Right. Darling. I pour batter into cake pans.
“Get used to him being around.” She huffs as she drops my dirty mixing bowls into the sink, then makes a big show out of moving the utensil canister back to where I’d found it on the counter. “Things here are best as they were. And that includes established business dealings. So do, at least, attempt to be pleasant. He always hand-delivers our orders at no extra fee.”
Perfect. Even better. Orion sticks his finger into my bowl and he’s rewarded with a happy Polly and cookies? Bah. I slide on a heat-proof glove, open the oven, and shove in my cake pans. Then I slam the door shut.
6
My first clue is the smell. To say I know a few things about baking is an understatement. I know when I’ve screwed up a pastry or cake. Which is never. Which is also right now.
Rushing through the swing door, I kill the heat on the oven as my belly sinks with dread. Smoke fills the shallow rack area. I have to go in. Coughing, I don gloves and quickly remove all four loaf pans as a sooty cloud—the kind usually following botched magicians’ tricks or genie lamp escapes—envelops me.
Even from the kitchen garden, I’m certain Polly can smell the smoke. The guests probably think the inn is on fire. More cough-swearing as the air clears enough for me to see the blackened loaves shriveled into doorstop bricks ¿Qué pasó?
I’ve been making Abuela’s recipe forever, using the same kind of pans, in the same model oven, but… oh. My mind clicks onto a key fact I’ve known for years and completely spaced out on when I preheated. England cooks in Celsius, not Fahrenheit. Me, trying to set my temp to 350 degrees Fahrenheit made this UK calibrated oven heat to way over 600 degrees. Standard for pizza. Devastating for cakes.
Polly’s footfalls in from the garden slash through my thoughts.
I curl my fingers around my apron hem, bracing for a verbal onslaught to rival that of mis tías, or Mami when Pilar and I used to turn curfew into a suggestion. The tone will be the same, maybe even the acrobatic hand motions. Only the accent and maybe the words will vary.
She sniffs, clears her throat, and briefly leans over my shoulder. “Well then,” she says crisply.
I hinge open my eyes. Polly’s at the freezer. She swings around with a pyramid of small loaves in her arms. “I had these on hand for such a time as this,” she says. “Ginger cakes. They’ll thaw before teatime.”
Polly drops the cakes on a rack and heads straight for the sink, frowning at my equipment pile-up. “Simply dreadful! Around here, I clean as I go.” She gestures broadly to the stacks of bowls and spoons I was just about to wash before my cake fail. “Mrs. Wallace won’t like all these piles of greasy, disorganized items. What if she tours a special guest through the kitchen?” Polly stomps to the swing door and barks, “I trust you’ll see to it immediately.”
Shaking, I scrape my ruined cakes into the trash—or as Polly says, the rubbish bin. Rubbish, verdad. I spend extra time scrubbing pans and cooking surfaces. Furiously.
Well then. The small words taunt as I fling off my apron. Kitchens have always been the one place I could rely on for guaranteed success, but today, this one is the site of yet another loss. I can’t spend one more minute inside the burnt odor of my failure. Attire wise, I’m already set for a quick escape. I drink half a bottle of water and exit the side door, deciding on the same route I was going to run two hours ago.
Apparently, the Owl and Crow lives in the St. Cross neighborhood of Winchester. I navigate toward a scenic trail bordering the River Itchen, my steps weighted with jet lag and Celsius. I pant and struggle along a narrow, rain-soaked street dotted with brick and stone homes. Again, the tying architectural theme is: old. As the street forks, I meet the wide mouth of a main access road. Thoughts rush with the wind; I knew they would. This isn’t the first time I’ve handed my frustration to sneakers and sweat.
Well then.
The chef in me realizes exactly what Polly’s response, or lack of one, means. Budding chefs often get dragged by superiors who want next-level best for them. Abuela taught me with love, but she still held me to nothing less than the kind of food that makes people happy to line up for it. If I made something mediocre, I heard about it. Then I did better the next time.
In Polly’s eyes, I wasn’t even worthy of critical words and “I told you so.” If I was, she would’ve at least questioned how or why I’d set the oven too hot. She would’ve reminded me that professional cooks don’t have room to make careless errors. But to her, I’m not anyone to be taken seriously. I’m only a kid, trying on a chef’s hat in a costume box, playing “baker” in a make-believe game.
Even kitchens are telling me I don’t belong here.
My body is just as confused. Running on UK ground is a different sport. In Miami, the muggy heat slicks across my skin while the sun whips my back with slashes of too bright and too hot. Another kind of pain pulls here. Cold rakes against my face and grabs my lungs, webbing into my sinuses. I tuck my hands into my shirt cuffs. The rain’s moved on, but the wind jabs at trees, loosening droplets over my hair.
But then the map leads me on to a pedestrian path carved into acres of pistachio-colored grass. Spencer mentioned the River Itchen between bites of vanilla custard last night. Here, I meet the narrow channel of the famous landmark as it ribbons toward city center. The footpath worms along beside the gently moving water. I’m alone. And I don’t know what to do with this quiet.
My Miami life is noisy. I can barely stir together one whole thought without a background track of piano and drums and my neighbor’s yippy dog. I live under crowing laughter and jibes in the panadería kitchen. Crashing waves and catcalling tourists. My landscape is thunder and the rustle of birds fighting over flowers, the everyday alarm clock of wild roosters.
But now it’s just me and a river and wet grass and what’s left of my heart. My brain fills the emptiness, acting out the noises of my home. It’s screaming inside my skull that running was the thing Stefanie and I always did together, every Saturday across Key Biscayne Bridge. It fills spaces with people too—how Andrés and I strolled the bustling Miami Riverwalk, sharing ice cream and butter pecan lips, my hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. My mind sings the warm alto of Abuela’s voice. “Mi estrellita.” My little star. “It’s time to make the tamales. Ven.” Come.
Not today and never again.
Dios, there’s nowhere to put it. No way can I trust this alien green and marbled gray with the past three months. No matter what my parents think, Miami knows what to do with me.
And as the trail comes to an end into town, it’s even clearer how far I am from home. My steps slow to a brisk walk. Old… older… oldest. Trade my spandex and sneakers for a corseted gown and court shoes. This place begs for it. When were these painted row houses—red-doored and crawling with vines—even built? Ornate windows and crested emblems jut out everywhere. Many of the stone surfaces have weathered to sharp angles and rough planes; one shove against a wall like that would draw blood.
I inch through streets so narrow that bike riders would brush shoulders. It’s all here: coffee houses, shops, little cafés, cars zooming through on the wrong side of the road. By the time I reach a bustling main street, I’m not really exercising anymore so much as sightseeing. I also need to figure out where I am.
“Lila, isn’t it? From the Crow?”
Dozens of streets for my Nikes to wander, but I end up right in front of… I look up from my phone and confirm. Orion Maxwell’s five feet away, plastic safety goggles pushed back over his head. He’s shed the leather bomber and is wearing a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and blue rubber gloves. “Err, hi.”
“You’re in my batter bowl now,” he says and when my brows drop, adds, “my street,” and when I feel my nose wrinkle, he smiles and points across the nearest intersection. “Our shop’s just there.”
I follow his hand to a storefront dressed in white paneled wood. Even from here I can make out the large scripted M resting
over a stylized leaf. Maxwell’s Tea Shop. “If your shop’s over there, then why are you…?” More like what is he? A spray bottle sits near his rugged boots, along with a filled bucket and a small assortment of brushes and sponges.
A shadow crosses his face. “Victoria’s store was tagged.” He grabs a brush and points it at what is now nothing more than a watery black blob over a brick wall. “Had to be last night and I wanted to see to it before she opens up. We’re finding it more and more around here lately.”
I step back, eying the windows. Turned out mannequins pose in various outfits. I read the name etched onto the glass out loud. “Come Around Again. Cool name for a secondhand shop. But it’s not yours, so why are you on graffiti cleanup?”
He wets the scrub brush and takes to the wall. “Looking out for one another. It’s what we do.”
Warmth—only a quarter teaspoon—settles over my damp skin. I step to the right when Orion turns from the wall and attempts to step left. He avoids me deftly.
“Sorry,” he says and grabs a wet sponge. He uses a circular motion to remove traces of black from grout.
“I’ve noticed that you, and by you, I mean the English, say that a lot.” Not excuse me or pardon. Only sorry, sorry, sorry.
“Another thing we do.” Eyes trained on paint removal, he doesn’t even look at me. But one edge of his mouth jerks up. “You’re here visiting, I take it?”
“Yeah, from Florida. Miami.” The words, icing on my tongue. “Cate is my mom’s cousin, but they grew up like sisters. And best friends.”
Now he turns through a single nod. “Gordon’s one of mine. You’re Venezuelan, then, like Mrs. Wallace?”
First I say, “Cuban.” Then I give him the sixty-second version of my summer stay and my role at Panadería La Paloma. I leave out my Celsius oven disaster and Abuela and the rest of the trifecta.
A low chuckle rattles his chest. “And you’ve already managed to infiltrate Polly’s kitchen? I’m impressed. How’d you swing that?”
“It’s what I do.”
Now a smile, the kind where quick lips plus gleaming teeth plus dimpled cheeks equals hazard. For some girls. Not me. Obviously. “Earlier, you looked lost,” he says.
“Oh, I was just deciding whether to head back to the Crow, or to check out a vintage record shop Gordon mentioned.”
“Yeah—Farley’s,” he says. “The inn’s straight up Kingsgate or St. Cross. About a twenty-minute walk or as fast as you can run it.” He tips his head toward the opposite direction I walked in from. “Farley’s is a few streets that way. You’re into classic vinyl?”
“My sister is.” I tuck stray hair under my headband. “Though she helped my parents plan this three-month ‘dream vacation,’ so I’m not sure she’s worthy of souvenirs.”
He actually looks hurt. “What’s wrong with England? Or are you opposed to Winchester in particular?”
I blow out a sharp breath. “It’s not Miami.”
“Hardly. But as I see it, you being here for so long against your will is due to one of four reasons.” Orion splashes a full bucket of water over the wall. The paint is gone. “Correction, let’s make that three reasons. The number four is considered unlucky in China.”
“Because England and China are the same thing.”
“Can’t be too careful.” He whips off the gloves. “So, reasons. One, a problem with your passport. Two, a family issue. Three, something to do with your mum and Cate requiring your extended services.”
“Mostly the second one.”
“Sticky, those family issues. Yours expects Winchester to help?” Storm blue, right into my chocolate brown.
Oh, no. Not now, not this boy. “You ask a lot of questions.”
Orion tosses the gloves and the goggles into the empty bucket. “Sorry.”
* * *
My run ended hours ago. But at half-past eleven, as Spencer—or Orion—would say, my mind is still awake, sprinting to keep up with the new way my life looks.
With a weighty sigh, I reach for the charm I never take off. Pilar wears an identical necklace. Four years ago, Abuela presented them to us when we made one of our Sunday regulars—tamales.
The charm is just the outline of a small dove—a golden replica of the Panadería La Paloma logo. In the dark loneliness, I close my eyes and inhale the memory of Abuela as she fastened the chain around my neck. Her hands were wrinkly-soft, smelling of masa and garlic and fragrant pork filling.
“Un regalito,” she’d said to thirteen-year-old me, and seventeen-year-old Pilar. A little gift. “What you both did last month for Congressman Millan brought such honor to our family and business. Your father has to hire another clerk because we’re getting so busy from the publicity.” Abuela’s smile showed off clean, white teeth.
Pilar nodded. “The biggest dollar month in La Paloma history.”
All because I hadn’t listened to Papi when he’d called, stranded with Mami and Abuela in a New York blizzard. I was supposed to cancel the enormous catering order for Andrés’s father. But I wasn’t about to let that prestigious job slip away, and Pilar had no choice but to follow my reckless ambition. I’d taken over, wrangling employees and working overnight to make a truckload of Cuban appetizers. And I had won, even garnering the attention of reporters. For years, I’d continue to win, securing my spot as future co-owner, mapping my biggest dream.
But this morning I had failed and lost. Abuela had taught me to feed my city, sharing the best of what we know. That wasn’t me in the Owl and Crow kitchen with burned cakes. I rise and go downstairs to feed the inn my best.
An hour later, simmering orange-almond glaze mixes with the scent of warm butter and sugar, filling the inn kitchen. I fill it too, wearing Abuela’s apron over my pajamas.
A quick boil, my little pan of glaze bubbles. I remove the saucepan and swing it around as Cate peeks through the door. “Oh. Hi. I hope I didn’t wake you,” I tell her, wincing.
“Not so much that.” She yawns and cinches her fluffy bathrobe tighter. “I needed a pain tablet and realized I’d left them in the office. Had to make sure no culinary ghosts were haunting our kitchen.”
“Sorry.” Now I’m starting to sound like Orion.
“So what’s on the menu tonight?” She moves toward the oven, peeking into the glass door. My cakes are almost done. “Lila. Polly’s ginger loaves were fine and she’ll think up something else for tomorrow, or I guess for today, now. You made a simple mistake. Nothing you had to stay up to fix.”
“I don’t make mistakes in my bakery kitchen,” I say into the pan of cooling glaze. But the truth is, if I hadn’t stalked Andrés’s Instagram, I wouldn’t have been distracted and forgotten the entire metric system. I hate that Pilar was right. I hate that any part of my screwup was due to a boy.
“I know what you can do,” Cate says. “Much of West Miami does. They don’t call you Estrellita for nothing. But even little stars need to sleep.”
I grab a basting brush.
Cate shakes her head. “You shouldn’t stay up late cooking just to wake early to bake with Polly. That’s not good for you. I’m responsible for keeping you safe and healthy.”
“Yeah, I know. To return me to Miami better than ever,” I mutter. Cate’s concerned face softens my sarcasm. “Promise this is my last midnight kitchen spree.”
“Oh, like you promised to go to see Father Morales, but canceled behind your parents’ backs?”
Of course Mami told her. And she’s right; I canceled my appointment with our priest and they were furious. I get how counseling or therapy can help people. But I will decide whom I talk to, and when. I couldn’t stop Stefanie from boarding a plane to Africa, or rewind Andrés’s goodbye speech or… Abuela. I couldn’t change the hand of God. But I could have control over my words, my heart, my pain.
The oven beeps. I grab pot holders and transfer my loaves to the wooden prep island. Abuela’s pound cake, done perfectly. “I’ll go to bed when I get these glazed and ready for Polly to
find when she comes in. Promise.”
Cate leans over the cakes. “So this is about Polly.”
No. Sí. “She barely said two words after… earlier. She thinks I suck.”
“No, she doesn’t. Polly’s worked here fifteen years and has her routine. I understand you wanting to redeem yourself. But you’ll get sick if you keep doing this,” Cate says. When I don’t respond, she sighs. “I’ll be checking to make sure you’re back in bed in an hour. And that’s my promise.”
And then I’m alone again.
Redeeming myself? Is that what I was trying to do? Or was I just trying to fix the one crumbled, burned thing in my life I knew for certain I could make right?
Minutes later, the cakes are glazed, plated, and perfectly documented in my own Instagram photos. Minutes after that, I’m at the private apartment stairs.
Cate left a weak hallway light on for me. At my door, I notice something wedged against the base molding. I must’ve missed it on my way downstairs. I peer down at the framed drawing of a Coral Gables home. I grab the frame and an attached note and read it on the way in.
I thought you might like this for your room to remind you of home. Don’t get any ideas about stuffing it in your bags. It’s just on loan while you’re here. —Gordon
I shake my head and lean the drawing on my nightstand; I’ll meet the peachy stucco and tiled roof every time I wake. After a quick scrub, I reach from underneath ivory sheets to touch the tiny white front door behind the glass. I never had a dollhouse as a little girl. I played with wooden spoons and clanging bowls. But here I make-believe my dream home before I close my eyes. I push a doll-sized Stefanie into the door first, dressing her in the University of Miami t-shirt. Andrés comes next, legs bent to sit, drinking lime and Coke on Gordon’s meticulously drawn porch. Then mini-Pilar and mini-me, plotting our world domination—family business style—one pastry at a time. I can’t forget Mami and Papi, curled up on the couch watching their favorite TV show, Family Style. Lastly, I place Abuela. She goes inside the kitchen, where we made tamales and a hundred other dishes. I set her feet by the sink, right where I found her three months ago. I stand her up tall. In this little peach house, there is a heartbeat.
A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow Page 4
