Orion swears under his breath. “You’d think she’d learn to ignore this lot, but my sister’s impressionable. And Roth’s bass player, Fitz, has a brother who does tech and promo for them. He’s into Flora. So far he’s just nosing around, but if it comes to more I’m going to have issues with that. After what Jules sacrificed for her, it’s just shit. Plus, he’s nineteen and she’s barely fifteen. I don’t like it one bit.”
I look Orion over, his face weighted and weary from more than running. “You want to watch her every second, huh?”
“More like enough seconds to matter. But it’s like trying to keep track of a bumblebee,” he says wryly, and I think of Pilar trying to manage me all these years. Protecting, guiding, giving me hell when I stepped out of line. More often than not, it was me returning all that hell, doubled, and keeping her in line right back. Miami floods my mind and heart. I miss my sister.
Orion does a quick shoulder stretch. “Now you know the story of our graffiti problem. Roth and his crew are just trying to manipulate. You know, bully and taunt because they can’t get their way. And one day we’re going to catch them.” He scrubs his face and takes a cleansing breath. “But now you and I are going to have a quick look around a little church before heading into town.”
Little church? Hardly. The stab of homesickness lifts as we approach Winchester Cathedral. I’d passed the massive gothic structure from afar, but this is the first time I’ve stood right in front of the towering facade with its arched stained-glass window bay. The cathedral is so ornate. I don’t know what to throw my vision at first.
“Impressive, right?” And when I can only nod, he adds, “Eleventh century. One of the largest cathedrals in the U.K.”
We wind around the side to the sprawling nave, anchored like a long rib cage set with hundreds of stained-glass windows. The middle section juts out slightly on both sides—cross-like—just like Notre Dame in Paris. But I’ve only seen that cathedral in pictures.
Orion clucks his tongue, a glint lifting off his eye—also cute—and I know what’s coming. “A Russian superstition says if you take an old coin, walk ’round a church with it three times, then go home and put the coin in a spot where you keep valuables, you’ll get rich.”
“Oh, is that all it takes? And here I was planning on making my millions by feeding Miami Cuban pastries.”
We exit the cathedral grounds through a narrow access street. More quaint houses and shops, more old. “About those Cuban pastries, then?” he asks.
“You mean about you eating them?” I spurt out a laugh. “I’m just getting started here, but after one visit to the supermarket, I might have some trouble. No guava paste on any shelves, and that’s a must. My mother’s sending some. All I found was fig paste. I mean, fig!”
“Wait.” He actually stops. “Lesson one from your tour guide. Never knock the fig around here. One look in Polly’s book must’ve shown you figgy pudding and fig tarts and fig rolls.”
“Me cago en diez,” I say from one corner of my mouth. “Never mention that red book monstrosity around me.”
“Look at that.” He tightens his shoelaces. “I pissed you off right into Spanish. Bet that was a curse. I’ll need to learn those.”
He gets my best side-eye. “Keep mentioning Polly.”
* * *
I’m checking out the flavor brochure and price list inside Maxwell’s Tea Shop. I’ve already met Teddy and Marjorie, local college students who double as clerks. They deftly handle customers while Orion slips into the back.
This shop holds more surprises for me than gourmet teas, though. I didn’t expect it to look so much like the storefront at Panadería La Paloma. Same blond wood flooring and clean white counters. Similar industrial pendant lights and fresh cream paint.
Orion appears infuriatingly scrubbed and fresh in a new long-sleeved tee (does he have a closet here?). He jerks his thumb toward the arched opening behind the counter. “We have a washroom in back if you want.”
Oh, my damp forehead and sweat stains want very much. “Thanks.” The passage leads through a small commercial kitchen space, but it’s a culinary ghost town of covered equipment and counters doubling as storage. No one cooks in here. I can’t help but feel sorry for this space, or any space that’s so obviously missing its own chef. Silly. I roll my eyes at myself and welcome the washroom’s gardenia soap and hot water.
When I return, Orion’s packing up a wholesale order. Weighing and filling little foil sacks with loose teas, he could easily be an apothecary who’s been shot forward in time to a modern, light-filled space and running clothes. Dozens of metal canisters line the wall behind him. His own variety of herbs and potions.
“All set. I’ll run this by the bistro on my way home to clean up.” He waves me to the small tasting bar that caps off one end of the counter.
I drop into a stool. “Are you officially working today?”
“Later, when Teddy heads to class. First I’m gonna go and see Mum.” The small word flickers between us. We hold it for a few beats before Orion exhales through a resigned smile. “Now, how much do you know about tea?”
“About as much as you know about Cuban coffee. Other than that, Miami’s more about iced tea at outdoor cafés.”
Orion grimaces, the tiny cleft in his chin creasing slightly. “Oh God, that’s sacrilege. I have my work cut out for me.” He moves to the huge selection on the wall. “Where to start? Hmmm, let’s try something simple and classic. English breakfast.”
I observe his motions at a little service area, where he boils water in an electric kettle, then warms a small porcelain pot with a quick rinse. He waggles his brows and reaches for one of the canisters. Measures. Places two teacups on a tray with mini containers of milk and sugar.
Watching him calms me. My breathing slows. “That’s quite the ritual.”
Orion swipes a tea towel along the counter. “If you appreciate rituals, just wait until I make you some of the Asian green teas. Or oolong.” He places the fixed tray in front of me then drops into another stool.
Him doing all this for me is more than cute. It’s kind. Smiling, I reach for the pot, but he stops me with a palm. His fingers are long and slim. “One minute more. Timing is everything. Can’t be rushed.”
Timing. For the next three months, my family has taken over mine, from clock to calendar. I haven’t been able to get an early plane ticket or rush them, either.
“Lila?”
“I… thank you.” Orion pours deep brown, fragrant tea into our cups. “Customers can buy loose tea, but they can’t order a cup to drink here? Maybe with a pastry or scone?”
“Not at the moment. We inherited the back kitchen with the property, but we’re not set up for food service.”
I meet his eyes, nodding before looping my fingers into the handle. I know taste. But English breakfast tea coats my tongue with flavors I can’t name. “It’s really nice. Bold and full.”
Orion smiles. “I’ll take that. Now, do you want to be really British and add a splash of milk?”
I find I do, in this small, insignificant way. Maybe it’s just the way he asked, his smooth, syrupy accent spiced with a pinch of cheekiness. I pour the milk and watch the tea lighten to pale mocha.
Orion adds a bit to his cup, too. “Say, with all that talk earlier about Jules and Goldline, I forgot to invite you to their show next weekend.”
I sip again. Remembering Orion gushing about her voice and stage game earlier has me nodding an easy yes.
“Great! It’s a…” He blushes a shade of red our run had nothing to do with. “It’s you and your Winchester city guide making sure your dance card’s booked for Saturday night.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, and find it’s true.
“So, Lila from Miami.” He points to my cup. “Most locals have a tea they consider theirs. You know, their signature favorite. For instance, Victoria from the secondhand shop loves this Ceylon black we offer. She chooses it before all others. We have to find your g
o-to. I know you need to try more varieties, but is English breakfast in the running?”
I’ve almost finished my cup. “Not sure. I mean, I like it a lot. I might not know tea, but I know quality and this is that. I just don’t know if it’s mine.”
“No matter. I guess I have nearly three months to figure it out.” This he says like that’s both plenty and not nearly enough time.
12
Today is my warmest day yet in Winchester. I’ve gotten by with a little dress, trolling the farmers market for passable Cuban cooking ingredients. A thin, lemony glaze of sunlight clings to late afternoon, enough for me to toss on a denim jacket and find a lounge chair on the inn grounds. I’ll FaceTime Pilar from here. Across the lawn, Spencer and Cate are picking veggies from the kitchen garden.
I catch his sweet peck on her forehead and can’t help but lose myself inside another garden—my great-uncle’s in the Little Havana neighborhood of Miami. It was the first place Andrés ever kissed me.
That small plot of land holds all our family roots. Four years after Abuela left Cuba, my great-uncle followed her path across the ocean. He brought his meager possessions and a cloth bag filled with dried corn kernels from the family farm. The corn in Miami, the corn in all the United States, would not do. He still plants the crop every year. We grind it for masa. We eat from what was born of Cuban soil, more than fifty years ago.
Tío’s house is also the site of most of our big family dinners. For years, Stefanie came along to feast on roast pork and black beans and Abuela’s flan. The summer after I turned fifteen, I invited Andrés, too. Stefanie had one job after that dinner: distract Abuela and mis tías and their ever-curious eyes while I snuck Andrés out back. I had a plan.
I led him on a purely innocent tour through beds of calabazas y lechuga y cebollas. We wound around avocado and lime trees. Then the corn plot—the garden’s jewel. Bold as the Caribbean, I grabbed Andrés’s hand and pulled him into a hidden spot between the stalks.
The corn swallowed us whole. Spit us out into a secret.
When he kissed me there, tingles fizzed through my limbs, sparking inside my belly. He tasted of flan and the Coke and lime Papi had placed into his hands. The silent language of my father’s acceptance.
Todo está bien—all is well.
Thousands of miles away, in this English garden, I wonder just how well Andrés really is. Is he still single? The words have been sitting inside of me, gathering weight, ever since I saw his Instagram. I finally release them over FaceTime after Pilar gets through her Miami update.
Pili sputters over her soda, bubbles shooting up her nose. “Lila.” She coughs again then glares at me over her glass.
“Just tell me. I swear I haven’t looked at his Instagram for days, but the last time I did I saw him at—”
“South Beach.” Of course she saw the picture. And that’s Pilar. She’ll tell me a hundred times to move on and ignore this boy who broke my heart. But as sure as sisterhood, she’ll be right there adding up tips and clues, her checks and balances. It’s what she does.
“Well?” I press. “Do you know who he was with? Anything?”
She exhales heavily. “Okay. Annalise is now taking ballet barre with Christopher’s girlfriend Jacqui and—”
“Just get to it.” I know how information travels.
“That day at the beach. Andrés was there with Chris and Jacqui… and Alexa.”
Alexa Gijon. She grew up with Andrés in Coral Gables, and even hung out with us in groups a bunch of times. I’m suddenly witness to a slideshow of every interaction I saw between them.
“Hermana,” Pilar stresses, “I swear I don’t know if it means anything.” I believe her. We might embellish stories, but Pilar and I do not lie to each other. It’s one of the reasons we’re destined to succeed together as partners.
“It’s fine.” Andrés probably went to South Beach with her as friends. It could be totally innocent. Or, maybe he was on a double date. All I want to do is run from this thought, along any Winchester path I can find.
“Don’t take this too far, okay?” she says. “Stick to what we know for—”
“Pili, I need to go. We’ll talk later. Besitos.” I end the call before she responds, needing some space from her revelation. While my sister is faithfully present with her proof and fact gathering, Stefanie was always different. News like Andrés and the beach would have her pacing with rage and purpose around these beautiful English grounds. Forget trying to solve anything, Stef would simply indulge me in being overly dramatic. We’d bitch and complain, sometimes planning grand revenge schemes in our minds worthy of any telenovela. Often, we’d end up laughing as much as crying.
I miss that part of us. And be it drama or telenovela plotline or real, honest life, I am simply out of excuses for not contacting her. I’ve been putting it off. I’ve been putting her off. I cue up my e-mail, and after typing and erasing at least ten different lines, I settle on nine little words:
Dear Stef,
Hey. I think we should talk.
Lila
Tomorrow is now up to her. I press Send and stow my phone in my jacket pocket, catching Spencer helping his wife up from the garden beds. They move toward me instead of through the kitchen side door.
“Good haul?” I ask as the couple drops into the two remaining chairs.
“The garden’s coming up nicely. Good enough for decent salads this week.” Cate shakes her basket before setting it on the grass. “In other news around here, Polly gave her two weeks’ notice for leave today.”
I’m zero percent surprised by my quick flash of joy, even sweeter after my call with Pili.
“She’s not quitting,” Spencer corrects. “It’s only temporary. Polly’s mother has a heart condition. Her caregiver is scheduled for knee surgery and taking leave until sometime in August. Her mother refuses to allow a stand-in nurse. Stubborn. Polly has no choice but to step in herself. We’ll have a look around for help in the meantime. Since you’ve been working with her, we wanted you to know.”
The beautiful Crow kitchen snaps into my mind. An empty space with no red binder and no hovering Polly cramping my style? “You don’t need to look for more help. I can take over all the baking, no problem. And Polly doesn’t even have to finish out the two weeks.”
Spence cocks his head. “Well, then. You’re certainly capable enough.”
“Capable, yes, but the full load might be more than you want to take on,” Cate adds. “You’re not here as Cinderella. Forced to work all day without any time for fun.”
I stare at my hands, noting the careless burn marks and persistent dry spots from just that much flour all the time. But to me, it’s beauty. The kitchen is all the fairy-tale castle I need. “Please. I want to.”
Cate silently consults with Spencer. Nods. “All right, but on one condition. You prepare the breakfast and teatime offerings, but I’ll set up and serve the afternoon tea like Polly does. And you find time to get out.”
“Deal,” I say, then finally give words to a wish. “I know this is a traditional British inn, but would it be okay if I started adding in some Cuban breads and pastries to the menu?”
Spencer says, “We’re game for you to float a bit of variety. How about we see how it goes over?”
They leave me with more than a new job. Thoughts of Andrés and Alexa together on South Beach sand sprout again, growing as well as anything in Tío’s garden. I can’t hack them away this time. Maybe I smudged the truth to Pili, at least a little bit. It’s not fine. And I want to know—was Alexa watching us in groups for years? Watching Andrés’s mouth on mine, his hand sliding up my bare thigh while we all lounged on his pool deck? Has she been waiting all this time, and is she now the one with skin beneath his hands, oiling on Sun Bum, his finger playfully snapping the bikini top band between her shoulder blades?
Stefanie always used to talk about emotional hooks, small points of trauma and memory that snag you every time.
Is Andrés still
single? This one’s mine.
13
Orion’s supposed to be here in fifteen minutes for Jules’s show and I’m in a wicked staring match with my closet. So far I’m winning. Which doesn’t mean I’m actually dressed. Besides my general procrastinating, it’s hard to concentrate on picking an outfit when my mind is acting like a sort of wardrobe of its own. My thoughts are hung with recent images—old friends and news about ex-boyfriends and beaches and unanswered questions.
Recipe for a Breakup
From the Kitchen of Lila Reyes
Ingredients: One Cuban girl. One Cuban boy. One champagne-colored prom dress. One pair of gold strappy sandals. One gold clutch bag. One best friend. One sister. Flour. Water. Yeast. Sugar. Salt. Lard.
Preparation: Listen—stunned—as your boyfriend of three years tells you he’s not leaving you because he doesn’t love you. He just can’t be with you anymore and needs his space. Run to your best friend’s house and cry for hours as she plans his demise in endless creative ways. On prom night, while classmates dance, bake a dozen loaves of bread.
*Leave out all the prom finery. Your sister will clear it from your closet before you have to see it.
Cooking temp: 450 degrees Fahrenheit, the perfect temperature for pan Cubano.
I’m startled from my virtual closet by three strong raps on my bedroom door. “Lila? My ride’s out front, so I’m off!” Gordon yells. “Ri’s never late. Just a word to the wise.”
I’m certainly not about to admit my lagging ways and meandering thoughts to Gordon. “All good here, thanks!” I call. “See you at the club.”
“Right!”
Bundle up, Orion warned this morning during our jog along the River Itchen. And one last time when he dropped me at the Crow before work. After a brush-through of smoothing hair serum, I try on a few more clothing options in my head.
My phone dings from the writing desk.
Orion: Out front
A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow Page 9