Gordon dumps the figs into a mixing bowl and plunks it on the butcher block island.
“Bulk is right. Thanks guys,” I say before Spence takes his purchases out into the service hall.
Gordon has already found the guava pastelitos I’d put aside for the loft kitchen. Hand on the plate rim, doe eyes on me.
I concede with a huff. “One more. Save some for your parents.”
Gordon wastes no time in taking a bite. “My favorite of all the foods I tried in Miami. Plus, I paid my dues to the elliptical machine.” He tugs his sweaty workout shirt.
“Huh. All the while I thought these fancy new gym clothes were just for show,” Orion says.
Gordon gets up close and shoves a huge chunk of the pastry into his mouth. “Piss off, Ri,” he says, muffled but comprehendible enough. We snicker as he leaves.
I remember the figs and step up to the bowl, eying the stash from many angles. Warily.
“Lila,” Orion says, “they’re harmless fruits, not tiny monster egg pods about to hatch and attack.”
“That’s what you think.” I look up at him, sighing. “But I have to make friends with the fig because of my guava rationing. Only so many fruits work well as filling for pastelitos.” I pick one up of the purple-black figs; the size and texture are similar enough to my beloved guavas. “My deal with the Wallaces was to integrate Cuban and British baked goods. But I’m going to try actually combining ingredients and technique sometimes, instead of just serving them side by side.”
Orion nods. “So, fig pastelitos? A sort of British-Cuban mashup?”
My mouth twitches at the word, pastelitos, all wrong but completely adorable in Orion’s warm British lilt. “Yeah, my abuela would have done the same. She loved changing her recipes as much as cooking dishes the traditional way.” I cut into one of the figs, revealing two purply-reddish bellies I can scoop out to cook down with sugar, oil, and pectin.
My phone dings from the pocket of my running tights. It’s Mami—early for her to be up—but a busy cake day will do that.
Luisa came in last night. Stef will be traveling to a place where wifi is better. She’s going to contact you soon. There’s more, after I do a few orders. Besitos
Luisa Lopez, Stefanie’s mother. I’m still not used to my new normal where Stef and I have to go through others to have a simple conversation.
I read the text again then out loud to Orion, translating. “No one from Stefanie’s family has set foot into La Paloma since she left for Africa. They’ve been shopping at our rival bakery. Until last night.”
“No way that other joint is as good as yours.”
I cringe, shaking my head. “So that tells you how awkward things have been. Everyone knows.” I show Orion the e-mail I sent Stef the other day. Still no response.
Orion leans in, forearms plunked onto the butcher block, eyes never leaving mine as he bites into his bread. Swallows. “Maybe she’s afraid and going through her mum was easier for now. What do you think the more is from your mum’s text?”
“Not sure, but I’ll find out, from either Mami or Pilar. But…”
“But what?”
“I…” Words I’ve never told anyone make it all the way to the edge of my tongue. But they stop short. It feels too far to jump.
“Right,” he mutters and hunts around, reaching for a small wooden bowl of sea salt. “Way back in the way back,” he starts with a spark in his eye, “salt represented friendship. One of the first superstitions I learned. Salt was a prized commodity, and spilling it was not only costly and considered unlucky, it was thought to signal the impending loss of a friend.” He pushes the little bowl toward me. “To prevent that, you throw a pinch of salt over your left shoulder.”
Mami uses salt to draw oil stains to the surface and make them cleanable. But it’s not only the salt that makes it feel safe to bring out some of my hidden truths. It’s Orion, eating my food and feeding me back something of himself. Even though it’s only a superstition, it tells me he’s not just curious or making small talk. He cares.
Just as I’m about to say more, he steps close. “I do have to get on to work, but come by the shop later?” Even though we’re both flushed post-run, he invites me in for a hug I didn’t know I needed, more than the tastes of home. “You’ll straighten it out, Lila. Old friendships are valuable, way more than old salt. But so are new ones.”
My head finds a home on his shoulder. He smells like soap and clean sweat. Around the time I’d usually pull back, I find I don’t want to. I fit my cheek right above his collarbone. Sensing the shift, he shortens his grip, his palm planted firmly in the center of my back. As moments come and go, my pulse lulls from a vigorous salsa to a spring formal slow dance. The whole kitchen just breathes. Finally, I lift up and he smiles, tucking a stray hair behind my ear.
When Orion leaves, a stab of fear nicks through all my settled parts. Minutes ago, I felt more than just okay and maybe a little bit happy that I was in Winchester. For thirty real seconds, I wanted to be inside Orion’s hug with his superstitions and listening ears more than I wanted to be on a British Airways flight home.
Way back in the way back, salt represented friendship.
I grab the wooden bowl and toss a pinch of salt over my left shoulder, just like Orion said. It’s silly and ridiculous, but I do it anyway. But I don’t do it for my friendship with Stefanie. I don’t want to lose Miami. My oldest friend of all.
* * *
I’m riding a bicycle. I’m riding a green bicycle on Jewry Street. I’m riding a green bicycle on Jewry Street with six pounds of pork shoulder and a five-pound ham in my basket.
Also, I’m not a sweat-sicle like I would be riding a bike in West Dade. I’m beginning to know Winchester. Now I can pedal off from the Crow and vary my route, watching brick homes and flower arches and monuments without worrying about getting lost.
I stow the bike in an empty space across the street from Maxwell’s. Two bags full of roasts, gourmet pickles, and yellow mustard come along. As I wait to cross, tapping thumps from the window behind me. I pivot and find Jules at a table, motioning me inside an organic juice bar.
A dinging bell welcomes me into the tiny shop that smells of cut grass and oranges. I slide into her spare chair and set down my groceries. “You caught me!”
“Just in time,” Jules says brightly. It’s the most casual I’ve seen her—marbled gray sweatshirt and boyfriend jeans, hair coiled into a topknot. “Carly from my band just left. We had an exam study session, and now my brain is totally fried. Keep me company until my mum comes?”
I grin; I like her style. Her confidence.
“Want to order a drink?” she asks. “There’s nothing quite as jolting as the wheatgrass shot.”
I believe her but shake my head. “Next time. That much green goodness might revolt against all the carbs and fat I ate earlier.”
“Too right,” Jules says before she starts telling me about her upcoming summer gigs. I share about my work at the inn, and some tidbits about Florida. Soon the rate and volume of our chatting balloons inside the small shop. We learn we’re both unapologetic food snobs. And her parents are just as addicted to British soaps as Mami is to telenovelas. I don’t even have to explain how this can spill out into the rest of our homes, even when the TV is off. She gets it, and more.
Jules understands how it feels to have a protective older sister (hers attends uni in Scotland). And all about the sad and confusing parts left behind when we lose someone close. Her favorite uncle passed away from cancer last year. He was her biggest supporter, music mentor, and the first person she told about liking girls as well as guys. It was Uncle Albert who urged and inspired her to write her first song.
Like a familiar refrain, her revelation is still turning inside my head when my phone dings. I look up from Mami’s messages and Jules asks, “News from home?”
I’d normally brush this off. But in twenty minutes, I’ve learned Jules isn’t just a cool girl with stellar talent.
Besides similar views on family and eating dessert first, we seem to get each other. There’s no way she’s lived sixteen years without having at least one row, as Orion would call it, with a friend. So I decide to share more about my friend, and all about Mami’s update.
“Stefanie—I didn’t think she’d last there,” I add after a short pause.
“In Africa?” Jules asks, scooting closer.
“Yeah. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to leave Miami. I thought after a couple weeks she’d show up back on my porch and realize all we’d planned was bigger than fieldwork. She’d realize maybe Africa wasn’t for her. I mean, the Stef I knew was a picky eater and couldn’t go two days without her hair dryer.”
Jules crinkles her nose and slowly raises one hand. “I may or may not know someone similar.”
It’s like a shot of life itself to laugh—better than wheatgrass.
“Most of all,” I continue, “we had our Miami plan. I wanted to keep that close. Before coming here, I ran and shopped at our regular places, and sat at the same plot of South Beach we always went to.”
“Like it would bring her back somehow?”
“Thinking us, the university nursing program, what we’d been since we were kids would bring her back. But she’s not coming home anytime soon. I tried, though. I stayed inside those Miami places for both of us.”
“I get that.” Jules leans in like her next words are a secret. “Do you know why she left like she did?”
I’ve dragged this question everywhere, even across continents. “I was too upset to stick around long enough for a real answer. And I can’t come up with anything that makes sense.” I trace the grain along the wood tabletop, stained the color of beach sand. “I guess people aren’t always who you think they are. What Stef did to me hurt. But I know it wasn’t all her. And I hated the way we left things.”
“Right—broken, like you said,” she muses. She wears the same kind of concentration I’ve seen on her face while writing a song. “Thing is, when you put something back together it’s never exactly the same as it was before. What if she wants to fix things, but it means everything’s different from how you used to get on? Can you do that?”
If there’s anything the last couple of months have shown, it’s that I don’t do well with “different.” Still, I answer, “I hope so. But I don’t know what that would even look like. I only know what our old friendship looks like.”
“Well, she needs to contact you first, and it sounds like she will. And her mum did tell yours that she’s happy.” Her brows narrow. “Question is, are you happy for her?”
“Always. No matter what went down.” My voice comes out small.
Jules offers a warm smile. “Then it sounds like you two will be just fine.”
She waves through the window at the black BMW pulling up to the curb.
“So, that’s me,” she says, and gathers her things. “Look, you know what it’s like here. Small city, tight community. I know I’ll keep some of my mates forever.” Her blue eyes meet mine—thoughtful but vibrant, just like her music. “But there are others that I don’t see much anymore, and I’ve realized that’s okay.” She smiles pensively. “Sometimes I put them into songs, and that’s where I keep them. Plus, there’s always room for new friends.”
My heart swells, testing the space between my ribs. Orion had said almost the same thing. Lingering on the rewind of him, I miss Jules rising and walking toward the door.
“Hey, Jules… thanks.”
“Yeah,” she says over a smile, letting the outside in. “See you, Lila!”
A few moments later, I cross over to Maxwell’s. After Jules, my steps are lighter than they’ve been all day. Orion’s at the counter helping an older man in a raincoat (although it’s actually sunny outside), rows of foil tea bags lined up in front of him. A busy Orion greets me with his eyebrows.
I entertain myself by checking out a few corners of the shop I missed the last time. Built-in shelves display delicate porcelain tea ware, and small Asian teapots in deep russet and iron black metal. A lone table offers books about tea preparation, as well as stacks of linen towels and tea cozies.
I glance around at Orion’s thick sigh. Besides a navy checked button-down, he’s wearing a strangled help me face; the customer is being overly inquisitive or some other kind of annoying. Of course, I make it worse. Cubans can play cheeky as well as certain Brits.
Behind the oblivious man, I grab one of the wrapped pork roasts and pretend it’s a long-lost love. I pantomime sweet nothings and bat my long lashes, gazing dreamily into its “eyes.” One corner of Orion’s mouth jiggles, but he keeps his cool as he grabs another tin—Earl Grey this time. Oh, he’s good, but I’m better.
I twirl and sashay, silently dancing like I’m Clara and the pork is my super special Christmas nutcracker. I win. My target’s neck blazes pink and he’s forced to hide his crack-up with an obviously fake coughing burst. When the customer finally finishes and moves to the cash register, Orion takes the chance to shoot me a glare full of warning and toy knives.
“You are a dangerous human, Lila Reyes,” he says, meeting me at the tasting bar.
I sit and lift the sleeve of my Pilar-pick striped top. “My warning label must’ve rubbed off.”
“Ha bloody ha.” He sets his jaw like he’s trying to keep his face straight. Fails. “You hardly deserve a cuppa after those antics but I’m a sucker and just can’t help myself. Plus, we still need to find your signature tea.”
Intrigued, I watch him grab a tin and follow the same steps as last time. After a few minutes he pours the tea. This one fills our white cups with deep burgundy. “What is it?”
“Assam,” he says. “A single-variety black tea grown in India. Give it a try.”
I do and tell him, “It’s full and… malty. That’s the best word I can find.”
“Exactly. It’s robust, and that’s why it’s used primarily in Irish breakfast blends, which are some of the strongest out there.” He pushes the milk toward me. I add a generous glop.
I sip again, the tea warming my tongue with comfort and flavor. I get why Brits look forward to this ritual every afternoon. “I swear you can taste the land it came from, all the plants around it. But I don’t think it’s a contender for my favorite. Good, but maybe a little too smoky?”
“Ahh, I’ll keep at it, then.” He peeks into both of my shopping bags. “This might sound off, but that’s a hell of a lot of meat you have there.”
I laugh. “Mr. Robinson, the butcher, hooked me up. I’m making a hell of a lot of Cubanos tomorrow. You’ll probably eat at least one and a half, if not two.”
“At least,” he says.
Our chatting and drinking makes the space between us light and easy, the way the milk settles the strong Assam in our cups.
A man enters the shop floor from the back and no introduction is needed to tell me he’s Orion’s dad. Orion plus thirty years equals the tall blond in a thin black sweater and chinos. He spots me and Orion, smiles, and approaches.
“Phillip Maxwell,” Orion says to me. “Dad, this is Lila.”
Mr. Maxwell shakes my hand. “So you’re the brilliant baker who made the delicious pastries on my kitchen counter.”
“I’m glad you liked them.”
Orion hooks a thumb toward me. “If I put on a stone and my trousers don’t fit, it’s her fault. And watch out, Dad, she’s sending Cuban food home for you and Flora, too.”
His eyes are kind, the mirror of his son’s. “That’s so generous. You might find me jogging behind you soon.” His smile wanes as he pulls out his phone. “Elliot just sent this along to a load of shop owners. Have a look. Definitely not in the running for any gallery space.”
We both lean in and, there it is again—black graffiti on a large whitewashed brick wall.
“Elliot owns a tool shop near Farley’s. This is his back wall, at the alleyway,” Orion tells me, and pegs me with a knowing look.
I study another clo
se-up shot; the same infinity symbol is there, plus some other wonky symbols or designs I can’t make out. “Sounds like Roth and his crew, from what you said.”
“But they always manage to keep this rubbish up without being caught. Ri, Elliot wants to know what you used to clean Victoria’s shop. Get back to him?” Mr. Maxwell yawns as he eases away. “Sorry, jet lag. And also invoice time. It was lovely to meet you, Lila.”
“You too,” I say then tell Orion, “If your dad loves his shop half as much as I love mine, it must be hard for him to leave it, even if he’s really into travel.”
“Leaving Mum’s the worst of it for him. As for Maxwell’s, it’s partly mine now. And him leaving gives me the chance to manage everything on my own.” He glances left, then right. “Anyway, enough of my shop when we can talk about yours. I looked up your bakery. You get rave reviews! And clearly we have similar tastes in interior design.”
“Thanks. Pilar runs the website, of course. And yeah, a few years ago, my parents remodeled the showroom, all modern industrial. Even though the bones are the same ones my grandparents started with.”
“Old and new together,” Orion muses. “A mash-up, kind of like modern Winchester.”
“And fig pastelitos.”
And maybe an old friendship between two West Dade girls that can only survive with new rules. If it’s going to survive at all.
17
“You do realize I’m a useless dolt in the kitchen,” Orion says a few seconds after stepping into mine at the Crow. He turns, eyes widening at the Cubano sandwich assembly line I arranged on the butcher-block island.
“Useless, huh?” I sweep my hand inches above the flat top grill on the range. Almost hot enough. “Can you make a sandwich, or do you need a tutorial on cheese slicing and mustard spreading?”
He goes for side-eye but ruins it with a sputtering laugh. “Christ, it smells fantastic in here. I followed it like a rat up the walkway.”
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