A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow

by Laura Taylor Namey

  “Sounds like ‘Gimme Shelter,’ ” she says.

  “You’d know.” Pilar’s penchant for classic rock, especially in vinyl form, is one thing we don’t share. “He’s been doing this—” Again, the music stops. “No clue what he’s doing, but I’m gonna make him quit right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Espérate.” Pilar holds out a hand. “The new clothes are nice, no?”

  “They’re hideous,” I say. But I can’t stop rubbing the soft merino wool.

  She snorts a watery laugh. “You’ve been coveting my boots for months.”

  “Sí, pero that doesn’t mean I’ll wear them.”

  A crack across my sister’s face. “But you’ll put them in the closet. And the tops and jacket, too.”

  And then I feel one across mine that I can’t control, no matter how hard I try. “Maybe.”

  Gordon playing yet another jam thirty seconds after I hang up sends me knocking, then pounding. Then pounding and screaming. The noise finally ceases and the rogue DJ swings open his bedroom door. His deep red hair—a mirror of his dad’s—gathers into a disheveled ponytail nub at the base of his neck.

  “Hiya. You’re not actually dead, then.” He’s holding a colored pencil.

  I ignore that and lead with, “So, the music.”

  “What about it?”

  “The volume.” I’m using my hands to demonstrate. “There’s just a lot of it. A lot of volume.”

  It’s like a lightbulb turns on in the middle of his head. “Ahh. We’re properly soundproofed up here and I’m not used to having anyone else in this wing.”

  “That’s not my doing.”

  Gordon employs the flip side of the pencil to scratch his temple. “Right, well the music helps me achieve a certain creative mood.”

  “Could a quieter version of the same music help with whatever you’re creatively mooding for?”

  “Oh. For this.” With a grand flourish, he moves aside.

  And… wow. His walls are covered with framed pencil drawings of houses in every architectural style imaginable. Intricate details and colorful landscaping touches fill each piece. “You drew all these?”

  He nods toward a drafting table topped with measuring tools and a rainbow of colored pencils and a new square of ivory parchment. “I have for years now. A sort of hobby.”

  I walk the perimeter of Gordon’s tiny home neighborhood, past stone cottages and Victorians and English Tudors. Near the window, I find a black Crosley turntable system with speakers. Records stacked in a storage cube wait for Gordon’s decibel abuse. “I have found the loud.”

  He approaches. “Sorry about all the starts and stops. I couldn’t find just that right one, you know? I’ll try for less.”

  “Thanks.” I pick up a Rolling Stones LP, home to “Gimme Shelter.” “Pilar collects these too. She’s always looking for rare ones.”

  “Shocking what some of them go for. We have a record shop here called Farley’s. So good, many non-locals travel into town to check it out. In town just off the High Street.”

  I make a mental note before investigating the rest of Gordon’s artwork. Maybe it’s the color or the shape, but I’m instantly drawn to a two-story drawing in bright peach with a terracotta roof. Delicate palm tree fronds sway across Gordon’s rendered green lawn, and pink bougainvillea vines climb across the bright stucco. I whip around. “Is this…?”

  He lifts his chin. “Thought you might go for that one. Straight out of Miami—Coral Gables, if I recall from last visit. I liked the style and colors.”

  Home. My heart fumbles, like it knows. Then I step back, surveying the entire wall. Next to the Coral Gables model, I find a perfect rendering of the Owl and Crow and a craftsman bungalow. Among brick Federal mansions and thatched roof cottages, the peach stucco house looks totally out of place.

  5

  I wake too early the next morning for any human who fell asleep as late as I did. After three days, my body is still ignoring all the clocks here, still swinging from the Eastern time zone hour hands I’ve been under my whole life. My stiff leg muscles protest as I head downstairs. The gold filigree mirror in the Owl and Crow foyer says my eyes look like half-baked death discs.

  As it’s clear I won’t be heading back to Miami anytime soon, I need something in England that’s mine. Necesito correr. More like, I really need to run.

  One thing I did pack was my workout gear. Over my calf-length running leggings and sports tank, I layer a long-sleeved quick-dry top. My closet holds two running jackets (Pilar), but I rarely need them in Miami. I don’t need them here, either.

  Fellow early risers pass through as I stretch my calves and quads in the foyer. My cell phone juts from the zip pocket on my tights. I’ve been careful to avoid Instagram for weeks, first because of Andrés and now, Stef. But after so much silence and homesickness, my fingers itch for one click, one glance at a page that used to be filled with as much of my life as his. Is Andrés seeing anyone else yet?

  The thought pulls tighter, but my oath to Pilar drags along my runner’s lunge.

  I swore to Pili I’d cut back on my Insta-stalking. I promised to move on, though forward feels like the last place my feet want to go right now. But my promises to my sister mean something, and I hate that. So the phone stays in my pocket and I move to quad stretches.

  Two pigtailed girls squeal as they scurry up the grand staircase ahead of their parents. The family’s brisk movement has moved the air, which smells of baked goods. I can’t resist. Instead of going outside to the trail, I run toward the opposite service corridor. The carb trail stops at a wide push door with a peek-through window. The kitchen.

  Qué hermosa. Beyond the threshold is officially the second most beautiful kitchen I have ever seen. Only the sight of our kitchen at Panadería La Paloma makes my blood pump harder. Rows of industrial hanging glass pendants illuminate a massive space. A large butcher block island marks the center and carries dusty scatters of white rolling flour. My gaze falls over French pins and glass mixing bowls, canisters and open shelves housing dishware, equipment, and pans of all sizes. An open door across the room teases an abundant, walk-in pantry. I step toward the commercial deck oven; four oval loaves rise and tan like Miami sunbathers. The smell…

  I might be forced from my city, tricked into this summer break. I’m desperate for home but here I find a faint glimmer of myself. The equipment and ingredients call to me in a voice I’ve heard since I was little. Measure, mix, season, and simmer—these are my words. And most of all, this warm and yeasty room feels like Abuela and me. No matter what it takes, I will not be just an Owl and Crow guest. I will become one of its bakers.

  An exterior screen door creaks open, then slams shut. “Lost, are you?” The voice at my back is brassy with the cries of parrots. “The parlor’s across the main hall. Opposite end.”

  I turn.

  “Ah, sorry then. You’re that Lila girl.” The voice pours from a white woman I’d peg as mid-sixties. The kind of tall that makes my eyebrows notice, her frame scored with creased edges and paper-cut lines. Her unpainted face sits under a squat cap of gray hair, circular, reminding me of a B-movie flying saucer.

  “Yes, hi, I’m Lila Reyes.”

  “Polly. The missus showed me your picture.” She beelines to the sink to wash her hands. “If you’re wanting breakfast other than what’s in your flat, I’ll be setting up the usual parlor spread. Shortly.” I know a firm dismissal when I hear one.

  And, no. I plant myself across from her, the wooden island like gold-rich land between us. “Actually,” I say, “I’m here for the summer.”

  “So I heard.”

  “My family owns a bakery. Has for more than forty years.”

  Polly checks a digital wall clock, then the rack oven. “I believe I heard that, too. Mrs. Wallace mentioned a little Cuban place.”

  Little. Cuban. Place. I clamp my mouth tight to stop the flames. But as much as I’m prime to detail my extensive baking résumé, I resp
ect the “kitchen.” And this one is Polly’s. If I want to pass my summer with the butter, flour, and sugar composing the only part of my heart left intact, I’m going to have to watch my approach. Slide in, not stomp. I’m going to have to be… nice.

  I secure my ponytail. Smile. “Ms., err, Polly, I tried your bread and scones the other day.” Too sweet. “And I was wondering if I might spend some of my time here. Maybe help with the baking duties?”

  Polly hooks one spindly arm onto her hip. “You, baking for guests? With me?”

  “Well, there’s an idea!”

  Polly and I whip our heads toward the door. Catalina “Cate” Mendoza Wallace is one stealthy Venezuelan.

  “Really?” Polly and I say in unison. But I say it with high-pitched glee. Polly barks it out like Cate just handed me the last cookie from the jar.

  Cate steps closer, her mint green cashmere poncho winged over black skinny pants. She puts her hand on Polly’s shoulder. “I would not trust your kitchen to anyone less. Lila is highly experienced and capable.” Cate turns to me. “Hopefully this will help you feel more at home here. But I’ll leave you to Polly’s charge and direction.”

  I swear I hear the baker hiss.

  “Now,” Cate says, peering into the oven, then our faces, “I need to see that Gordon’s not late for the dentist, so I’ll leave you two to sort out duties.”

  Polly plucks a red binder from a shelf. “I have five minutes to give you thirty minutes’ worth of directives. How we do things.” And by we, she clearly means I.

  “I assure you I can handle any recipe in that binder.” I’m already washing my hands. “And I’ll find my way around the equipment and ingredients.”

  “We’ll see. Mornings, we do a small spread of breads and jams and seasonal fruits. I’ve got honey orange scones and white toasting bread ready for serving. Then we provide a teatime offering at half past three.” Polly opens the red manual to a laminated, typed recipe. “Today calls for Madeira sponge cake and chocolate biscuits.”

  Chocolate biscuits? Abuela taught me to take big risks with flavor, just like she did. But some flavor mash-ups simply do not mash. “Biscuits with chocolate?” I ask, feeling my nose wrinkle.

  “If you’re going to even attempt to bake in England, you’d best familiarize yourself with our basics.” Polly says basics like she’s already enrolled me in her Baking for Preschoolers class. She shoves the red binder into my vision. The full color photo tells me an English biscuit is a cookie. Ahh. Right.

  “I’ll see to the biscuits,” she says, flipping pages and ensuring I take the book this time. Then she tosses over a clean apron. “I suppose you can prepare the Madeira cake. Can you manage four loaves all right?”

  Sometimes respect warrants education—un poquito. I steel my spine. “When I was thirteen and my parents were stranded in New York, I catered a huge order for our congressman’s party. I made more than a thousand Cuban pastries and appetizers, working overnight. The Miami Herald even did an article on it.” I spot the correct pans and grab them. “I can manage four sponge cakes.”

  Polly totes a wooden baking peel to the oven. “Hmmph. The finished cakes will tell, won’t they?” She opens the glass door and slides the peel under the golden loaves, transferring them to the island to cool.

  I scan her recipe for Madeira cake. My eyes immediately latch onto problems. The sugar to flour ratio is off and… margarine? Butter is best for these types of dense cakes. Oil, second best. But margarine? No.

  “Polly?” Her kitchen. Not my kitchen Polly’s kitchen. “After looking over your recipe, I was wondering if I might bake a butter pound cake that’s very similar. It was Abuela’s—my grandmother’s—recipe.”

  She exhales a quick puff of air. “I see. Still, that Madeira cake is the only one we’ve ever served here. My nan’s, in fact. As are all the scone recipes.”

  Ahh, the culprit revealed. One sugar-happy grandmother and a palate never trained out of it. I tell my running shoes, “That’s really special, but—”

  “Heavens. I’ve too many tasks to stand here and argue. I suppose you can do your nan’s cake.” She hoists the serving platter. “Whether you make it again remains to be seen.”

  Dios. I locate a few key utensils in a cylindrical caddy near the sink. I move the container to the butcher block island, where bakers would actually use it, then introduce myself to the oven. The Owl and Crow deck oven is the same model as ours at the panadería—at least one thing’s familiar. I know the ingredients for Abuela’s pound cake by heart, but I still check the recipe app on my phone to make sure I correctly convert the measurements to feed a crowd.

  But an iPhone in my palm instead of my pocket means Instagram beams, right there in front of me. Maybe it’s jet lag, maybe it’s Polly weariness, but I can’t resist one, teeny-tiny look before I preheat.

  My feed usually opens with a baking or cooking account, but not today. Stefanie’s bright smile greets me as she poses in front of the University of Ghana, her blond ponytail slung over one shoulder. Her arms are spread wide in wonder and she looks… happy. Without me. And more, she had internet access and still didn’t reach out. Even just to say she was okay.

  The stir of disappointment and regret kicks me right on to another page I vowed to avoid: Andrés Millan. And there he is, grinning in a new profile picture by the sparkling canal backing his Coral Gables home. I expand it briefly—olive tan skin and lean muscle and the short, dark buzz cut that always looked best. And still does. I have to minimize him again.

  After a week, there’s no new picture update, but a scan down his profile glazes my stomach with sick. It’s just… gone. Andrés deleted one of my favorite selfies of him and me. Other pictures of me remain, but the one of us, waterside at Coconut Grove for his birthday dinner? Poof.

  Why did I even look? I click back to the recipe app, but our last conversation echoes:

  It’s not about love. I need to figure myself out and see who I am.

  Andrés’s parting words sting again like new wounds. Who he is now is a boy who’s slowly deleting me from the pictorial record of his life.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve got batter in my mixing bowl, multiplied to the correct proportions. Accounting whiz Pilar feasts on all the math I avoid daily, but recipe math is a must for me. And this recipe’s ready to show the Owl and Crow kitchen monarch a thing or two about what a girl from a “little Cuban place” can do. Four loaf pans are greased and waiting. Now for one last touch.

  A harsh rumble sounds while I’m searching the pantry for almond extract. It’s either a mutant lawn mower or a motorcycle with the engine version of a head cold. Moments later, I peek from the pantry to see a raindrop-sprinkled guy, about my age, in my kitchen—er, Polly’s kitchen. A white carry box that wasn’t there before rests on the counter. Before I can even think hello, the guy marches up to the wooden prep island, dips one finger into my batter bowl, and licks.

  I launch myself from the doorway. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He flinches.

  “Your finger! My bowl!”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Yeah, not even a teaspoon of sorry fills his six-foot-something frame as he leans against the counter. Blond hair—a dark variety his creator dyed in a murky rain puddle—curls slightly on top of a cropped cut. He’s wearing faded jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket.

  “We’ve not met.” He springs off the counter but whatever’s on my face has him inching back his offered hand. “Orion Maxwell.”

  I don’t want his name. I want his blood sprinkled over Spencer’s topiary hedges for his indiscretion. But I still grumble out, “Lila Reyes.” I tip my head to the bowl. “And that’s for guests. What if that was meringue prep? Even two drops of water from your finger would ruin it.”

  “Is it for a meringue?” He waggles his brows. “My favorite.”

  “No, it’s not meringue. And your hands. You rode over here on a dirty motorcycle.”

  Orion nods towa
rd the sink and wiggles his fingers. “Washed them before I sampled. Always do.”

  “You mean you do this often?” I’m a telenovela of gestures. “Just go around sticking your fingers into people’s batters whenever you want?”

  He steps closer, so close I note storm blue eyes and a tiny cleft in his chin and the knife edge shape to his nose. He smells like trees and damp leather. “Only if invited.”

  “I don’t remember issuing an invitation.”

  “I realize that now,” he says. “I do apologize. It’s a habit. Polly’s always encouraged my sampling.”

  Dramatic snort. “I’ll believe that when—”

  “Orion. There you are, dear.” Polly all but levitates, floating from the swing door to Orion’s side. “Our canisters are down to dregs and fumes.”

  He grins. “Sorry. Meant to get ’round sooner but we had an issue at the shop. How’s your sister?”

  Snap! Crack! Polly’s a glow stick. Orion has broken her right down the middle and she’s beaming from gray hair to orthopedic kitchen clogs. “She’s faring much better, thank you. Was only a virus.”

  “Good to hear.” He points to the white box. “That should do you. English breakfast, Jasmine green, a double order of Earl Grey this time, like Mrs. Wallace said. Dad threw in a sample of a new Darjeeling reserve he’s discovered. Really smooth.”

  “Oh, I’ll have to try it later,” Polly says.

  “It won’t disappoint. See you.” He moves to the door, dragging his gaze over me, standing in an ivory apron over running clothes, clutching a bottle of almond extract.

  “Wait up.” Polly rushes to him with a small brown sack and a wide-toothed smile. “Biscuits from yesterday’s tea.”

  “Thanks, I’ll try to make them last the ride back.” He sniffs inside the bag. “Lemon! My favorite.”

  I thought meringue was his favorite.

  Now he’s not dragging, he’s planting his eyes into mine, nodding a stray pigtail curl over his forehead. “Lila.”

  I make a small, noncommittal noise.

  Polly’s glow wanes when Orion shuts the door, her face tightening, but she says, “Orion’s family owns the best tea shop in Hampshire—Maxwell’s. Such a darling boy.”