A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow

by Laura Taylor Namey

  Alone, Orion munches more fruit and cream as I drag myself to the sink. “How’d she really do?” he asks.

  I want to explain that she has zero skills. But guilt will slice him end to end. “Learning the kitchen takes practice. She’ll get it.”

  My hands have replaced Flora’s under the soap and hot water. Scrub and sponge. Lather, rinse, repeat. All this cleaning can’t scour FaceTime plus the sight of a graffitied St. Cross wall from my mind.

  “Lila. What’s wrong?”

  I can’t tell him yet, and my self-imposed silence hurts as much as the details. Again, I stick to what’s true. “I’m beat. I had a rough night.”

  “Well, I can’t make pastries, but I’m good at hugs?”

  I nod and he drags me into him, sudsy hands and all. I dissolve into Orion Maxwell like sugar into butter, eggs, and vanilla. “You’re the bestest-best at hugs.” I breathe inside the soft whirr of his chuckle and his smell. Rain and apples and his natural soapy spice.

  If possible, I burrow further into him. The calm strength of him shrouds all my dying things—the secrets I’m keeping—and the one I’ve been keeping from myself. My secret truth becomes a question: Does this really have to stop? Foolish. Ridiculous. Impossible for a girl who belongs to Miami.

  “I’ll help you sort out these dishes before we ditch your terrible night for Winchester’s jogging trails. Then I’ll take you to the shop and make you some tea before you hit the farmers’ market.” Orion pulls back, fixes my hair under the headband.

  Fixes more.

  * * *

  It’s not any of the greens. My signature favorite tea, that is. Running done, Orion and I camp at Maxwell’s tasting bar with a trio of miniature Asian teacups.

  “Still no?” he asks over a cup of what he calls silver needle green. A delicacy—sharp and grassy.

  “I like these, especially the jasmine-infused one. But I dunno, naming it my favorite is a big commitment. But I know you’ll find it.”

  His smile shifts to his dad as he trails customers through the front door. Teddy handles the orders while Mr. Maxwell stops by the bar.

  “Lila.” We exchange greetings. “Thank you for what you’re doing with Flora. With her help, your tasks likely take double the time, but I appreciate the effort.”

  That effort is starting to feel better and better.

  Mr. Maxwell tells Orion, “I’ll handle things here later. Take the rest of the day, then?”

  A heaviness settles between father and son. I know the latter well enough to detect it clearly. There’s something up.

  “I will. Thanks, Dad.”

  When we’re alone with tea again, I ask, “Everything okay?”

  Orion stares at the rim of a cup of Dragonwell, the strongest of the three greens on the bar. “Well, before I get on to that, I approached Dad with your business idea. You know, get ourselves set up for some food service. Maybe arrange some bistro tables so people can order a tea and sit and eat an artisan pastry with it.”

  “He didn’t go for it?”

  Orion shakes his head.

  As one fourth of a business owner, I don’t get it. The answer’s so easy, so clear in my head. Do this one thing and your business will grow. Do more than stay at the same level.

  “He would like to, and he sees the value. But I can’t push him into anything past the minimum now. Life’s taking an enormous toll on all of us.”

  “Okay.” I exhale my no-fail ideas, my way. I could hammer them all day into the white walls and I would be right. But Maxwell’s is their business, not mine.

  Orion adds, “We went to see Mum together yesterday. It strikes in waves, this disease. She’ll plateau for a good while, then dip again.” He ducks his head.

  Oh. My hand over his. “She dipped again?”

  “You could definitely say that. It was sort of the next thing we were anticipating, and well, it’s happened. She’s stopped walking altogether. She hasn’t been all that mobile for a while, but this week, it was like her brain just said, ‘We’ve had enough of this now.’ ” Winter-cold blue eyes lock onto mine, and before I can think of any words good enough, or right enough, he says, “I want to ask you something. And you know I make it a point to never ask impossible things. But lately I’ve been feeling my request isn’t so impossible.”

  Anything. This word leaps from my mind. I repeat it out loud.

  He links our fingers. “Will you come with me one time? Soon? Come meet my mum even though she can’t meet you back?”

  The trust overwhelms me. “Yes.”

  “Good. Then one more question. Since I’m gonna listen to Dad and take the rest of the day, take it with me? We can get out of town or something?”

  Always another yes.

  * * *

  After my farmers’ market stop and a shower, Orion swoops me up onto Millie. We wear helmets for our longest trek yet into the Hampshire countryside. He promises three things: something disgustingly pretty, an older-than-old surprise, and fish and chips.

  We ride far into an uneven checkerboard of grays, greens, and browns. Livestock grazes along snaking roads and the sun blinks through clouds as we stop at the edge of a small town. Stowing Millie along a side lane, he swears my black trench will be safe folded into the saddlebag. I choose to kick the afternoon chill with Orion’s sweater, and I wasn’t even surprised when it showed up along with my helmet as “gear.”

  We walk an access road until it descends sharply, depositing us near a whitewashed brick tunnel bridge. This one for small boats.

  “Is this the disgustingly pretty thing?”

  “Just ahead.” Orion grabs my hand, leading me down the steep final steps. Greenery, more than I can take in, riots around the smell of moss and decaying leaves. We’re on a graveled towpath that stretches along a narrow canal of water the color of deep jade. “It’s downright hideous. Gross, even,” he says as we begin a lazy stroll. He tells me we’re at the Basingstoke Canal—hundreds of years old—that links this region with the River Thames in London.

  I digest most of this, as well as the sprinkling of historical facts about the Hart region of Hampshire. Mostly, I’m just stunned that, except for a few stray tourists and bikers, we’re alone with the lull of water and disorganized foliage. Rows of trees bow before me, their canopies dipping into the canal surface. I remember I’m in a country with a monarchy. Why not pretend I’m a Latina princess in a court of prostrating trees? This, I admit to Orion, making him swear to never tell another soul.

  As if this watery trail didn’t already seem straight out of a fairy tale, Orion spots a pair of swans floating along a half second before I do. “Look at those guys! But don’t get too close. They’re deceptively fierce buggers.”

  “I like them already,” I say, pulling him to a stop. I just want to watch them circle around and fluff their feathers and swivel their curvy necks.

  I watch for so long, Orion pokes at me. “You surely have swans in Miami?”

  “Yeah but not these swans in this place.” And not him watching them with me in a life-worn leather jacket, so at home here it’s like he was born between the tree stumps. Spiced and woody and strong.

  “True. But what awaits us here is better than swans. For those who are brave enough to press on through hours of, err, rough terrain.”

  I fix him with an unwavering side-eye until I break and then we’re both laughing. After a heavy morning it tastes better than loaves of pan Cubano drenched in butter.

  We start off around the next bend, but Orion suddenly jumps one pace ahead and urges me onto his back. “Milady, your chariot awaits.” A piggyback ride no one would refuse. “Just a little farther is your special surprise that’s older than old can be.”

  He stoops lower and I grab onto his shoulders. He hooks the bends of my legs and hoists me up. I hold on as we move, but Orion starts to zigzag along the path like the British boy’s version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. He ignores my mock distress and only slows when I start beating one fist on
his back.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll behave. We’re nearly there, anyway. You see, every Latina princess needs her castle. I’m afraid Odiham Castle has seen better days and won’t meet your specs. But it’s still very special.”

  At the end of another winding curve, he sets me down and my mouth drops. Just ahead, a castle ruin rises up and out of the green along the path. “This is an honest-to-God real castle? Right here?”

  He urges me toward a little footpath. “Honest to God and built by King John as a hunting lodge in the year twelve hundred and seven. Here, we’re halfway between Winchester and Windsor, so it was a practical location.”

  A family of tourists passes as we ascend the narrow path. A wide, circular donut of grass surrounds the scraggly fort, and a tall arc of trees keeps watch from behind. Older than old is right. All that’s left of the structure are thick exterior walls, worn to resemble dark gray masses of sea coral, laid out in the shape of a letter C. It could be a sandcastle; no hard edges remain. We can walk straight through to the center, stopping and spinning a slow circle inside the ancient mass. Posted signs describe castle life and detail the way the building used to look, hundreds of years ago, with artist renderings and cross sections.

  After the history lesson, I’m not quite ready to walk, not ready for the best fish and chips, just a few minutes’ ride away. We plunk down onto the grass next to Odiham. No one is here but us and small sounds—the wind through canal water, the lyrical gossip between birds.

  But I hear more. If there are ghosts hanging around the battered castle walls, they speak things into my mind. Or maybe it’s just me who’s been hearing the same whispers for days, and it’s finally time to listen. “I’ve been keeping a secret.”

  He’s toying with a blade of grass. “That it’s not really you making me all those delicious Cuban foods?”

  “Ha––never. But here’s the backstory. Today at the farmers’ market, one of the merchants personally helped me pick the best peppers and onions and tomatoes. He said he knows how picky I am. And while there, I bumped into Mr. Robinson, the butcher. He told me he’s getting some particularly fine free-range chickens in this week and would I like him to save me a couple of the best ones.”

  Orion shrugs. “That’s Winchester. How we are.”

  “And I have dozens more examples. People have welcomed me. And everywhere I look it’s a storybook. Castles and cobblestones, old things mixed with new things. The countryside—there’s so much space. Then I just found out about Le Cordon Bleu, too, and I keep thinking about the pastry program. And thinking some more.”

  I’m tinkering with the soft grass too. “I didn’t even want to come here.”

  “I know.”

  “But now, I’m in love with England.” Right behind it, there’s a star-named boy. My heart goes on beating when he’s not with me, but the missing him pumps as much as blood. “That’s my secret.”

  “It’s more than just a tourist having a favorite travel spot,” I add. “Love, love. Real love.”

  His smile gleams. But if he has words or answers or even more questions, he leaves them with the castle ghosts. It’s okay, though. It’s all okay. Today, I just want his smile. I want mine.

  So I don’t tell him the other part, that it feels like I’m cheating on my own city, loving another place the way I do. I acknowledge this exactly one time, being extra precise like I’m measuring out cake ingredients. Then I prove to myself I can be good at forgetting.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, Lila Reyes,” he finally says, more to the castle walls than my face.

  I know, I know what I should and shouldn’t feel. Like vegetables and vitamins, I know what’s good for me. But today I am going to love something just because I do. I’m going to love a place so magical, even I could believe in the spells and potions of it—the air, thickly sweet like butterscotch. I’ll focus on Orion’s promise to take me to dinner at a cute pub, and mine to steal chips off his plate. And the promise an England summertime night will make when we ride back on a vintage motorbike, bodies open to the road through shaved-ice wind.

  I love England. I just do. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s what it feels like to fall in love.

  23

  Wednesday calls for fruit empanadas. Flora assembles them on the other side of the island. Her task is simple: fill the dough circles, seal and fork-press the edges, then brush them with egg wash.

  We prepared two sugary filling choices, but my mind is focused on the bittersweet. Monday was swans, a haunting castle, and delicious fish and chips—and the boy who showed me all of it. I shared a secret. England has turned from place I wanted to hate, to a place I can’t leave without ripping myself away. At the castle I refused to think about this part and just enjoyed all the others. But two days later, that ripping away part is back, hidden behind my heart.

  The timer dings into my memories. I dart from sink to oven to transfer four loaves of honey oat bread to a cooling rack. Now, empanada time. “Can you grab the pans of strawberry filled?”

  “Yeah.” Flora brings the unbaked pastries from our prep rack.

  I look them over before letting the oven do its magic. “Nice. I always make extra. They’re a guest favorite.” The mini half-moons are uniformly shaped—perfect. Earlier, I taught Flora the way Abuela taught me: I do a few, then we do a few, then you do a few.

  On tiptoes, I try to gauge the progress at her workstation. “Do you have the blueberry ones ready?”

  She nods on a flat smile. “Just one more pan to go.”

  Flora did so well on the first two dozen, I let her take over the blueberry batch while I cooked and chilled a pot of Cuban vanilla cinnamon pudding. I wipe my hands, then wind around to the prep rack where she’s been stacking her empanadas. “Let’s see your mini masterpieces,” I say and pull out one pan of twelve. And stare in disbelief. Stomach tying into knots, I hastily pull out the other pan. “Flora, what happened?”

  Two dozen of the empanadas aren’t close to being sealed evenly. The top folds don’t even reach the bottom edges in half of them, and filling is overflowing onto parchment tray liners. Some are over-filled, some barely have enough. And then the egg wash! So uneven, and she tossed on sugar in icky clumps. I can’t serve these.

  “I don’t understand. I watched you do the strawberry ones myself.” And besides that, I got up early to start honey oat bread on my own, setting the dough to rise before she arrived. That way, I had extra time to teach her some basic kitchen skills. We worked on measuring wet and dry ingredients consistently and using different kinds of knives. I thought she was starting to care.

  Flora unties the bottom half of her apron. “I told you I’m no good at this. Working here. I’m only going to drag you down.” She peeks into the oven; the little strawberry pastries are coming to life. “At least you can put these and the last pan of blueberry out. I mean, that should be quite enough.”

  Espérate. This kitchen is starting to smell like fish. I remember Jules’s words about Flora from the other night:

  She forgets that what she does in one small moment can affect tomorrow.

  Flora did this on purpose so I’d cancel our deal. She saw an easy moment of escape but didn’t think of me or the entire inn. It’d be so easy to just take her apron and show her the door, but again, I see myself in this act. It’s probably something I would have done—no, not with food—but this scheme hails straight out of the Lila Reyes Handbook of Situation Manipulation.

  I’m tempted to actually slow clap her on it—bien hecho, Flora. Well done. Yet, because I know this game so well, I don’t have to look far for what should come next. The only problem is the cost: my reputation.

  Before I think it through from end to end, I’m doing it. “Um, no we won’t have enough. All the guest rooms are filled, and many with families. The guests have been wanting more than one pastry each.” I exhale a resigned sigh. “I don’t have time to make more empanada dough, so we’ll just have to serve the ones you made.�
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  “You’re really going to put those out?” She looks at the tray, her mouth parting. Does she only now realize how awful they look?

  “I have no choice.” I gesture to her. “Now tie up your apron because we need to make butter biscuits to go with the pudding for later.”

  “You mean, you don’t want me to leave?”

  I try to paint my face with the color blasé, pretending it’s part of MAC’s new summer collection. “Leave? Of course not. Every cook screws up once in a while. And you’re just starting out. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  Thirty minutes later, the pastries from hell are in the parlor. I’m washing my hands of it, literally and for real, while Flora scrapes the morning off the wooden butcher block, head bent.

  Cate enters. “Lila, a quick word?”

  I nod, my mind just ahead of what I think is coming.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Cate tilts her head then ogles me curiously.

  “Yeah, just tired. I’ve been having trouble falling asleep.” Which is true. The tangles around my mind and heart have reached the rest of me, wanting to keep me up past any baker’s normal bedtime.

  “Ahh. I was only wondering because of today’s breakfast pastries.” Her brows drop. “They’re so unlike what we’re used to seeing from you. Your usual impeccable quality and consistency.”

  Ouch. I steal a glance at Flora. She’s frozen, her hand clenched tightly around her scrub brush. I could shift the blame where its due, but Orion’s words elbow in—Flora’s drifting, more flighty than ever. Whether or not this small thing I’m about to do will matter, Orion’s family is worth me taking the hit. But only once. This is not happening in here again. I exhale a quick puff of air. “You’re right. Sorry about the blueberry ones. It’s my fault. I was a little distracted.”

  Cate rubs my shoulder. “I see, Lilita. It’s only that our occupancy has never been this solid for months. We’re booked until September! Yesterday, I overheard the gentleman from room six raving about your food. He’d convinced his brother’s family to stay here instead of a place closer to town just because of it. And our rating on that TripTell travel site has never been higher. The comments about the afternoon tea alone! What you do here matters—don’t forget that.”