chewy and inducing of the gag reflex.

That is what I was expecting.

Instead my taste buds are met with a light but hearty, creamy but fresh delight.

“What’s that herb?” I ask.

“Dill.”

“And these little white cubes?”

“Potato.”

“Oh, it’s so yummy!”

I can’t even taste the clam.

“I knew you’d like it.” Gracie is smug.

“Do you think they used to serve it at the mansions, you know, back in the day?”

“Well, it’s actually rather interesting about the food.” Gracie dabs her mouth with her napkin. “French cuisine was held in the highest regard, so it was all French chefs presenting their food à la française, which was basically an extremely lavish buffet display. But then fashions changed and the Vanderbilts led the way by serving à la russe.”

“Russe?” I frown.

“Russian style.”

“Gosh, whatever is that?” I ask, imagining a chain of Cossacks circling the table shouting “Hah!” as each domed plate cover is removed.

“Well, it’s actually what we are used to today: being served one course at a time.”

“Oh.”

“The significant difference being they had eight courses.”

“What?” I splutter, secretly envious.

“They began with oysters, then soup, then fish, meat and two vegetables, the entrée, some kind of alcoholic sorbet before the roast—”

“A roast on top of meat and two veg?”

She nods. “Then a salad and dessert. Never mind the wines and coffees and the cognacs . . .”

“That’s bonkers.”

“But!” She pauses for emphasis. “All of this was served at such a pace that you were lucky to get a bite. No sooner was the last plate set down than they began to remove the rest and serve the next course.”

“You’re joking!”

Gracie shakes her head. “One young girl was advised by her father to keep a finger on the plate while she was eating, lest it be whipped away.”

I’m reeling. “So you could sit down to a never-ending banquet and leave the table hungry?”

“As was frequently the case,” Gracie confirms. “They even went so far as to say that the greatest pleasure you got from the food was watching it all come and go.”

“Talk about a feast for the eyes,” I quip.

“Bet the servants enjoyed the leftovers,” Ravenna smirks.

“They probably ate better than their employers and assorted royals.”

I turn to Pamela, surprised that she hasn’t voiced a response, and find her looking distracted. Again.

“Everything all right?” I check with her as our plates are cleared away. (With every last morsel scraped from them.)

She looks undecided, then leans forward. “I think I should probably tell you . . . No,” she corrects herself, “I want to tell you. Before you read about it . . .” She waits for the waitress to finish up and then begins anew: “My husband and I—”

“Ex-husband,” snips Ravenna.

“Ex?” I query.

“Not yet.” She grimaces. “But yes, we’re getting a divorce.”

“Can I go to the shops now?” Ravenna gets to her feet. “You can call me when you’re done.”

“Yes, yes.” Pamela waves off her daughter.

Now I feel guilty for being so mean to her. Her parents are splitting up. She’s playing up. Not that it’s any excuse but . . .

I turn back to Pamela. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“No, no. It’s—”

“Long overdue,” Gracie cuts in. “Long, long—”

“All right, Mum!” Pamela tenses.

I bite my lip.

“It’s one of the reasons I was so eager to get away. And get Ravenna away.”

I nod.

“I have a feeling that Brian might not behave in the most dignified manner.”

“That’s an understatement,” Gracie mutters. “The man is the antithesis of dignity—a mean-spirited, parasitic—”

“Mum, please.”

“You don’t agree?” she challenges.

“Wholeheartedly, but I’m trying to maintain a neutrality for Ravenna’s sake.”

“Ravenna’s not here.”

“Well, I don’t want to get into the habit of bad-mouthing him.”

“That’s commendable,” I opine.

“It’s also part of the problem,” Gracie counters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pamela huffs.

“You never said out loud all the awful, humiliating—”

“Um!” I scrape back my chair. “I think I might go and check on Ravenna.”

“No,” Pamela reaches for my arm. “Don’t leave on our account. We can contain our bickering.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

“I don’t want to argue,” Pamela reasons.

“Again. Part of the problem.”

Pamela closes her eyes, desperate to shut it all out.

Only now does Gracie see that she’s gone too far.

She gets to her feet. “I think I’m going to go and see if I can get Ravenna to eat one of those exploding cupcakes.”

I wait until she’s out of earshot and then scoot my chair closer.

“Pamela—”

“I’m so embarrassed!” She covers her face with her hands.

“There’s no need to be,” I soothe, lightly touching her forearm. “Not now, and regardless of what happens on this trip.”

Her face remains covered.

“We’re in this together,” I tell her. “We’ve got a cake sisterhood going here: that’s a pretty strong bond.”

She peeks out at me. “I just feel such a wreck at the moment. I’m all over the place.”

“It’s perfectly understandable. I think it’s so brave of you to undertake a trip like this with so much going on in your personal life.”

“I thought it would be a good distraction, and the publishers were adamant about it being now or never—”

“That’s why we’re going to make it work,” I assert. “And I really think it will. I know you’ve had some glimmers of joy already—with Charlie at the Waldorf, that slice of Mystic Pizza, tonight’s champagne sunset . . .”

“I have,” she acknowledges. “I just feel like I’m being attacked from every angle.”

“You have to tune them out. We can use some mini-marsh-mallows as earplugs if it comes to it.”

She snuffles a smile then reaches for my hand. “Thank you for being so nice.”

I give a little “no problem” shrug.

She reaches for the menu. “Shall we order some dessert?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I reply. “And I think you should try one of these Dark and Stormy cocktails. For research.”

“Research?”

“I was thinking how great a rum and ginger cupcake would be, especially for the sailors . . .”

Now she really brightens. “You’re on!”

•   •   •

Later, back at the beach house, I try broaching the subject with Ravenna.

“I’m sorry to hear about your parents’ divorce,” I say as I light the fire, hoping to create a comforting vibe.

She doesn’t even look up from her phone.

“If you want to talk about it—”

“Why would I want to talk about it with you?”

She has a point.

“No reason,” I concede. “Other than I’m here.” And then I shake my head. “You’re right. I just wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Thank you,” she snarks. “That makes it all better.”