Chapter 44

For the first hour and a half of our journey, we remain in Maine. Despite passing towns with a European flavor—Lisbon, Poland, Paris—the inland countryside looks all very English. But then we cross into New Hampshire, right at the border of the White Mountain National Forest, and suddenly I’m getting visions of all-American holidays spent hiking and biking, rafting and rollercoasting, all with pressed shorts, side-partings and freckle-faced children named Chip and Cindy.

Personally I rather like the idea of touring the covered bridges and chugging along on the Conway Scenic Railroad, but we only have time for a quick pit stop at McKaella’s Sweet Shop. Pamela wants to trade a slice of Battenburg for McKaella’s legendary rainbow layer cake, which totally trumps us in the color spectrum—from the base up it’s pink sponge then tangerine, sunshine yellow, green, blue and lavender at the top, with layers of cream-cheese buttercream in between.

“It really is beautiful!” Pamela admires the smudgy pastel effect. “As if a brush with multicolored stripes has been swept around the cake.”

“This has certainly been our most colorful day,” I decide. “It’s just a shame they don’t make . . .” I stop suddenly.

“Don’t make what?” asks Ravenna, as she holds up an Eat Cake First T-shirt to her mum.

“Nothing,” I zip my lips.

“Are you ready?” Charles sticks his head round the door. “We don’t want to be late for tea!”

“I’ll catch you up in a minute,” I say as I usher the others back onto the bus.

“What are you up to?” Pamela wants to know.

“You’ll see tonight.”

“Is my pound cake about to get a makeover?”

“It depends if McKaella has what I need. And that’s all I’m saying for now.”

•   •   •

Back on board with my secret stash, I experience a sudden surge of fun and freedom—this has to be the most epically scenic stretch of road so far. I feel like a swooping, gliding bird as my eyes take in the undulations of prosperous green splaying out in every direction. Hard to believe that some of the coldest temperatures and strongest winds in the whole of the United States have been recorded here (gusts can reach up to 230 mph), for today it is pure perfection. Pure being the word—can you imagine how fresh the air is here? I inflate my lungs and marvel at the brightest blue sky.

“Isn’t this glorious?”

Everyone is in good spirits, their eyes a little wider and brighter.

“You know Bill Bryson hiked around here for A Walk in the Woods?” Charles informs us.

“I love Bill Bryson,” I coo. “Totally cracks me up.”

“Me too,” Pamela concurs.

“He used to live in New Hampshire,” Charles adds. “In the same town as Jodi Picoult. And less than two hours from Dan Brown.”

“Wow. Imagine if they’d started a book club!”

When Pamela laments her mum missing out on all this beauty, we decide to Skype her, giving her the full panorama.

“Oh, I feel as if I’m on the bus with you,” she laughs. “Show me where you are heading.”

Ravenna holds the iPad up to the front window and then gasps, “What’s that?”

There, set against the most majestic of mountain ranges, and looking like its own gleaming white kingdom, is the legendary Mount Washington Resort.

We give a collective “oooooh” of wonder. Can this really be our home for the night?

We keep Gracie with us as we begin curving up the main driveway. Off on the left is the Bretton Arms Inn—that’s where I’ll be staying tonight. For the first time since we set off, I have my own room. I try not to dwell on my suspicion that Ravenna specifically requested separate quarters so she could entertain Harvey after hours. It’s actually a good thing that she has some space for her own thoughts tonight. And if she needs to talk, she is welcome to come and visit me. Unless of course I am entertaining Harvey . . .

Up we go, ever closer to the magnificent main building—now we can see the wings extending out, the different levels accented by the signature red roofing and the circular entrance porch that makes you want to swirl in a ball gown. What can I say? Some places just swell your heart—you can feel your chest expanding, just to let in more wonder. Ravenna reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Happy?”

She nods. “I feel like a different person.”

I can’t help but think that within a few hours she will literally have a new identity.

“Oh, I wish you could join us for tea,” Pamela sighs at her mother’s image.

“Don’t worry,” Gracie trills. “I’m meeting the gang for cocktails.”

“Cocktails? At this hour?”

“Well, at our age you don’t want to risk waiting for five P.M. to roll around!”

“Oh, Mum!”

Gracie gives us a cheeky wave before signing off, “Enjoy the fairy tale!”

•   •   •

Most “grande dame” hotels I’ve experienced (including this trip’s Waldorf Astoria and Omni Parker House) have rather dark, wood-paneled lobbies. The Mount Washington is flooded with light. The walls are a lemony buttercream and the endless white columns add an airiness that puts you in mind of a health-enhancing promenade. Even the rugs have a fresh look—every flower, herb or tree depicted in the soft weave is indigenous to the area. I could probably do without the mounted moose’s head center stage, but I like the story behind the mural of a woman looking down on us from a white balcony—the owner’s wife, Carolyn Stickney, used to watch guests arrive from behind a net curtain, possibly so she could check out what the competition was wearing! I’m just relieved that Ravenna has taken a more girlie turn with her outfit today, even if she still looks as if she has used her mother’s whisk to style her hair.

“Now the Princess Room where we’re having tea is so-named because Carolyn became one—eight years after her husband’s death, she married a French prince.”

For a room with a pink arced ceiling garlanded with gold, it’s surprisingly cozy. Even the candelabra are more suggestive of candlelight. Snug beside the fireplace sits a pair of my favorite French canopy chairs, only this time in a rich red with ebony trim. But one particular detail causes my stomach to flip. For there, nestled amidst the bite-size scones, tangy lemon curd and sterling silver tea strainers, is Harvey.

“You’re early!” Pamela startles.

“I hope that’s all right? My meeting was over in minutes and I thought you’d probably be here for tea,” he smiles as he greets each of us.

As I await my peck on the cheek, I can’t help but notice he’s gone a bit Clooney-suave with his slim suit trousers and tailored shirt. Even though Ravenna nabs the seat closest to him, it seems comfortingly significant to me that our outfits complement each other—his dark navy picking out the Wedgewood-inspired print of my dress. I rather like the idea that a stranger walking into the room might identify us as a pair. (You know you’re smitten when . . . )

“Your Kir Royales.” The waiter sets a dark-pink flute of bubbly before each of us.

“Cheers!”

As we raise our glasses, I notice Ravenna’s cassis-splashed liquid has a subtly different hue, and suspect Charles has discreetly substituted her champagne for fizzy apple juice, keeping her this side of legal while also feeling included. Because he’s just that good.

“So the meeting went well?” he asks Harvey as he makes his selection from the wooden chest of teas.

“Quite the opposite,” Harvey grimaces. “They’ve officially pulled out now.” He turns to the rest of us. “The sponsor for a project I’ve been working on.”

“What kind of project?” Pamela wants to know. As do I.

“It’s something we do every July—get some urban kids out on the water, teach them to sail. It sounds pretty basic but it’s been life-changing for some of them—newfound focus, sense of teamwork; just being outdoors is a major plus.”

“Anything but sitting in a darkened room playing video games,” Charles mutters.

“This is the first year we were taking them to Newport, which is a pretty big deal in the sailing community, but the hotel that was going to accommodate us has opted out, so now we’ve got to find somewhere new for them to stay,” he heaves a sigh as he adds, “at the height of the season.”

“So now you’re struggling with availability and price?” I empathize.

“Exactly. I was on the phone the whole way here and all I’m getting is ‘fully booked.’ I really don’t know how we’re going to turn this around.”

“Can’t you help, Laurie?” Ravenna looks expectantly at me before turning back to Harvey: “It’s what she does.”

“I did wonder about asking your advice but . . .” He looks awkward. “We don’t have a budget per se; everyone involved is volunteering their time.”

“That’s not a problem,” I’m quick to assure him. “I’d be happy to help if I can. I mean, what are we talking about here? How many kids? What age? Can they be divided into groups or do they need to be kept together? How many supervisors? Can they be trusted not to wreck the rooms? Is it one group for the month or do they change every week?”

“See!” Ravenna claps her hands together. “See how good she is!”

“Well . . .” I reach for my teacup, tilting it up to cover my face.

“Have you ever been sailing?” Harvey asks me.

“Does the Staten Island Ferry count?”

He chuckles. “Not really. Anyway, we don’t have to get into this now—I can e-mail you later with all the details, if it’s not too much trouble? I know you’re up to your eyeballs with this job.”

“We’ve just got tonight and Vermont and then we’re pretty much done, right Laurie?”

I nod. “I can take a look while you’re having dinner.”

“You’re not joining us?” He looks disappointed.

“No. I have the feeling I’m going to be full of reject Pound Cake.”

Plus, of course, it’s only right that the four of them should enjoy a proper family dinner. Provided everything goes according to plan at the spa. And it has to. I think Pamela knows it’s crunch-time.

“Okay, we both have our challenges now,” I give her a bolstering hug as she prepares to head on her way. “Just be clear and honest and be prepared to answer a million questions.”

She nods. “And you make sure you preheat that oven and grease the tins.”

Suddenly my challenge doesn’t seem quite so daunting.

Then again, I hadn’t counted on having a second pair of hands in the mixing bowl . . .