“Tea. That’s dinner. And means a meal invitation, versus inviting someone for a cup of tea.”
Ugh, England. “An impressive tea deserves an impressive dessert—”
“Pudding.”
Big glare. “No, not pudding. What I was trying to say is that I can make a cake or pastry for your date in the Crow kitchen.”
“First of all, no need for all the trouble. Secondly, dessert around here is often called pudding. Which makes it even more confusing, I suppose, that various puddings are also commonly served as… pudding.”
Oh, my head. Not jet lag this time. England all the time. “See, I could use the trouble. Believe me when I say I have nothing better to do. Also believe me when I say my puddings are legitimately awesome.”
Orion smiles. “All right, I accept. Thank you.” He opens then shuts his mouth, fidgeting, shifting his head into various angles. “I have a proposition of my own.”
I motion for him to go on.
“Well, it’s just that since you’re new here, you might need someone to show you ’round a bit. I’ve lived here all my life.” He jerks a thumb toward his friends. “They have too and their exams end soon. So we could, um… we could all… err, do that. Show you around I mean.”
My Cuban radar beeps. Espérate—something is off. Orion’s fingers are skittering across one side of his jeans and his eyes flit around like a deer evading a hunter’s footsteps.
“Show me around. Okay. And this is your idea?”
His sneakers must be interesting. He’s studying them intently. “Well, I mean, I think it would be helpful—”
I rasp out a laugh. “She got to you, didn’t she?”
He snaps up. “What?”
“Your proposition has Latina mother written all over it on Latina paper in Latina ink. It was Cate, right? What, did she come into your tea shop, or bump into you at the farmers’ market?” When his chin twitches, I get enough confirmation to press on. “I knew it!”
Orion holds out his palm. “Lila, I’m terribly sorry.” He shakes his head. “It’s really not as, I dunno, conspiratorial as it might sound. Mrs. Wallace happened to mention you and your stay. It went on from there.”
I’m sure it did. Her, choosing what I need instead of letting me choose what I need—right out of Mami’s parenting manual—despite twenty years in England. Another thought tumbles in, making me want to hide behind the fountain statue. I glance up to my third-story window. Juliet, my ass. “Guess I made it easy.”
He gasps, hands waving like a referee. “No.” He cringes. “Shit, I know what it looks like, but Mrs. Wallace had nothing to do with me calling you down to join us tonight.”
My brows rise.
“I promise. That was spur of the moment.” He sobers. “I’m many things, but I’m not a liar.”
I give him a resigned nod. There’s nothing here to make me doubt his sincerity. It’s as warm as his sweater. And it’s not his fault he was trapped by a well-meaning but meddling Venezuelan.
But still, I decide what my days and nights look like here. “About Cate’s scheme, we’re good. And this has nothing to do with you or your friends. They seem cool. But as for fulfilling some proposal from your friend’s mom, don’t worry about it. I can read a map. I’ll find the sights I want.”
Air leaks from his chest. “Fair enough. But you don’t need an invitation to hang with us here. Or anywhere.”
“Fair enough.”
We join the others and I have to admit, I don’t have a terrible time.
Sometime later I break from the laughter, from the silver flask Gordon passes around, to head up. I slide out of Orion’s sweater, feeling the whole of the temperature setting—Not-Miami-Degrees Celsius. I think of how we freeze foods to use later. To preserve them so they don’t rot away. Maybe this is what my family wanted. To freeze a flame-star heart, a burn-planet body, while it heals.
8
I pedal two blocks toward town on one of the green Owl and Crow Pashley bicycles before I give up and circle back, my face in snarls. I haven’t worn any of Pilar’s sweaters yet. And I don’t even acknowledge the black warm-up jacket I transfer from my closet to my freezing body. ¡Carajo! I refuse to discuss this with myself.
As Polly takes Sundays off after baking extra morning and teatime food on Saturdays, I ran earlier during normal baking time. And now I’m biking during normal running time. The St. Cross streets are damp and sleepy; dog bark choruses and the peal of church bells weave into my path. Air flaps across my face—clean and sweet—and in minutes, I reach the city center and lock the bike near the High Street pedestrian mall.
I stroll the commerce-lined lane, letting Winchester blink me into Sunday. I don’t believe in magic or legend. But for a few moments, this little town becomes big enough to make me forget where I came from and why. It’s alien—the not-me who feels lightweight and not as desperately hungry for yesterday.
This magic is temporary, though. Soon the spell breaks and I’m the me who always remembers too much. I’m heavy and grounded by the time I reach Farley’s Records. A bell announces my entrance into a wood-paneled space clouded with the ripe tang of patchouli and old paper. Customers mill around wooden display cases, records packed tight, or browse along walled cubbies filled with more vintage finds.
I do some milling of my own, sifting through punk and jazz legends and British bands I’ve never heard of. I have no clue what to maybe get for Pilar. I’m about to abandon this joint for the market when an ancient brown album cover snags my attention. Orquestra Epoca. Salsa music! My insides are already dancing. I flip it around and let lifelong memories of the first listed tune, “Trampas,” fill my homesick spaces with percussion and piano and brass riffs.
After a few moments, I open my eyes and notice a black, patch-covered bomber jacket and a blond curly bob. Orion’s sister Flora is a Farley’s customer too. I’m mostly blocked behind one of the display cases. Flora’s checking out a used CD when a tall man—older teen, really—turns into her view. Asymmetrical black hair drops over half his face. He’s in peg leg jeans and a moss-green leather jacket. From my spot, I can’t hear their conversation. Their faces tense until Flora slaps the jewel case back into its place, shooting through the front door. But the guy follows and Flora slows her pace before they disappear out of view.
Does big brother Orion know about this? Now I’m starting to sound like the West Dade chismosas—let’s just say random busybodies—who followed my every move with Andrés. Are they still talking about me in neighborhood shops and salons and restaurants?
No gossip follows me here. I can step outside and walk to the market and no one knows my history. Claro, I’m still the girl carrying a trifecta of loss. I always will be. But as I wander along the pavement, I’m just a seventeen-year-old on her way to buy ingredients for Cuban flan. And that feels like the best part of home.
* * *
Cuban flan—this is what I choose to make for Orion and… Charlotte? With all of Orion’s pudding talk the other night, I decided on what is essentially a fancy custard pudding. Cubans have many puddings: Natilla and arroz con leche are at the forefront. Vanilla cinnamon and rice pudding are simple treats fit for weekday desserts. Comfort food, not impressive date confections.
But flan is smooth and sexy and maybe even elegant. The puddle of caramel sugar syrup on top shines with coppery gold. There are several variations of flan adapted from its European origins. Naturally, I prepare Abuela’s Cuban version, which is slightly more dense and sweet. This is one of the few desserts I make where a little more sugar is better. And is it ever memorable.
The Crow kitchen is mine today and happily Polly-less. I’ve got my ingredients measured and ready. The eggs here are different from home, smaller and brighter. I’m whisking glistening whites and yolks, fiery orange, like little suns.
The rear door swings open and Spencer and Cate enter with a basket of kitchen garden pickings.
“Even on off day, can’t keep her out of here,” Spencer says.<
br />
Cate peers into my bowl. “Flan Cubano?”
I whisk in evaporated and condensed milk. “Sort of a special order for Orion.”
“Special is right. Spence and I haven’t had good flan in four years,” Cate muses.
I point to the two glass baking dishes. “I figured. I’m doubling so there’s one for you guys, too.”
“Well, that’s a fine treat.” Spencer adds tomatoes and cucumbers to a wooden bowl.
He leaves, but Cate darts in and out of the pantry for one of the tea tins. I’ve kept quiet about her little meeting with Orion, wondering if she’d bring it up herself. Or maybe she’s been waiting for me to bring it up. And does she think this flan has anything to do with her meddling? “No wonder Orion doesn’t mind dropping off your orders. He sure doesn’t seem to keep many shop hours, what with all his extra time to play tour guide.”
Cate has the grace to look abashed. But only for a half second before her mouth curls to one side. “You know I couldn’t help myself.”
“I figured you couldn’t,” I say casually and pick up my whisk. “Of course, I turned him down.”
“I figured you would.” Well. Our eyes lock until we both relent. Her grin. My head shake and dramatic eye roll.
Cate leans close before she leaves, her long strands loose and feathered from gardening. “When I came in, you were smiling.”
“I’m always happy in the kitchen.”
“Uh-huuuuuh.” Cate extends the last syllable so it lingers even after she leaves the room.
Smiles or not, I’m all business as I return to my flan. The steps unfold into the hour with muscle memory. When the batter is done, I reach for a sheet pan and spy my phone on the back counter. Leaving it out is silly because no one texts or calls me here. It’s barely dawn in Florida. Who’s going to text me? But Instagram never sleeps.
Andrés Millan. University of Miami. All about Hurricanes football and Marlins baseball. Ice cream junkie.
Once upon a time, his bio could’ve said pastelito junkie. Lila junkie. Not anymore. Combing his feed is like picking at a scab. I know it won’t heal this way. Claro que sí, I should bandage it, keep it out of sight. But I’m not as strong facing memories as I am in front of mixing bowls.
Andrés’s page shows a new picture from yesterday, geotagged at South Beach. I can almost feel the glare of strong sun—my sun, not the filtered peekaboo England version. I smell the brine and his favorite Sun Bum sunscreen. It’s a close-up shot of his unrolled towel, headphones and Rainbow flip-flops positioned in the foreground. The caption reads: Saturday has me like…
Saturday has you like what, Andrés?
I can’t hide the thought that dangles like a loose thread from Abuela’s apron: Andrés never goes to the beach alone. Was he with friends, or?
I drop my phone like a hot potato.
¡Basta! Enough. Last week, these useless thoughts won and I ruined my cakes and made myself look like a fool. An amateur. I let him into my pound cake, but I won’t let him ravage my flan. I pull out the phone and press the little camera icon to make Instagram disappear.
I breathe in and out, holding the moment for a beat before it disappears too. Now it’s time to work.
I divide the batter between the two baking dishes already filled with my cooked sugar syrup, then set them inside the sheet pan in my preheated oven. Then the baño maria—the hot water bath. This will make my flan cook evenly and slowly, with no cracking on top. An electric teakettle dings from its hot plate. I pour about an inch of boiling water into the sheet pan and trust the oven to science that feels like magic. The kind of magic I believe in.
* * *
After Spencer’s pasta carbonara with kitchen garden salad and my (perfect, delectable) flan, I’m folding laundry and staring out the window at dusk. Two hours ago, I sent Gordon, the flan delivery boy, over to Orion’s after his sworn oath: Yes, Lila I will mind the glass-domed plate and not drop it.
After an alert sound, the FaceTime window flashes across my laptop screen. My parents are at the kitchen table, huddled in front of Papi’s computer. Off camera, the TV plays the catchy theme song belonging to Family Style. Early afternoon Miami sun lights their backs.
This isn’t our first chat, by far. But our opening words are still tentative. We’re not us… we haven’t been since I lost my world and they flew me across half of it to try to put me back together.
“There’s my beautiful girl,” Papi says. But his hooded brown eyes speak another truth. Will you ever be the same Lila we knew?
“You guys are looking good,” I say. So trite. So shallow. I can smell the kitchen through the screen. Oranges and guava and coffee grounds, but not tamales. Can they hear this through the screen? Can they hear what I’m really crying out? You won’t eat tamales until I return! Pilar and Stefanie and I made them with Abuela on Sundays. Then Pilar and me, and Stef. Now two of those key additions are gone, and Pili won’t make them without me.
Mami asks, “Now that you’re settled, do you have everything you need?” Have you met some new people? Are you finding your way?
I need Stef to come back from Africa and talk to me. I need Andrés to realize he can find himself and still love me. I need… “Send guava paste. They don’t sell it in Winchester and it’s expensive online. And Cuban coffee. There are a billion coffeehouses here, but espresso isn’t the same. And then there’s the whole tea thing.” I think of Orion.
“Give me until Monday to get the guayaba,” Mami says. “Stop and Shop is running a promotion.”
It was like Abuela herself had dropped right into our conversation. She always insisted her savings account was built one frugal principle at a time.
“Next week is fine, Mami.” A small way to honor her spirit.
Papi chats for another moment then blows me a goodbye kiss, off to La Paloma, but Mami remains. “Anything else you need?”
“A plane ticket.”
“Lila.” My mother cries at puppy food commercials and adorable little girls coming from church to buy pastries in floofy dresses. Her hands raise, flapping toward her chest like wings. Face contorted, her eyes well and the real words come now, bold with her own pain, strong with mothering. “Still? You still think we wanted to send you to Catalina? You think we don’t understand how difficult this separation is? We miss you.”
But none of that is enough to put me on an airplane. And I don’t know why, but it just hits me now: three losses, three months. Was this Pili’s idea? Did she plug me into one of her accounting algorithms, reconciling the sister she knows and loves?
“You’ll get your ticket soon. I promise.” Mami sucks in a breath. “But there’s some good, no? Cate told me you’ve discovered the kitchen.”
The word kitchen is the only thing that keeps me from hanging up. “Top of the line,” I say, remembering Mami was here only two years ago when Papi surprised her with a ticket for her birthday. “Show me outside.” Show me home. My neighborhood, my world.
My mother is one of those soft dolls where the dress and head can flip to show two opposite emotions. Sad face doll, happy face doll. Crying face Mami can easily switch to mischievous I have news face Mami. The latter fills my screen. Then she turns her computer so I can peek through the big kitchen nook window. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this.”
Inner eye roll.
Not two seconds later I hear, “I saw Angel coming out of Chany’s house.” She leans forward. “Sí, it was like seven in the morning.”
“Interesting.” And maybe I’m only half listening to the chatter about my neighbor’s ex because I’m staring at our street through the little computer window.
Mami carries on, her update snippets weaving into my memories.
“Óyeme, Señora Cabral had her gallbladder removed…”
Kids playing baseball in the street before dinnertime. Wild roosters running loose and never letting me sleep in. Gloria’s daughter practicing her saxophone in the garage.
“I saw Stefanie’s mothe
r at Dillard’s the other day. I didn’t go up, but…”
The hummingbird feeder and mango trees and Andrés in his silver Camaro, parked three houses away, kissing me.
“Mami, are they,” I say quietly. “Are they still talking about me?” About Andrés and Stefanie? How one girl managed to lose so many people so quickly?
“Cariño, do not worry about such things.”
“But what have you—” I’m interrupted by oddly persistent knocking. I cut off my thought and the connection with a goodbye, vowing to question Pilar about gossip later. I find Gordon on the other side of my door.
“Jules and Remy are out front. Asking for you,” he says. “Well, both of us, but especially you.”
Me? I shrug and follow Gordon onto the private staircase. He shoots ahead when we reach the foyer, ushering Remy and Jules out of the evening chill.
Jules sticks her arms out of a snow leopard printed cape, texting furiously while shooting me a little wave.
“Orion just texted,” Remy says. “A bit of a mishap at his place.”
“Tell me he didn’t drop the flan,” I say.
“More like his date dropped him,” Jules says, wedging her phone into her jeans pocket. “Charlotte canceled. Said she was ill.”
“But that’s not the worst of it. Teddy—he works at Maxwell’s—saw Charlotte going into a coffee shop in Twyford with some other bloke slinking and slobbering all over her,” Remy says and turns to me. “That’s a nearby town. He told Orion just now.”
“Well, that’s complete shit,” Gordon offers.
Jules notes my overblown cringe and follows with, “Exactly. And that’s why we’re all going over now. Distraction. Remy’s dad sent gigantic portions of Sunday roast with potatoes and veg. And then there’s that whole pudding you made for them.”
“Which would only remind him of his ruined evening,” Remy says gravely.
“Gordon and I already ate. We just had flan too.”
“Lila, do you really want your flan to become a symbol of sadness?” Gordon asks then tells the others, “Her flan is bloody spectacular. Besides, we can’t let him wallow alone.”
A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow Page 6
