Chapter 24

Welcome to Massachusetts.

We’re not even half an hour down the road when we transition into our next state.

Funny how a single sign can make you feel so separated from all that went before. If I turn back I can still see Rhode Island, but already it’s in our past, geographically at least.

“Massachusetts.”

As I hear Charles say the state name out loud, I can’t help but think of the Bee Gees. Not a bad thing in and of itself, but then that makes me recall the radio DJ who made a silly pun about “massive chew sets.” Why, when my brain lets so much go, would I remember that? I suppose there are some things you just can’t un-hear. And some things you can’t un-feel, I think, as I watch the stolen glances between Pamela and Charles. There is undeniably some deep connection there. I look forward to Gracie feeling better so I can learn more . . .

As we continue down another corridor of trees, I wonder out loud how different the drive would be in the autumn.

“It’s incredible,” Charles confirms. “I always say that the fall leaves are to New England what neon is to Vegas—a total marvel to the eye.”

“Really?”

He nods enthusiastically. “The blaze of the red maples stops you in your tracks; the color is so intense and . . . unexpected. And the pure yellow leaves, when the sunlight is behind them, they just glow.” He smiles. “It’s like a beautifully arranged bouquet that runs for miles and miles.”

I’m smiling too now. He has a rather poetic way about him—even now he’s pointing out how the roadside trees have taken on a more feathery, fanlike foliage, as in a Busby Berkeley musical, with an endless parade of showgirls peeling back as we progress.

“Wareham!” I spot a sign to our destination.

This is where we will learn more about one of Massachusetts’ biggest exports and Pamela’s favorite superfood ingredient—cranberries.

“A.D. Makepeace is the world’s largest cranberry grower and supplier for Ocean Spray.” I flip to my notes. “Gosh, they’ve been around since the 1800s!”

“Riveting,” yawns Ravenna.

“Not a fan of cranberries?” I snark.

“Not unless they’re in a cocktail.”

“We’ll have a Cape Cod tonight,” Charles suggests. “Vodka, cranberry, slice of lime.”

“Ravenna’s not old enough to drink,” I remind him.

“I am in the UK.”

“Shame you’re not back there then.”

“Isn’t it just?”

“All right you two,” he tuts as we head down a narrow road completely shrouded with trees.

We’re deep in the countryside now, yet the bus is coping admirably with the change in terrain. Charles decides we should give her a name. I suggest Georgie but Pamela doesn’t look convinced.

“What about Red?” she brightens. “That’s what Dad would call all the busses—‘I’m going out with Red today, I’ll be home at six!’”

Instant hit.

“Come on, Red!” we cheer as she bumps out of the forest and into a clearing.

Now, when you think of strawberry-picking, you picture low green bushes in which you’ll have to forage for the fruit. It’s a completely different story with cranberries. They grow in bogs, for one thing, and when the berries float to the top you are confronted with acres and acres of waterlogged pink! I can hardly believe my eyes.

“So when those guys in the Ocean Spray ads are standing there in their waders, it’s real?” I gawp. “I always thought it was just a jokey thing, like they were thigh-deep in cranberry juice.”

Charles laughs. “No, that’s really part of the process.”

Our guide joins us to expand further: “Cranberries grow on low-lying vines in the wetlands. Once they are ripe, we flood the bogs with water, a device loosens them from the vine and they bob to the surface where we can corral them.”

Ravenna doesn’t even feign interest. Her head is down, focused on texting as she paces restlessly around the banks.

“Cranberries were first discovered by the Native Americans, who used them as a fabric dye and healing agent as well as a food.”

Fascinating. I look back at Ravenna. Is she paying any attention to where she’s going?

“They were also used by colonial sailors as a means of warding off scurvy.”

“Is that so?” I nod at the guide then return my gaze to Ravenna. If she’s not careful she’s going to walk straight into the—

“Waaahhaaghh!”

In she goes with an ungainly splosh, so disoriented by the sudden switch from dry land to bog that she lurches forward and goes under, all bar the hand holding her phone, which remains sticking up like a periscope.

God, I wish I had that on video.

As she scrabbles back upright, I get the feeling she doesn’t know what to freak out about the most: her hair, her clothes, her dignity!

Pamela charges to her side to help pull her out.

“Don’t touch me!” she screeches, spattering her with water.

“But darling . . .”

Ravenna turns away, yanking angrily at her sodden clothes as she attempts to scale the bank solo, but the path is too slippery.

“Take my hand,” Charles offers.

For him she relents, accepting the assistance of his steel-strong arm. But no sooner does she have a firm stance than I see her gearing up to launch an attack on Pamela, who has returned to the side of the guide, trying to cover her embarrassment by asking him about the benefit of cranberries on one’s urinary tract.

“Oh this should be good,” I taunt.

“What do you mean?” Ravenna snaps at me.

“I’m just looking forward to seeing how you’re going to make this your mum’s fault, like everything else.”

“If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t even be here,” she spits.

“That’s true on many levels,” I admit. “But is she really responsible for you not looking where you are walking? Or should she put you back in one of those toddler harnesses with a lead?”

“How dare you speak to me like that!” she gasps.

“Oh I dare. I thought you knew that by now.”

“Laurie!” Charles stops me in my tracks, giving me a similar virtual smack to the one Ravenna received at breakfast. “Do you have any suggestions for how we can help Ravenna get a little more comfortable?”

“Yes, of course,” I reply, embarrassed that I lost my professional cool. Again. “She can drop her wet clothes in the sink upstairs on the bus, and there’s a couple of beach towels I laid out for Provincetown.”

“Thank you.”

Once Ravenna is out of earshot, he says, “That was a little baiting.”

“You don’t think she deserves to be challenged?” I protest.

“Unfortunately I do. I’m sorry to see she’s ended up this way.” He looks genuinely regretful.

“Well. I can’t stand by and watch her disrespect her mother in the way she does. I feel very strongly about that.”

“So I see,” he nods. “So do I.”

“Look at this!” Pamela trills over to us. “Make It Better with Cranberries!”

For a moment I think she’s found a cranberry cure for our situation, but it’s actually a cookbook. The unique thing is that all the recipes are local contest winners and the profits benefit the Cranberry Education Foundation. So you can eat as much Cranberry Delight Cake as you like and know you’re contributing to a good cause.

“I think I might try out a couple of these recipes on the way to Provincetown!”

Bless her, burying all the pain and shame in her cooking. You’d think it would sour the taste, but amazingly it doesn’t. Then again, if you knew just how much chocolate goes into a Magic Bog Bar . . .