Chapter 29
Lauren and Pumpkin scurried up Mary Street from Thames, the wind at their backs propelling them forward in bursts. They bounded up the hotel’s stone steps, breath puffing in white clouds. Pumpkin paused at the ceramic water bowl beside the door and drank deeply.
The bellman, watching from inside, opened the door the moment she finished. “Welcome back,” he said, his voice as warm as the heated air of the lobby. “Did you have a pleasant day?”
Lauren stepped inside, rubbing her reddened hands together. “We did. This is the most charming, utterly unlike-California place I’ve ever visited. I can’t wait to see more.” She gestured to Pumpkin. “As you can see, we found her a sweater. But I should’ve bought myself gloves.”
He grimaced as he looked at her hands.
“As you predicted, a restaurant welcomed us inside for a late lunch. I had the best clam chowder of my life. And you were absolutely right about the weather turning.”
He nodded sagely. “I’m always ready for that kind of shift, even if the day begins pleasantly.”
“Is there somewhere in the hotel I can get a cup of tea to take upstairs? I’m chilled to the bone.”
“The bar would be happy to accommodate you,” he said, gesturing left, “but you might prefer the library.” He pointed through a pair of double arches draped in garland threaded with tiny white lights. “You can order tea there.”
“But I have Pumpkin.”
“That’s perfectly fine. We don’t consider the library a restaurant, even though guests can order drinks and light fare. It’s quiet this afternoon. The usual local Tuesday Mah Jongg club is there, but they’re reduced to one table because so many are busy getting ready for the holiday.”
Lauren unwound her scarf and loosened her hair from her collar. “I’m learning to play at home,” she said. “I’d love to watch.”
“Enjoy,” he said with a sweep of his arm.
She stepped into a large room paneled in deep evergreen.
Bookcases lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and art glass objects that caught the light.
Framed oil paintings of seascapes and Gilded Age portraits covered one wall.
Oriental rugs divided the space into intimate seating areas, each with sofas, overstuffed wingback chairs, and carved wood tables.
Fresh-cut arrangements of evergreens, roses, and berries supplied a festive scent.
In one corner, four women sat close around an antique game table, the familiar clack of Mah Jongg tiles punctuating their conversation.
Lauren eased into the end of a loveseat behind them. Pumpkin circled once and curled at her feet, pink sweater layered over festive pajamas. From her vantage point, Lauren could view the racks of tiles.
A server in a crisp black dress approached without disturbing the players. “We have a lovely afternoon tea menu,” she said, handing Lauren a navy leather-bound card. “You’re welcome to order just tea, of course. But we also have scones, croissants, and petits fours.”
Lauren skimmed the selections. “I’m in the mood for something different from Earl Grey or English Breakfast,” she said. “What do you recommend?”
“Try the Color of the Year tea,” the server replied with a knowing smile. “It’s quite an experience.”
“An experience?” Lauren’s eyes brightened. “I’m intrigued.”
“And a cranberry scone with whipped clotted cream and lemon curd?” the server suggested.
“That sounds divine.”
As the Mah Jongg players called tiles and discarded, Lauren felt herself relax into the rhythm of the shuffle of tiles, the murmur of strategy, and the quiet laughter.
The server returned with the scone on a pretty plate, a teapot, and a delicate china cup. “Let it steep a few more minutes,” she instructed. “Then pour and squeeze a little lemon into it before your first sip.”
Lauren waited, then poured. The liquid was a vivid teal blue. She lifted a lemon wedge, squeezed it, and stirred. Before her eyes, the color shifted, deepening into a luminous royal purple. She gasped.
One of the players looked over and smiled. “First time?”
“It’s magical,” Lauren replied.
“Mah Jongg,” another woman declared triumphantly, revealing her hand. Tiles clattered as the players pushed their tiles into the center.
“I’m afraid I have to leave early,” the winner said, rising and slipping on her coat.
One of the remaining players turned toward Lauren. “I’ve noticed you watching. Do you play?”
“I’m learning,” Lauren admitted. “I’ve been at it about six months now.”
“We’re starting one more hand. Care to join?”
“I’d love to, but I don’t have my card.”
“I always carry an extra,” another woman said, retrieving it from her purse.
Lauren wiped her fingers on her napkin and took the open seat. The women introduced themselves.
Lauren joined them in washing the tiles, enjoying the tactile pleasure of sliding the small rectangles across the felt mat.
As play progressed, the woman to her right asked if she was visiting family.
“For the first time since my husband passed away four years ago,” Lauren said, “I decided to get away on my own for the holiday. A change of scenery to Los Angeles.”
A sympathetic silence fell over the table. “Sometimes a change of scenery is the best thing,” the woman beside her said. “What do you do in Los Angeles?”
Lauren told them about K + L Interiors, her fascination with Newport’s historic preservation, and The Vanderbilt’s décor.
By the end of the Charleston, Lauren realized she needed only three tiles for a concealed hand—one she’d never attempted before. New experiences, she thought.
Play continued as players drew, called, or discarded.
Then Lauren drew a joker. She double-checked her card. “Mah Jongg,” she cried, almost disbelieving.
The women applauded.
“Nicely done,” another said. “That’s not an easy hand.”
“Beginner’s luck,” Lauren smiled.
As they gathered the tiles, one woman studied her thoughtfully. “If you don’t mind my asking … are you seeing anyone?”
Lauren hesitated, then shook her head. “Not at the moment.” Mike’s face flashed in her mind, and his flannel pajamas, open smile, and kind ministrations to the stray.
“I wish I could introduce you to my nephew,” the woman continued. “He’s an architect. Lives in Los Angeles. About your age. One of the nicest men I know. He deserves a smart, sweet young woman like you.”
Lauren’s smile deepened, but there was something wistful in it.
“That’s very kind,” she said. “But, for now, my life feels full.” She glanced at Pumpkin, sleeping peacefully by the loveseat, pink sweater rising and falling with each breath.
“With my work,” she added, “and my dog.” She swallowed hard, knowing that there was still a small, stubborn part of her hoping for one more Christmas miracle.