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Authors: Belinda Jones
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for you.”
Charlie is beckoning to me from the other side of the glass.
“I know you missed out on Pamela’s Victoria Sponge, so I saved you a slice.”
I gasp out loud, squishing him in a hug and then tearing into the box.
“You don’t have to eat it now!” Charlie hoots.
“Yes I do,” I muffle. “This might be my last chance to taste her cooking.”
“But . . .” he frowns.
“Don’t ask!” I hold up my hand. And then I close my eyes and, just for a moment, surrender to the cake—the moist-light sponge, the dairy creaminess of the filling blending with the strawberry stickiness . . .
“Good?” Charlie inquires softly.
“Ohhhhh!”
“I know!” he grins. “Please tell her that she’s welcome back anytime!”
“That may be sooner than you think,” I mutter as I dust off the blonde crumbs and head out to face her.
The time has come. I take a deep breath, dip into the backseat, only to find Ravenna occupying the front passenger slot.
“Wha—?”
“What’s the holdup?” she asks before I can form a sentence. “I thought we had a schedule to keep to?”
Chapter 9
I don’t know whether to kiss her or slap her. But I don’t get the chance to do either because, no sooner am I buckled up than Gracie whiplashes us into traffic.
All too soon the yellow cab escorts and iconic buildings morph into a scene from a gritty, lowlife movie—grimy streets, clunky railway bridges and menacing characters, all bundled up even though it’s a sunny day. I always used to turn my nose up at the London suburbs when I was heading home from Heathrow, but no more. They are a bucolic dream compared to this.
“Watch out!”
Vehicles weave, break and honk around us, as if they are in cahoots to keep us from staying our course. While I grip the hand-rest and resist the urge to close my eyes during the dicier moments, Gracie is astoundingly calm under pressure.
“Oh no you don’t buddy, you can wait your turn.” She denies a Mustang trying to barge into our lane.
I turn, openmouthed, to Pamela.
“How the hell does she do this?” She predicts my question.
“It’s extraordinary. This is a total white-knuckle ride—my heart is in my mouth and she’s as cool as a cucumber.”
Pamela smiles. “She’s spent the last fortnight memorizing every nuance of the journey. She’s even planned which lane she’s going to drive in.”
“Are you serious?”
“She loves it!” Pamela takes a quick sip of water. “She took The Knowledge on her seventieth birthday, just to put a smile on her husband’s face.”
“Was he a taxi driver?”
“Bus actually.”
“Ahhh, hence the connection in Newport?”
She nods, explaining how, about twelve years ago, her father helped a billionaire named Arby Poindexter to pick out the double-decker of his dreams.
“They actually became pals during his stay in London, and Arby was so impressed with Dad’s knowledge and passion, he invited him and Mum out to stay with his family in Newport.”
“So Gracie’s been there before?”
Pamela nods. “And she can’t wait to go back.”
“All right!” Gracie announces. “It should smooth out from here.”
She’s quite right—suddenly the urban chaos streamlines into a green-bordered freeway. We can’t see much of the places we’re passing—Greenwich, Stamford, Norwalk—but I know we’re in Connecticut now.
Most people know this state as a commuter belt, but it is also the home of PEZ candy’s U.S. manufacturing facility and the first lollipop machine. As in the hard candy globes on a stick, rather than the British iced version.
“The idea started before the Civil War, when children used to have a bit of sugar candy stuck to the end of a pencil,” I read from my notes.
“No concerns about lead poisoning back then,” Pamela notes.
“Would anyone object to having the windows down, now we’re away from the grime?” Gracie asks.
“Fine with me,” I reply, quite enjoying the bluster. And
Charlie is beckoning to me from the other side of the glass.
“I know you missed out on Pamela’s Victoria Sponge, so I saved you a slice.”
I gasp out loud, squishing him in a hug and then tearing into the box.
“You don’t have to eat it now!” Charlie hoots.
“Yes I do,” I muffle. “This might be my last chance to taste her cooking.”
“But . . .” he frowns.
“Don’t ask!” I hold up my hand. And then I close my eyes and, just for a moment, surrender to the cake—the moist-light sponge, the dairy creaminess of the filling blending with the strawberry stickiness . . .
“Good?” Charlie inquires softly.
“Ohhhhh!”
“I know!” he grins. “Please tell her that she’s welcome back anytime!”
“That may be sooner than you think,” I mutter as I dust off the blonde crumbs and head out to face her.
The time has come. I take a deep breath, dip into the backseat, only to find Ravenna occupying the front passenger slot.
“Wha—?”
“What’s the holdup?” she asks before I can form a sentence. “I thought we had a schedule to keep to?”
Chapter 9
I don’t know whether to kiss her or slap her. But I don’t get the chance to do either because, no sooner am I buckled up than Gracie whiplashes us into traffic.
All too soon the yellow cab escorts and iconic buildings morph into a scene from a gritty, lowlife movie—grimy streets, clunky railway bridges and menacing characters, all bundled up even though it’s a sunny day. I always used to turn my nose up at the London suburbs when I was heading home from Heathrow, but no more. They are a bucolic dream compared to this.
“Watch out!”
Vehicles weave, break and honk around us, as if they are in cahoots to keep us from staying our course. While I grip the hand-rest and resist the urge to close my eyes during the dicier moments, Gracie is astoundingly calm under pressure.
“Oh no you don’t buddy, you can wait your turn.” She denies a Mustang trying to barge into our lane.
I turn, openmouthed, to Pamela.
“How the hell does she do this?” She predicts my question.
“It’s extraordinary. This is a total white-knuckle ride—my heart is in my mouth and she’s as cool as a cucumber.”
Pamela smiles. “She’s spent the last fortnight memorizing every nuance of the journey. She’s even planned which lane she’s going to drive in.”
“Are you serious?”
“She loves it!” Pamela takes a quick sip of water. “She took The Knowledge on her seventieth birthday, just to put a smile on her husband’s face.”
“Was he a taxi driver?”
“Bus actually.”
“Ahhh, hence the connection in Newport?”
She nods, explaining how, about twelve years ago, her father helped a billionaire named Arby Poindexter to pick out the double-decker of his dreams.
“They actually became pals during his stay in London, and Arby was so impressed with Dad’s knowledge and passion, he invited him and Mum out to stay with his family in Newport.”
“So Gracie’s been there before?”
Pamela nods. “And she can’t wait to go back.”
“All right!” Gracie announces. “It should smooth out from here.”
She’s quite right—suddenly the urban chaos streamlines into a green-bordered freeway. We can’t see much of the places we’re passing—Greenwich, Stamford, Norwalk—but I know we’re in Connecticut now.
Most people know this state as a commuter belt, but it is also the home of PEZ candy’s U.S. manufacturing facility and the first lollipop machine. As in the hard candy globes on a stick, rather than the British iced version.
“The idea started before the Civil War, when children used to have a bit of sugar candy stuck to the end of a pencil,” I read from my notes.
“No concerns about lead poisoning back then,” Pamela notes.
“Would anyone object to having the windows down, now we’re away from the grime?” Gracie asks.
“Fine with me,” I reply, quite enjoying the bluster. And
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