“I see. Well, the story of my mum seems a thousand years long. But you got the highly abridged version. The simple one, if we could ever call it that.”
I peek at him with one willful eye. “You mean I could give you the quick and easy version of mine, like when you make a store-bought cake mix instead of baking something from scratch?”
“You could, yeah.” He points at me. “But I’d bet my next paycheck on the fact that you’ve never used a cake mix. Never will, either.”
My mouth springs wide, just for a breath. “All right. I can do highly simplified,” I find myself saying. I’ve been holding all the trauma of last spring so close. But just like earlier with Orion’s friends, no one here will make my personal business the next slice of neighborhood chisme. No one’s judged me or hovered too closely over my every word and move. Orion just shared his mom with me. We’re still inside the small and quiet space of that. One that feels… safe.
So I start. “I call it the trifecta. Stefanie’s only one end point. As for the other two, my boyfriend of three years dumped me about six weeks ago. And my grandmother. My abuela.” I meet him face to face. “She died of a heart attack in March. That was her flan recipe tonight.”
“Wow, that’s a lot at once.” He looks at the floor then up at me. “I’m so very sorry. And those aren’t just throwaway words. I get it—loss like that.”
“I know. I still have my mom, though. She and my dad are amazing. They raised me.” My voice wobbles. “But Abuela… grew me.”
Unlike my mass of hair tumbling in thick waves, my hands are small and slight. He reaches tentatively for the one resting near his thigh, covering when I accept with a single nod, bending my fingers into a circled fist. A miniature planet inside the tight gravity of his hold. My eyes drift closed. I’ve missed this. No, not just a guy, alive and warm at my side. But someone, other than family.
Orion listens, too. Upstairs, Flora’s lug-soled footsteps stamp the ceiling. Bits of her muffled phone conversations seep through heating vents. Soon, we finish our drinks and find ourselves strolling the St. Cross neighborhood toward the Crow.
Rain fell while I was away. We walk in tandem, feet striking soaked pavement. But it’s taking longer than when I walked over with his friends. “Is this another way?”
The outline of his smile shifts under the glow of streetlamps. “Longer, yes. Thought I needed it after two slices of flan.”
I toss out a laugh. “You mean three.” We both swerve to dodge an extra-deep puddle. “Sorry again about Charlotte.”
“Yeah. I fancied her, but I’ve already brushed that one off. I don’t play games.”
The word sounds through my head, telling me it’s time to forfeit a game I can’t win anymore, either. Here, against the dark blanket of tree canopies and the strength of old brick walls, I stop playing one with England. Fine, I tell this little medieval town. You’re not so bad. Happy now?
We round a corner I recognize. Passing the church, then the walled courtyard with its saintly, dormant fountain, we reach the inn. Lights shine behind second-floor windows.
Orion stops me at the arbor gate. “You and the others, but mostly you, made my night un-suck, so thanks for that.” He’s so close. The kind of close where anyone passing by could mistake us for a starlit couple, moments away from kissing. But we’re not. We are Lila Reyes from Miami and Orion Maxwell from Winchester.
“May I ask something of you?” The sweet-sour tang of hard cider rolls off his breath.
I flinch and shiver a little. Maybe it’s the cold. “You may,” I say with my own playful jab at his formality.
He snorts faintly. “What I’m about to suggest—I don’t mean to be awkward, Lila.”
Usually when people lead with that, it means awkwardness is following right behind them like a puppy. “You could have said you don’t mean to be British.”
This earns a laugh, both deep and bright. When it fades, he says, “See, even though it’s cold right now, summer is on the rise and so are the temps. And I’d hoped Charlotte would be around to do things with. There’s the cinema and some fun events that come around yearly. And Jules’s band, Goldline, plays all sorts of cool gigs.”
I tense. “You want me to be your stand-in Charlotte?” I am no one’s stand-in anything.
“No. Not at all. I get what you’ve been through. You just broke it off with that bloke. What was his name?”
“Andrés.” Andrés Christian Millan.
His brows jump. “Andrés. Now that’s a marquee name.” I move to duck my head, but his next words are right there, chinning me up. “Lila, what I’m proposing is more like an arrangement.”
“So is prostitution. You’re not helping yourself here.”
Orion exhales heavily. He rubs his face, forehead to chin. “I understand why you turned down my offer the other night—Mrs. Wallace urging me to show you around.”
My bottom lip drops.
“But she was right about one thing. You can’t possibly live in that kitchen all the time. You should get out, and not just by yourself. So my very decent proposal is this: I’ll show you around, and you can be my plus-one. It’s all me asking this time. Not my friend’s mum.”
It’s the same offer, but also, completely different. Tonight, it’s genuine. I try out my answer in my head. Miami will still be waiting even if I do a better job at living where I am, right? And so I say it out loud. “Yes.”
Orion grins. “Brilliant.”
I crack a smile. “Looks like I’m getting a tour guide after all.”
“Sure, let’s call it that for starters. There are many things about England that maps can’t show you. But I can.”
I hand over his sweater. “What happens if Charlotte shows up at your door tomorrow?”
“Nothing happens. Not after what I heard from Teddy. See, market cake mixes are fine.” He backs away, winking like the stars. “But I like the real deal.”
10
I’m trying to wash a morning of baking off my equipment when the oven timer buzzes. And buzzes. But no Polly. Her Jammie Dodger cookies—bah, biscuits—are going to burn and my ears are going to break. I wipe my hands on Abuela’s apron then attend to the deck oven.
I have two of the three sheet pans on the butcher block when the Crow’s lead baker floats through the push door. “What are you doing?”
I’m painting my nails and tap dancing. I slap the third pan down and the oven door closed. “Your biscuits. I was worried you didn’t hear the timer.”
Polly slips on her apron again. “ ’Course I did. I’m here aren’t I?”
Dios. Not my kitchen. Polly’s kitchen. I raise my hands in mock surrender and return to washing the endless bowls and utensils it had taken to make Polly’s red recipe binder assignment for the day.
My hands are elbow deep in suds when Orion enters the rear kitchen door in loose track pants and a long-sleeved running tee. Basically the male version of what I’m wearing, minus the bang tamer headband and ponytail.
Polly’s stacking cookies on cooling racks. “Well, hello there. We don’t have an order for today, do we?”
Relaxed and dopey-eyed, Orion manages to address her via my general direction. “You don’t. But if my memory’s right, morning baking wraps up around this time, and then Lila does her run. And I’ve decided to take up jogging again.”
Oh really?
Polly cocks her head. “All the more reason to fuel up with something sweet first. Pastries are set up in the parlor.”
“They were set up.” This, from Cate who blazed in with two coffeepots. “We have some bannocks left, but not even a crumb remaining on the tray of Chelsea buns.”
I hang my dishtowel, intrigued. Polly made the bannocks—savory, round flatbreads—but I made the Chelsea buns. Currant-filled yeast dough treats similar to cinnamon rolls.
Polly turns to me. “Didn’t you make the amount stated in the recipe book? It’s always been enough for a packed house of guests as well as extras to l
eave in the break room for the housekeepers and landscape crew.”
Now she’s accusing me of lazy baking? I wave her red binder. “Four dozen, just like your recipe calls for.”
“Interesting,” Cate says. “I did see Mr. Howell from room six with three on his plate.” Then to Polly. “We’re also low on coffee.”
A curt nod from Polly before she swoops up two fresh pots then swishes out the door.
I glance briefly at Orion, who’s been leaning against the counter, cross-armed and cheeky-smiled, enjoying the latest edition of the Polly-Lila standoff. Better than any of Mami’s telenovelas. I tell Cate, “Polly’s had me on the morning sweet selection for the past few days. Should I be making more?”
She moves to the kitchen door, garden shears and canvas bag in hand. “You should, yes. I thought it was a fluke, but there’ve been no leftovers since last week.”
Orion thumbs through Polly’s book. “What are you putting in your sweets, Lila?”
I make sure we’re alone. “It’s more what I’m not putting in them. Polly insists I bake her family recipes and not my own. But the proportions are sometimes off. So, I’ve been tweaking them.” I stack bowls on the open racks.
“But those recipes are British classics and decades old from her family.”
I whip around. “Have you ever had one of Polly’s Chelsea buns?”
“Many times. She often sends them when I bring tea.”
I grab a small plate near the fridge. “This one of mine came out slightly misshapen so I didn’t put it out. Go on.”
His mouth twists before he samples a large piece. Then another.
I put away washed spoons and measuring cups. “I mean, the guests are clearly taking extra helpings out of pity and little old me has totally ruined the—”
“Lila.”
“And tampered with—”
“Lila.”
“What?” I whisk off Abuela’s apron.
“This is the most rich and mind-numbingly delicious Chelsea bun I’ve ever had.”
I look at him like this is old news.
“And,” he continues, “it’s still somehow so like the ones I’ve eaten since I was in nappies, but also worlds better. Did you get to eat any of your baking today?”
“Only a chef’s taste.”
Orion rips off half the remaining bun and holds it out. “Tell me why it’s better.”
Between bites of sticky goodness I say, “A smidge less sugar in the dough. A pinch of cardamom along with the cinnamon, and lemon peel infused into the glaze.” Just like Abuela would have done.
He licks his fingers. “I’ll never doubt you again.”
I lick my fingers. “You’d better not if you want to work out with me. Also, I’m a really good runner.”
“I’ll manage. But I should’ve asked first. Either you’re going to tell me running is something you do alone to think, which is fine. Or you’re going to let me show you some new routes. Most locals tell visitors to run the loop into town across the college foot path, by the river.”
“That’s the only route I’ve taken,” I say. “The only one I know.” I hadn’t even considered changing something that works just fine.
“Well, then.” His face ticks into something between a smirk and a smile. “I can show you what you’ve been missing.”
11
Orion runs beside me, possibly disguising some seriously out-of-shape lung burn with staggered breaths and silence. I don’t tell him I’m not pushing my usual pace. I’m really not that bitchy. Usually. But the view is worth our slowness.
He pants, dolling out, “What is that. Glowing, circular orb. Just making an appearance?”
I laugh, but no need to look skyward. We stride from pavement to hidden path. I don’t even try to hide my gasp as Orion leads me into a living kaleidoscope. Trees sag low with the weight of star-shaped leaves, while spindly armed bushes reach up and over, ends touching. Sunlight filters through, shifting lacy patterns over hard-packed dirt. It stripes Orion like a tabby cat.
“Scene’s worth the unexpected company?” he asks.
“So much. Amazing.” But the path tugs at more than my muscles because this is just the kind of place I’d choose to come alone and cry. To miss people. I would sit like I do in the wooded Oleta River State Park off Biscayne Bay. Waiting for the bright to blacken, matching the shadowed pieces inside me.
But I’m not sitting now. I’m running with purpose, slower than usual, but still pushing all of myself through. Forward—I’d forgotten what that feels like. Will it last? No se. But this airy tunnel doesn’t trap me like a British Airways cabin or the one-way ticket that brought me here.
We keep our pace until the trail opens, closer to the city center than I thought. The four-cornered spire marking Winchester Cathedral pokes up in the distance. Commerce and cars reveal another type of life.
Orion nudges me. “I’ve brought you through sort of a half circle, probably three miles worth.”
“Are you saying we should stop?” But that’s actually a worthy start for someone who hasn’t run in a while.
“Maybe walk a bit? It’s not far to Maxwell’s and I need to fill a quick order and run it just a couple streets down. And you can sample some tea.”
“Tea sampling. Is that part of my Winchester initiation?” I slow to a walk, rolling my neck.
He doesn’t answer. He’s bent at the waist, gulping in air like he’s storing it for later. It’s more than a little… cute.
I circle back. Playfully jab his shoulder. “Is it alive?”
“Ha bloody ha,” he says and unfolds himself. “You’re a good runner, Lila from Miami. But I’ll work up to you yet. Let’s move. We can walk around by the cathedral.”
I follow him through a footpath near Winchester College, the mid-morning air cool against my heated skin. I know this section well, but Orion stops again by a low brick retaining wall that marks the end of the path.
I immediately see why. Just like the secondhand clothing store last week, the wall has been tagged with black spray paint. “Again?”
“Same crew, too.” He points at the twisted graffiti shape. “What does that remind you of?”
“Kind of like those linked construction paper chains we used to make in school where you rip one off every day in December until Christmas. Only shorter.”
Nodding, he says, “I think they’re infinity symbols. But unlike the single one I cleaned at Come Around Again, this is supposed to represent a few linked together.” He traces his finger along one of the shapes and he’s right. A chain of three infinity symbols.
“Who’s doing this and why?”
“No one local. I’d bet the shop on it. See, there’s a London indie band—actually, a front man and his bass player and drummer, as well as their entourage. They spend a lot of time in Winchester. Too much time, as far as anyone’s concerned. They’re always trying to score something rare and interesting at Farley’s. And more often, creating a ruckus in the pubs, getting into brawls and disturbances most everywhere they go. They’re our age, give or take, and complete wankers.”
My brow arches. “But the graffiti?”
Orion motions us into an easy stroll. “My fellow shop owners and I have no concrete proof it’s them. But more than enough reason to suspect. The graffiti’s been happening now for about a year. Each time, they tag a symbol straight out of their song lyrics. Not from titles, that’s too obvious. But one of their jams has the line, ‘throw me into infinity.’ We’ve also seen arrows, crowns… all key images found in their songs. Again, we can’t do anything because no one’s been able to catch them in the act.”
I feel my forehead crease. “You’d think a gigging band would have better things to do with their time than pester Winchester.”
“Our little Hampshire city has one thing the front man, Roth Evans, wants very much. More than rare vinyl at Farley’s.” He looks right at me. “Jules.”
“Remy must have a few or ten things to say about
that.”
Orion gestures aimlessly. “Oh, he does, but not like you think. I told you Jules was talented, but that’s an understatement. Not only a brilliant songwriter; Jules is an extraordinary vocalist. Like future record deal, name in lights good.”
“Wow.” I’m smiling, inside and out. I already liked Jules. “So, this Roth wants Jules to join his group?”
“Obsessively so. He’s been trying to woo her away from Goldline, her band.” We move through a greenbelt park; illustrated signs point the way to the cathedral. “Especially since he edged his way into singing with her once. I’m afraid that’s Flora’s doing.”
I almost trip over my own feet. “Flora?”
He sighs. “Last year, Roth’s whole posse was shopping at Farley’s. Flora got into it with them about some stupid music trivia matter. A bet was made, for actual money, of which Flora has little.”
I shake my head. “She lost the bet.”
“She did at that. And Roth stepped right into a goldmine, rather a Goldline. He told Flora they’d be settled up if she could convince Jules to sing one song with him at Win-Fest.” When my face scrunches, he adds, “We have a huge street festival here every October. Roth was performing and he wanted Jules for the other half of a duet. You should’ve seen the crowd.”
“So this actually happened?”
“Yeah, because Jules loves Flora enough to perform with Goldline’s biggest rival to save her arse. Jules reluctantly agreed and it’s still a source of drama within Goldline.” He nods slowly. “Roth and Jules did an unplugged version of ‘Blackbird.’ My God, I hate admitting it was absolutely stunning.”
My heart clenches—Stefanie is a huge Paul McCartney fan. Whenever I drove us around Miami, she’d insist on playing his Spotify station.
Orion brings up a web browser on his phone. “This is Roth, short for Maximillian Evans Rothschild III. No one who values their limbs calls him that to his face.”
My insides flinch for another reason. “Wait, let me see that again.” I take the phone. “I was at Farley’s the other day and saw this guy with Flora. It looked like a heated conversation, but they left together.”
A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow Page 8
