A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow

by Laura Taylor Namey

  “I won’t forget.”

  “Good.” She cranes her neck. “And Flora, I’m so pleased Lila has gotten herself some help in here.”

  Eyes like saucers, Flora only nods.

  At the swing door, Cate says, “Tonight I’ll have Spence brew you some of his turmeric tea with coconut milk. Will knock you out cold.”

  I’m back at the sink, then Flora’s at my side, her lips tightly curled together. “You can go. I’ll finish up,” I say.

  “I… you took the fall for me. Why?” she says to the floor.

  I transfer a glass mixing bowl to the drying rack. “What happens in this kitchen is my responsibility.”

  “But—”

  “Orion will be here soon to run.” I return to my washing. “I saved him one of the strawberry empanadas we made together. They’re one of his favorites and he’s going to love it.” One final direct glance at Flora. “So. Friday, then?”

  “Um, okay. Friday.”

  * * *

  “What do you mean you told Andrés Christian Millan to chill and not contact you for a while? And how long is a while?”

  “Ugh. Shit. Ugh.” I’m sure Pili can still see me just fine through her laptop FaceTime window as I plunge, face-first onto my bed. “I don’t know,” I say into the duvet. “I don’t know anything right now.”

  “Lila.”

  I drag my head sideways, still belly-down.

  “But it’s Andrés,” she says. “The guy you cried over in the walk-in freezer! And now he’s having second thoughts?”

  Yeah, it’s Andrés and the us that’s been such a mainstay of my life for years. Put our faces on a flag, wave it high over West Dade. Andrés Millan and Lila Reyes forever. But the second I find out Andrés might want to get back together or at least talk about it, I tell him not to call?

  “You look different,” Pilar says softly. A wistful smile graces her face.

  “Different how?” I drag out my forearm, pronate it. “Paler?” I grab a chunk of the hair we share. “Mira, no summer highlights like at home.”

  “The sister I know would’ve called, texted, FaceTimed, hired sky writers to get Mami and Papi to get you the hell home early over this.”

  “Yeah, so what else would she do? The Lila you know?” How has Pili really seen me all these years, not as family so much, but simply as a someone?

  Pilar snickers a bit. “Let’s see, you’d probably speed over to the Gables. Kiss Andrés senseless. Make him call you his again.”

  Make him. And she’s so right, about the girl she left at the airport. I stare at my sister, this part of me I love so very much. “Pili,” I say with a hitch, “it’s getting warmer here. But I’ve been wearing all the clothes you sent. I miss you.”

  “I miss you more. I miss us.”

  Her blade slips by all the knife skills I know, getting me good. She pulls me in, she pulls me home. Las Reyes, Lila and Pilar. Our plan of world pastry domination is as bright and alive as ever in my eyes, my heart. So easily, so effortlessly, this is my future as it’s always been.

  “I can’t just run back to Andrés so quickly,” I say. My own heart matters too much. “I can’t rush this time. You don’t understand how broken I was.”

  “Don’t I?” Four thousand miles of knowing shadows her face.

  “Thank you.” My hand tips, conceding. “For making me come here.”

  Pilar lets out a long, slow breath. “I was right. Different.”

  24

  I’m cooking big time. The work centers me. The chopping, and the simmer of onions with butter, milk, and flour for a béchamel sauce. I’m using nothing from cans today, peeling and steaming my own farmers’ market tomatoes for sauce, boiling bones and herbs for chicken stock.

  My phone vibrates from my apron pocket. Not a text, an e-mail. The header makes my heart clench. Stefanie.

  Dear Lila,

  Yes. We should talk. I’ll call soon, promise.

  Stef

  Well, it’s something. But as steps forward go, it’s a tiptoe. Will our first face-to-face feel like walking on shards of glass or sitting in the middle of a burning-down room? Dozens of clichés flood but I have to remember: we can do this. We can find ourselves again, even if we have to start by leaning on all we used to be for years.

  The backdoor creaks open then smacks shut. While it’s usually Orion, this afternoon, Jules and Flora slide into my kitchen, mid-conversation.

  “Yeah, yeah, Nicks is worthy. Legendary.” Flora shakes a finger at Jules. “But Benatar. Trained classically at Juilliard and all! It bloody well shows in her range.”

  “I hear you,” Jules answers. “Nicks, though? Come on. She practically wrote the manual for eighties rock.”

  I give the broth a stir. “Um, hi?”

  “Sorry, love,” Jules says. “Okay, maybe you can settle our squabble. Undisputed queen of eighties rock, Stevie Nicks or Pat Benatar?”

  “You’re better off having that conversation with my sister,” I say. “She speaks vinyl.”

  Jules points her nose here and everywhere. “Christ, Lila, if this isn’t what Heaven smells like.”

  “Angelic is always the goal. But didn’t Orion tell you guys seven? You’re about four hours early.”

  “That’s on me,” Flora says. “We’re headed into town, and I think I left my sunnies here this morning?”

  I remove the finished stock from the heat, pointing my wooden spoon at the opposite counter. “Out of tomato splatter range.”

  While Flora retrieves her sunglasses, Jules peers over my shoulder. All burners are occupied with prep sauces, stocks, and fillings. “We’re so chuffed about tonight. Remy, too. Usually when we get invited for tea it’s pizza or maybe takeout from the local chippie.”

  I pantomime a fatal wound.

  Jules laughs. “I don’t do much cooking myself either. My mum does a worthy job, and then Rems and I are always scrounging pub food.”

  “You cook songs, Jules.”

  “Too right. But it would be cool to learn a few tricks.”

  Kitchen tricks are my music. I rest my spoon. “You could stay and cook with me?”

  “Lessons from the boss?” Jules beams, then turns to Flora. “What do you say? We can grab lattes and scrounge around Victoria’s shop any old day. Lila is only here so long.”

  The melancholy words poke gently, but I’m already full of them. I know, I know.

  Flora shoves a plate of leftover lemon biscuits Jules’s way. I always have them close to feed a certain tea merchant. “Try one. I helped bake them.”

  Jules bites into one of the crisp wafers, then makes a big show out of trying to pocket the entire batch.

  “Yeah,” Flora says. “We’ll stay and help.”

  Tasks explained and divided, I get my sous chefs washed, aproned, and set up on the island. We turn up eighties rock while Flora peels potatoes and Jules handles vegetable chopping like a pro.

  Cate waltzes in. “Lila you said arroz con pollo, not half of a Cuban cookbook.”

  I wave her over. She pokes her nose into the bubbling pot of rice pudding. “Arroz con leche, too?”

  “And papas rellenas and croquetas de jamón.”

  Cate drags over a stool. She observes quietly, but I can almost see the thoughts zooming behind her eyes. “Before you were born—way before I met Spencer—your abuela and abuelo had me over for dinners like this. All the time. Your mother knew plenty, but Miami Cuban food was Abuela. Her old kitchen was like a shoebox, but she used every little corner. The smell, Lila—just like this. I followed it in here. The guests are going to wonder when supper is served.”

  The Cuban siren song.

  “If I close my eyes, I’m in Miami again,” Cate continues, “and the air conditioner is broken and we’re all dripping sweat with portable fans blowing loud behind us and the music playing louder.” Her hands on her heart. “Your abuela Lydia could have been in the most high-end kitchen in her mind. And more than me, she fed everyone. When times were t
ough for her neighbors, she brought pots of caldo de pollo and pan Cubano.”

  I lift my gaze through the molasses drag of memory. Flora and Jules have stopped chopping, just listening. This is my Miami, my history. This is me. “Stay,” I tell Cate. “You can cook with us.”

  She reaches into the stack of aprons, grinning.

  * * *

  My Cuban relatives came from a small farm near Cienfuegos—one hundred fires. The inn kitchen steams and smokes with nearly that much heat now. I show the girls how to cut up chickens, then work with Flora to brown the pieces in cast iron for arroz con pollo. Cate and Jules tuck spiced ground beef picadillo filling inside a coating of the mashed potatoes Jules boiled and seasoned. The pair watches me, then takes over forming the mixture into balls. Next, they roll ham croqueta filling into breadcrumbs. We’ll fry them up at the last minute.

  “Keep the veggies moving so they don’t burn,” I tell Flora.

  Flora dutifully turns and stirs. Then I let her add the dry white rice and stock and finally, the Bijol spice. “It’s supposed to turn yellow, then?” she asks.

  “Arroz con pollo must be this color. Like saffron. And this spice adds flavor, too.” I give the mixture a final stir. “Watch for a rapid boil. It will bubble up, but when it gets fast, that’s how you know it’s time to lower the heat to simmer and put on that cover. I need to check our rice pudding, so you’re in charge.”

  Flora gives me a thumbs-up.

  With trays of potato meatballs and ham croquettes ready for frying, Cate hauls over four Cokes. I shoot her a knowing smile when she cuts a lime and hooks a wedge onto the rim of each glass.

  “Lime with Coke?” Jules questions.

  “A Miami regular. Try it,” Cate says.

  “Oh, that’s quite good. Zingy.” Jules moves her shoulders to her own rhythm, sipping again. “I’m feeling so South Florida.”

  “Well, if you really want to feel Miami, you need to hear it,” I tell her. “Let’s ditch the eighties and get our salsa jams on.”

  “So much dancing, so many nights,” Cate says. “The clubs with Mami and our friends.”

  I sync my phone to my portable speakers and fire up the music of my culture. With our supper covered and ready for a long simmer, Flora steps away from the stove with her drink. Her neck and face are flushed from the flaming pans. But she smiles.

  “This music!” Jules says, eyes bright with wonder. “The polyphony and drum work and rhythm are fantastic. It sounds like a tropical resort and a colorful street lined with merchants and…”

  “What?”

  “I know it’s weird, but it sounds like this food smells. Spiced and sexy.”

  I elbow the inn co-owner, less Cate Wallace from Winchester than I’ve seen her in weeks. “Catalina, we need to show them the dance.”

  “Yes please,” Jules says, grabbing Flora by the elbow. “Teach us.”

  We do, and we look like a couple of fools but manage to show them salsa dance basics. “That’s it, chicas,” I call out. “Pause on beats four and eight. Drag the foot, don’t place it.” We demo where to put hip and shoulder. How to sharpen each movement, locking it up. Flora holds her own, but Jules takes her salsa instruction to another level. Why am I surprised?

  Jules can’t help but dive her gorgeous voice right into the songs. With a trained ear, she picks up the Spanish phrases and creates her own harmonies with the singers. She’s beautiful, my friend.

  My eyes flick to the doorway. The boys have materialized, all three of them snapping shots or videoing and way too pleased with themselves. How long have they been standing there?

  “No clue what the hell is going on,” Remy says. “But one day when Jules is famous, this video will show up online and it will be amazing.”

  Jules is already beaming over to him, making a play for his phone.

  Gordon’s face carries a dose of horrified shock. Trouble processing a new side of his mother and her formidable hip sway? “I have no words.”

  “For once.” Cate fluffs his hair. “I’m going up now. Bring your dad and me our portions when Lila serves it?”

  “Yeah, Mum.”

  Cate traps my stare at the hallway push door. She presses fingers to her lips then her heart before she leaves.

  I find Orion peeking at the arroz con pollo and eyeing the finger foods. When I approach he draws me in for a brief hug. After hours of frantic fun, my breathing lulls.

  “Now I’m all guilt. You worked so hard and all we brought were a couple of bottles of plonk and some ale.” He points to Remy, who’s setting red wine and beer bottles on the counter.

  “There must be a few last-minute tasks we can do to pitch in?”

  “More than a few.” I playfully scratch the sleeve of his faded band tee. “And no guilt allowed. This is what I do. What I love to do.”

  He smiles then rubs a gentle finger across my face. “You’ve flour on your nose.”

  “I probably have a lot more all over the rest of me.” I glance down at the skinny jeans and black tank under my apron. “I must look like a wreck.”

  “Nah.” He lifts my chin with his thumb, a lazy smile across his face. “You’re always lovely.”

  Oh. He’s never said that before. Many times, I’ve felt it hiding behind his gaze. Only the words are new and my heart is no longer lulling. We’re back to frantic. “Pour me some of that plonk you brought?”

  The evening starts with his first pour of wine then stretches long, loud, and delicious. Remy’s a pro at the fryer from working at the pub. Ham croquettes and potato balls come out golden crisp and the fillings ooze in greasy wonder. Orion helps serve the arroz con pollo. The crowd oohs and ahhs over the steaming platter of chicken over yellow rice with peas, peppers, and onions, dripping with reduced stock and the flavor of bones.

  We all lean over the wooden surface, bellies filling with food and ears with stories. Orion accepts a second ale from Gordon and offers me one, but I stick to the house red Remy lifted from the pub.

  “Lila, tell me you’ve seen Ri sloshed?” Gordon asks. “Like well and truly pissed?”

  I grin over the thought, and at Orion’s glare at his buddy. “Hmm, I know I’ve witnessed buzzed. But I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of his fully sloshed presence.”

  Remy chimes in. “Well, that’s gonna require more than two beers. But speaking from those who know, it’s gorgeous.”

  Orion swallows his last bite of his millionth potato ball. “Bugger off, Rem.”

  “I don’t think so.” Remy only spurs himself on more. “Orion’s a sleepy drunk. The last time I saw it, he was at my place.”

  “Oh God, I remember this,” Jules adds with a snicker.

  “Yeah,” Remy tips his bottle. “Crashed on my sofa and before he went clean out, he was mumbling all this random shit. Some coherent, some not. We weren’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.”

  “Wanker,” Orion says, annoyance ghosting over a wry laugh.

  “Doesn’t make it untrue,” Gordon says. “Next time, we’re recording.”

  The teasing and jibes on my England tour guide give way to eating. My guests are the good kind of quiet, pausing to throw out accolades and begging for seconds. When it’s “pudding” time, I have Flora fetch chilled ramekins of arroz con leche.

  “I must compliment my worthy, salsa-dancing helpers, Jules and Flora,” I say, my words jostled by the effects of three glasses of wine.

  The girls bow over the boys’ applause, then we all dig into the rice pudding, one of Cuba’s sweetest comfort foods. Afterward, everyone helps with dishes, and before I know it I’m alone with Orion and the final seal of plastic ware. I place leftover rice into the fridge and spin around. Maybe too quickly.

  Orion was near enough, but he’s lightning-quick, steadying me. “Easy, there. Sloshed, you’re not. But you left tipsy back with your second glass.”

  Warm. Yummy warm. My cheeks and his arms and the rush through my head. As if to prove him right, I let out a noisy yawn.<
br />
  “Right. I was going to suggest we watch a film, but you’re dead on your feet and have an early wake-up, too. We have plenty more nights for films.”

  Do we?

  His smile changes with ticking seconds—dimple-big, then lopsided, then small. “It was not simple chicken and rice and might be the best meal I’ve ever eaten. And seeing Flora here, with you…” He doesn’t go on. Doesn’t need to.

  “I know.”

  “Sleep now. But be sure to exit the bed on the same side you enter to avoid the worst of the worst kind of luck.”

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  Orion winks. “G’night.” He plants a soft kiss on my forehead.

  A balmy July evening gets the rest of him. The staircase gets my sore feet and full belly and wine-flushed movements. Half-dimmed light greets me when I reach the flat. The outline of Cate in a fluffy robe draws me to the overstuffed sofa. A wineglass hangs between her thumb and forefinger and the TV drones.

  Seeing me, she scoots then pats the cushion. Lowers the volume on the remote. “Want a glass? Spence is still out with some mates.”

  I snort and ease my aching limbs. “Another glass and the inn won’t eat tomorrow. But thanks.”

  “Gordon trudged up a half hour ago. Knackered and stuffed. You were incredible today. Cooking and dancing and reminiscing were such fun.” I nod and she says, “Flora working with you—she needs it.” She flicks the crystal wineglass, makes it hum. “I know the truth about the ruined blueberry pastries. In your sleep you couldn’t make empanadas look like those.”

  I flinch, then shrug. “Well.”

  “Lila.” Cate’s voice thickens. “What you did for Flora, more than bread or pastelitos or a business, that was what Abuela really taught you.”

  I drift into the words and the quiet—plus the wine, the friends and food. The electric pulse behind Orion’s fleeting kiss on my forehead. The salt in my throat. This place I love and might have to lose. I close my eyes, giving in.