A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow

by Laura Taylor Namey

  “I’ve seen you on London’s Le Cordon Bleu website while bread bakes. It reminds me of Gordon, all wide-eyed when he studies grand homes and buildings. All the possibilities.” A short sigh, then, “I want you to understand you always have a place here. Our guest room is yours as long as you need it.”

  I lift up, blinking away moisture. “Thank you. I really do love this inn. And all the England I’ve seen.”

  Cate toys with the tie on her robe. “You seem to especially enjoy the tea, here.”

  Oh, Cate. “I’ve become super fond of the tea here.”

  “We all think it’s extra special. A rare blend. You can’t find tea like that just anywhere. It seems to agree with you, too.”

  “Mucho,” I tell her. So much. I shake my head. “Tell me. After you left Miami with Spencer, when did you stop missing it so much? Your family, your friends?”

  She sips wine, then nods toward me. “Any minute now.”

  25

  One day before Orion takes me to London to check out one school, I’m head instructor in another: Bread 101. After two weeks of basics, Flora is ready to knead today. We double quantities to prepare for my extra day off.

  “Good, now a quarter turn,” I tell her as we press the heels of our hands into the spongy white bread dough. She follows my every movement, adjusting pressure and minding my warnings to use only enough flour to combat the stick and keep fingertips out of her knead.

  “This is kind of fun,” Flora says. “Getting to push something around. Having it do what you want.”

  “Ha. Only if you know how far to push. Too much flour or handling makes the loaf all tough and chewy.” Flora looks like a bona fide baker today. Her bobbed curls shoot backward over her ears under a blue bandana. Her apron’s stained with cinnamon from the apple breakfast cake we made while the dough was rising.

  “But you’re right,” I add. “When my ex-boyfriend and I had one of our blowouts, my family had bread for days.”

  “A better outlet for your rage than faces, though?”

  I turn to her with a dramatic wink. “You should have seen me on prom night. The neighborhood got bread the next morning. Wait, do you have something like prom? A big formal dance at the end of your last year?”

  “We do, except the ones at my school tend to focus on how much alcohol you can work into your evening. Flasks. Plonk hidden in the bushes, Alcopops,” she says then stops to explain about the branded spiked lemonades and punches. “Loads of Tesco champagne before you even leave with your date.”

  I send her a wry, knowing look. “Actually, that’s exactly like prom. Okay, time to flip.” The dough smacks against the butcher block.

  “What was yours like? You had time to knead and bake dough before you got ready?” She laughs. “If anyone would, it’d be you.”

  “Thanks. I think.” My voice grays. “But I didn’t actually go to prom. My ex had mono during his. And then he dumped me a few days before mine.”

  Flora’s movements halt. “Does it get lower than that?”

  “Long story, but it was one of the worst weeks ever. Pilar and I shopped way ahead for my gown. It was long and fitted, champagne colored, and had this amazing slit. Some subtle beading, too, and crisscross straps in the back.”

  “Was? You returned it?”

  So real in my mind, Pilar clearing my bedroom of prom. The beautiful gown, the matching gold heels. The chandelier earrings. She hid it all, then made it disappear when I gave her the go-ahead. I tell Flora these things as we start on the last two dough balls.

  Flora says, “I think I would’ve gone anyway—I mean, I so get why you didn’t—but I would’ve put on my stunning gown and gotten my hair fixed really nice and stepped out proud with my friends or something.”

  “I might’ve, but my grandmother died the month before.”

  “Oh. I see.” Her words quiet a notch. “You talk about her a lot. But I didn’t know she was gone. She really taught you all this? The cooking we did and all the baking?”

  “That’s only a fraction. My sister was really close to Abuela too, but they had more girl talks in the bakery office than the kitchen. My natural love for cooking and baking made me Abuela’s shadow. My grandfather died when I was only three and she moved in with us. I was with her constantly. I just… wanted to be like her.”

  Flora nods. “My nan moved in with us, too. About a year after my mum was diagnosed. She was there two years until Dad got a caregiver to come help us.”

  Orion never told me this. “You were only about eight, right?”

  “About. Nan tried to fill the gaps for me and Ri. Did my hair for school and such. But she never had time to make biscuits with me.”

  “Caring for your mother was a full-time job, I bet.”

  Flora turns her dough with me. “And then some. One of the symptoms of Mum’s disease is constant movement. It was rare for her to just settle and watch a show. She’d walk the house, pacing and pacing. Upstairs, downstairs, picking up items, putting them down. She could never be left alone and only slept after we gave her powerful tablets. So yeah, there was never time.” A sprinkle more of flour. “Mum broke her ankle about a year ago. That’s when Dad realized we couldn’t keep her safe at home anymore.”

  “The care facility.” The home Orion wants to bring me to see.

  “Yeah.” Her eyes fog. “To go from that constant motion to nothing now. We knew it was coming but…”

  “I’m sorry, Flora,” I say, butter and sugar and yeast heavy in the air. “Is your grandmother still… here? Does she know?”

  “Yeah, Dad told her this week. And she visits from Manchester a few times a year. But I’ve never really had the time with her like you did with yours.”

  The bread is ready to bake. I show Flora how to use a peel to slide the loaves into the oven. For a few moments, we stare into the heated space. What we make will matter to someone who wants to relax in the parlor with a newspaper and cup of tea.

  “You could go visit your grandmother?” I suggest. “Take the train sometime and stay a week? Maybe she could teach you some of her favorite recipes.”

  “My nan is all right in the kitchen, but not like yours. Not like what you can do. But she’s amazing at knitwear. I have lots of knitted scarves and beanies from her.”

  My smile pulls at the image. “You never know, you might be good at knitting too. You could make things for your friends.”

  “Maybe I could.” The corner of her mouth quirks. “That gray cardigan of Orion’s you’re always wearing. She made that.”

  26

  Later, I’m folding laundry when FaceTime pings, the icon window layering over Le Cordon Bleu’s website on my laptop. I’ve watched the promo videos a hundred times now. It’s Mami’s account. When I answer, I meet the tight huddle of my family at our dining room table. Mami’s face is flushed, and she clutches a well-used tissue.

  “¿Qué pasó?” I sputter, panic rising. “Who died? Who’s getting divorced? Or is it the panadería? Or is someone in the emergency room?” Was it Javi or Marta or our neighbor Chany or—

  “Tranquila, Lilita,” Papi says. “We have such happy, happy news.”

  Mami sniffs then says, “We have an early birthday present for you.” As my heart settles she continues. “It’s Family Style. The producer of Family Style contacted us and they are going to feature La Paloma at the end of next month! They got so many customer nominations for us, and another café had to cancel, so we were bumped up. Can you believe this? ¡No puede ser! Years of following this show and we are going to be on it. On TV.”

  All settling is gone. My parents’ favorite Food Network show featuring the best of the best of small family eateries and shops? “Oh,” is all I can say. My mind races with my pulse. The opportunity and exposure. The swarm of new customers and revenue and clout. La Paloma is going to be famous!

  Pilar says, “We have so much to do to prepare. It’s time to come home. We’ll get your ticket early and you can even be home for you
r birthday and—”

  “No.” Air leaves my lungs along with the single, sharp word. No is my first thought, rogue and restless. New panic drops as England summer hangs behind my open window, dusk toeing over afternoon. I can’t leave yet and how, how am I the same girl who begged for home only weeks ago?

  But I am and I can’t. It’s too soon. I need more time with my new friends and I want to see the pastry school and visit London. Flora has come so far and… Orion. This cuts most of all and deeper than knives. I am not ready to leave Orion Maxwell.

  “What do you mean, no?” Mami asks, and this starts the wave of liquid to my eyes, another kind of salt water. My sweet mother thought she was just lending me to England to give me a break and a chance to heal. Would she have ever sent me knowing I’d grow to entertain such traitorous secrets inside my heart? Another no.

  “The inn,” I spit out. “I can’t just ditch Cate and Spencer and leave them without a baker after all they’ve done for me. Polly’s not due back until mid-August.”

  “Ah, tienes razón,” Papi says. “We didn’t even think of that.”

  I nod. “Book my ticket for two weeks before the taping. That will be plenty of time for me to help get La Paloma ready.”

  Pilar says, “We need to find a color to repaint the showroom and figure out all the foods we’re going to showcase.”

  “I can help from here. It’s going to be awesome. Perfect.” Excitement builds, humming. My family business, this precious thing that my grandparents started will grow and expand like never before. Abuela, this is your legacy.

  We chat longer, catching up and plotting. When we finally reach goodbye, I don’t even think about my next move. I’m already in motion, my hair in a messy topknot and the rest of me in a simple tee and cropped yoga pants. I slide into Chucks and bolt.

  I’m panting when the front door opens. “Hey,” Orion says, eyes blinking with surprise.

  “I’m sorry. Sorry I didn’t text.” I glance left then right. “I just had to—”

  “Don’t be silly.” He opens the door wider. “Come in. You’re worrying me.”

  I shuffle inside the warm space as locks click behind me. “I know you just got off work.”

  Orion faces me, bracing steady hands on my shoulder bones. “No bother. Dad’s at the shop late and Flora left from there to Katy’s. I was about to heat up some leftovers of that incredible roast you made. Ropa?”

  I sniffle. “Ropa vieja.” Old clothes. A fitting name for the fragrant, shredded beef roast I served last night over black beans and rice, over a silly classic film and lots of wine. August seems so close and no one’s going to cook for him after my plane takes off.

  He leans in, eyeing me with concern. “Come,” he says and leads me to the leather sofa. He sits closely, clasping all of our hands together. “What’s up?”

  I recap everything from the call with my parents, watching his features shift in tandem with the rise and fall of my words. We’re silent when I reach the end, our eyes passing the incredible, terrible truth between us. Back and forth.

  Finally he says, “I can’t imagine what this opportunity means for you. Your place wouldn’t have been chosen if it wasn’t for all the work you and your family have put in.”

  “Yes.” My family. “But the taping. I wasn’t planning on two fewer weeks here.”

  “I wasn’t either. But we knew all this. Each day we’ve had, we’ve lived it knowing full well it has to end,” Orion says, his voice balancing on the thinnest wire. One wrong move and we both tumble. “We always knew you were going back to Florida.”

  “Florida,” I muse. And then I just release it because I’m tired of the past eating through my gut. “Andrés called. Twice. Said he… wants to talk again. He’s having second thoughts.”

  Air rushes from Orion’s lungs. His eyes hood, dark and deep. He stands, rushing to the piano. My heart cracks when he angles away from me. “Well then.” He speaks to his family photo from Ireland, to a time when this home held all of its hearts. “That should make it loads easier for you. Miami, your successful business, your boyfriend you were pining for. Your amazing future now with this galaxy ahead of you.”

  “Easier?”

  “Lila, you’re getting everything you dreamt of.”

  “No,” I say for the second time tonight.

  He shakes his head. “Andrés wants you.”

  “Orion, stop. Just because—”

  “It’s so simple. Part of the reason you’re even here is him—”

  “¡Me cago en diez! Will you bloody listen?”

  This gets him. He turns, granite-jawed and blurry-eyed. No, he doesn’t get to be hurt. He doesn’t get to feel hurt about Andrés and the second this flashes across my mind, the answer beams, free and clear.

  My smile breaks out in sheer relief before it remembers all the other hurts. I stand; we’re a pace or two apart. “Do you want me to show you the time stamp from my parents’ call? ’Cause you’ll see there’s not even five minutes between me hanging up, then knocking at your door looking like shit. What does that tell you?”

  He scrubs his face, shrugging. “That you’re as fucking fast on your feet as you ever were.”

  “Try again. I didn’t go to Andrés with my news. Didn’t call or message or even think about him. I can’t be with a person who’s a second thought. Yeah, I loved him for a long time, but I can’t go back to him, Orion.” My words tangle in a rush of oxygen. “He should be with a person who runs to him first. I didn’t want to.”

  Orion absorbs this with a pinwheel of reactions. His wide-eyed jolt morphs into a jagged smile, ending in a messy, caustic laugh. “See, I told you. No motorbike, no deal.”

  I match his mess. “He hates tea with a passion.”

  “Oh, well, come on, then,” he says and steps forward until he’s going either to run into me or draw me into his arms. I get the latter—home. So very much at home. “Lila Reyes of West Dade is gonna be on television. It really is cracking news.”

  I fold myself into him and for a few moments, there is only me holding the star-named boy who dipped his finger into my cake batter. Weeks later, there’s no part of my life he hasn’t touched.

  But time closes around us. He shifts but doesn’t let go. Like this St. Cross house, we know we’re just another home that can’t be whole. “Andrés or no, you still need to return to Miami. Be there for your family, La Paloma.”

  “I am,” I say into his polo. Meaning it. “At the same time, I don’t want to leave anything here. Or anyone.” Meaning it.

  He pulls back. “Day by day. All we have.” And this is all he says. You could come back. It rises, moving from his skin to mine. But would he ever voice it? Or am I just another impossible thing he’d dare not beg any God or universe for?

  He thumbs underneath my eyes. “Stay and hang, okay? You can share my leftovers, but first, I can make us a cuppa? I refilled our stock here.”

  “Just what I need.”

  I wait on the couch, hugging my arms to my chest. Footsteps pad, then his soft gray cardigan drapes around my shoulders. Of course he has it near. I clutch the collar then say over the back of the couch, “You didn’t tell me your grandmother knitted this.”

  “Not after learning you’d just lost yours.” He winds around, then hands me a warmed cup. “Then I didn’t think of it.”

  I sip the fragrant tea and maybe moan.

  “Quite good, huh? All those puddings you feed me made me think of this variety now. Vanilla black.”

  I drink again, the flavors of two cities I love tangling on my tongue. “Orion, this one.”

  “What?”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  27

  Orion’s London is the streets and pavements and outsides of things. It’s the vintage bookstores and secret neighborhood parks, the people watching with lattes in quirky Covent Garden. Then Neal’s Yard with its cluster of brightly colored storefronts and the eclectic beat of Soho. His London is plunking our elbo
ws onto the Embankment wall on a sun-bright Saturday, where we can get by with his short sleeves and my stretch jersey maxi dress.

  The River Thames flows in front of us, winding through boroughs. Four hundred feet high, the white London Eye observation wheel twirls over South Bank, just across Westminster Bridge. Midday light glows off Elizabeth Tower at the edge of the monstrous Parliament compound. “Lots of tourists think Big Ben is the clock tower. It’s actually the bell inside the tower,” Orion says.

  I stare at the blended landscape of medieval and modern so hard my eyes blur. “Never stop.” I let the river have my words.

  “Never stop what?”

  “Telling me things about things.”

  He smiles and leads us toward Parliament and Westminster Cathedral. I link our elbows and ask him to show me Buckingham Palace.

  “We should try to come back at least two more times before…” He doesn’t have to finish. “The British Museum is so cool. And the Tower of London. You’ll love the crown jewels and all the armory, the weapons. And anything you want to see the insides of, we can.”

  But today the sun is high and the Mall leads us into a long thoroughfare with a fantasy palace at its foot. Union Jack banners flank our way, and when I get my Buckingham dreams fulfilled, he shows me the posh and manicured Mayfair borough and leads me into Kensington Gardens.

  While I’m dreamy inside an Italian water garden, I remember the junior high plan Stefanie and I made to see London and Paris together the first time. Me, here with Orion instead of her, doesn’t feel like a loss. It feels like a change. And there’s always Paris.

  Orion speaks more “things” into patches of my silence, like how in 1861, Prince Albert built this ornamental garden as a gift for Queen Victoria. We stroll around Italian urns and manicured hedges.

  “It’s been a whole five minutes since I told you a superstition.”

  My laugh hums; I thump his side. “Well, go on. You have to have one about gardens or flowers.”