The Traveling Tea Shop by Belinda Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

introductory talk—I wanted to tell them that the Waldorf Astoria was the first hotel to have room service, that this is where Marilyn Monroe stayed while filming
The Seven Year Itch
and that the Conrad Suite was the chosen venue for the engagement party of His Serene Highness Prince Rainier III and Grace Kelly. But, after the utter lack of interest at my itinerary talk in the limo, I’ve decided to ditch it and cut to the cake.
    It’s funny, in all the time I’ve known Charlie (and his lovely wife Rosaria), I’ve never before asked how Red Velvet Cake is made or what makes their version so legendary.
    It would have been like seeing behind the curtain at Oz. That being said, I am really excited to see Pamela’s Victoria Sponge materialize before my very eyes. I can’t tell you how much I “heart” Victoria Sponge. We chose it as a match because of the red and cream pinstripe of the jam and cream filling and also because British royalty has favored the Waldorf Astoria (specifically Elizabeth II). I wonder if it will be the best I’ve ever tasted? I mean, the M&S triple layer version is hard to beat . . .
    “All right, all right,” I soothe my stomach as it yawps impatiently. “Not long now.”
    I check my watch against the ornate bronze clock centerpiece and smile. The rich mahogany wall panels, the black marble columns, the inlaid ceilings with their abundance of gold flourishes—the whole room feels like being inside a 1930s jewelry box.
    I settle into one of the velvet-hug chairs and people-watch. Or rather, people-judge. I cannot for the life of me understand those folks who spend an arm and a leg to stay on Park Avenue and then put said arm in a T-shirt and said leg in a jean. And I’m not talking some chic little Helmut Lang scoop neck and J Brand denim but Walmart’s finest. Look at this one family—bundling through, yanking and scrapping as they go. It’s just so uncouth!
I know.
I sound like I’m eighty years old, despairing at the youth of today. But I do. I really do.
    And then my face brightens—now that’s more like it!
    A woman has emerged from the lifts looking as if she’s been performing a Noël Coward play between floors. I do love a dame who can wear a scarf with flair. I wonder if she’s French? Or maybe she really is an actress? That dress is beautiful, silky with raised velvety patterns. I bet her lipstick casing is heavy gold and her compact mirror exquisitely engraved.
    Oh gosh. She’s caught me staring. And now she’s heading straight for me.
    “Laurie?”
    “Yes?” I startle to my feet.
    She extends her hand. “Gracie Lambert-Leigh.”
    I know my mouth is gaping but yours would too. The transformation is extreme.
    “Judging by your response, I must have been quite a sight yesterday!”
    “No, no, not at all!” I gulp, trying to regain my composure. “How are you feeling after, er, your lovely rest?”
    “Rest? It was more like a coma. Still, I had to do something to get away from that awful girl.”
    My eyebrows rise. “You mean your granddaughter?”
    “Oh don’t!” she shudders. “The fact that we are genetically connected gives me chills.”
    I remain stunned.
    “Of course, her mother is a co-conspirator. Or, what’s the modern term for that, remind me . . .”
    Dare I say what I’m thinking? “Enabler?” I venture.
    “That’s it. Here she comes now.”
    “Good morning Pamela!” I turn to smile at her, relieved to see that she’s looking a little brighter than yesterday. (Her smock top has a soft lilac print and I really think you only reach for florals when you’re feeling optimistic.)
    “Ravenna not joining us?” I check.
    “Oh no, she’s still in her pajamas. She was up late with her boyfriend.”
    “She has a boyfriend here in New York?”
    “No no, he’s back in England. They were on Skype. Or Face-Time or something.”
    “Though who’d want to spend any time with his face . . .” Gracie shudders.
    “Anyway,” Pamela tuts