Read The Traveling Tea Shop for Free Online Page B

Babycakes?”
    She taps back in seconds. “Special Halloween edition?”
    And then she adds, “You know, for all her don’t-care street-kid styling, that handbag is a Mulberry?”
    For some reason this irritates me all the more, though Krista makes me smile when she suggests this caption:
Rebel with a Purse.
    I’d love to break away and bring her up to date, but for now I need to direct the Skycaps and limo driver as they try to maneuver Gracie’s dead weight into the backseat.
    “Mind her head!”
    I hear one of them muttering something about
Weekend at Bernie’s.
I’m about to check that Gracie is still breathing when she starts to snore.
    Well that’s one less thing to worry about.
    “All right! We’re all set. The journey into town should take about forty minutes, if it’s not too bumper-to-bumper, so I thought I’d take this opportunity to run through our itinerary.”
    Ravenna makes for the drinks cabinet.
    I have to bleep out her reaction when she opens it.
    “I switched the decanters for Red Velvet Cheesecake!” I explain, reaching for the plates, admiring the neat two-tone stripes of textured red and smooth cream. “I thought it was the perfect combination of New York’s finest! Here you go . . .”
    Ravenna turns away like a baby refusing its spoon of stewed carrot.
    “She doesn’t really eat,” Pamela grimaces.
    I wait for her to finish her sentence.
She doesn’t really eat cakes.
Or,
She doesn’t really eat anything with refined sugar.
Or
anything that tastes good.
But that’s where she stops.
    Ravenna is certainly skinny enough to verify this. As she reaches to adjust the air-conditioning above her head, she reveals a stomach that is positively concave.
    “Oh. Well. All the more for the rest of us,” I chirp.
    “Actually, I’m not hungry,” Pamela also declines.
    I look over at Gracie. Her mouth
is
lolling open . . . But no. I guess we’ll just keep them for later.
    “So. The itinerary—”
    Pamela holds up a weary hand. “Do you mind if we go through all that tomorrow?”
    I gulp back my disappointment. “No, of course not. I’m sure you’re all really tired after your journey.”
    I look down at the package. Perhaps I could just tell her about the
Downton Abbey
connection with Newport, Rhode Island? Just to lift her spirits? I look up at her, but already she’s a million miles away, staring lifelessly out of the window. I sigh. It’s a look I saw all too often on my own mother’s face. Emotional and physical exhaustion. My eyes narrow at Ravenna. Outsize graffiti-print headphones denting her backcombed hair, picking at her blue nail polish, big ole boots up on the seats. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the prime cause.
    And then I remember I offered to share a room with her.
    Not wanting anyone to pick up on the desperation in my voice as I call around the list of hotels, I text my request to Krista.
    “I’ll literally take the broom cupboard. Or the spa massage table after hours.
Anything.
”
    And then I sigh. This is so not what I had planned. I have selected the most elegant accommodations, the kinds of genteel, historic places that make you want to carry a lace fan and curtsey at the doorman. When I think of rolling up with this motley crew . . . I shake my head—it comes to something when I’m the best-dressed person in the room. And with all their money too.
    The last I read, Pamela was worth an estimated £15 million. Surely you could buy a new daughter for that?
    “Sorry kiddo,” Krista taps back. “The first place I could get you in is Maine.”
    I scan the itinerary. That’s over halfway into the trip.
    “I’ve got you on the waiting list though.”
    “Thank you.”
    “At least tonight you get your own bed—just as soon as you’ve got them all tucked up at the Waldorf, right?”
    •   •   •
    I suppose I should count my blessings that everyone wants an early night, even if I did get Pamela front-row seats for
Evita.
Obviously