A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow

by Laura Taylor Namey

  Orion bops against my side, eyes hooded. “I knew you would.” He takes my cue for our landing spot; I want to look southward for about twenty-seven hours, at least. “I’m prepared, this time,” he says and unrolls a thick tartan wool blanket from the backpack. “When I say I’m thinking of your arse, you’ll have no reason to slap me.”

  “Plenty of other reasons.” My laugh runs free as I sit. He’s eyeing my cooler bag with predatory attention. I take my time. “Leftover Cubanos, freshly heated.”

  Orion pantomimes a knife into his heart.

  “Lemon pound cake I made for teatime.” I reveal a little sack with two slices and forks.

  “Holy.” He breathes out the word.

  That’s all—holy. Perfect. “And finally, these are from breakfast service. Today the Crow guests got to try empanadas.” I show him the miniature dough semicircles. Sugar dusted egg wash gleams on top and the edges are fork-pressed. “Cuba meets England, again. These are strawberry and cream cheese.”

  He bites into an empanada and makes a noise straight out of a steamy love scene. I call him on it. “You’re wicked and crude, Lila Reyes. But so am I and this pastry’s damn good.”

  We eat in companionable silence until I remember food wasn’t the only thing I dragged up this hill. “I want to float something by you,” I tell him.

  “Yeah?” He’s the lazy one now, body stretched long and lean on the blanket, arms butterflied behind his head. His tee rides up and his jeans hang low. So, Orion Maxwell wears red boxers and has been hiding plank-flat abs? “You could float me like a buoy. I’m bloody stuffed.”

  “Lila?” he says louder, crashing into my mental detour over the ridged sinews of skin above his waistband. How many crunches does he do?

  “Um.” I busy my hands by adjusting my top and detangling my hair. “I mean, I had an idea. Pilar runs our books but there’s enough business inside me to say this and maybe not be wrong.” After a cleansing breath I press play. “I think your business needs something from mine.”

  “A Cuban sugar witch?” Wry. His whole damn face. “I’m just jiving, Lila. Winchester is only borrowing you.” And so am I. Unsaid, it’s deafening on this hill.

  I can’t think around it. But dissecting all the reasons why is going to take more time than I have between sentences, so I cling to what’s at the front part of my mind. “You already have the web store, but your brick and mortar shop can offer one more thing, besides personal connection. How do you feel when you eat one of my pastries?”

  “Like I want more.”

  I ignore the flip-flutter-drop of my stomach. Business, Lila. My smile wobbles. “Right. What if you sold brewed teas and a small assortment of pastries? And they were so good, customers would line up early for tea, and take a treat home before they’re sold out, or stay to eat them? And word of mouth—”

  “Yeah, I get it. Contracting with a baker or two.”

  “If you did, I predict your business would grow even bigger. At La Paloma, we have café tables where friends can meet and chat over a coffee and a treat. They sometimes sit there all morning and order more food. Or decide they want rolls plus bread. We keep them there and end up selling more. And keep them coming back more often.”

  His expression sours. “Yeah, but I told you we’re not set up for that.”

  “Maybe just think about it? With some small tweaks, you could be set up.”

  “Small? I don’t think so. We don’t have tables or display cases like your joint, for one. Then there’s food handling and more man power to brew drinks. So even if you’re right, if I run your idea by Dad, don’t be put off if he doesn’t see it the way you do, yeah?”

  Enough bristle peppers his words, mine naturally sharpen. “Well, sometimes we don’t see new things because we’re so used to seeing things the way they were.” New places. New people.

  I straighten my spine, drawing in my knees and caging my hands over my face. Thinking how narrow my life back home actually was. The spaces I’ve lived and cooked in seem so small against all this green—and countries and continents more—beyond the base of this hill.

  Fingertips press against my arm. I ignore them.

  “Lila.” A whisper so close, hot breath puffs over my ear.

  I turn my head and Orion’s lifted himself up, his face inches from mine. “Sorry if I got cross. It’s just been a lot.”

  I search for his hand, squeezing. “I know. I’m the last person who needs an explanation.”

  He nods and squeezes back. “Speaking of new things, you do seem happier here lately. You smile a lot. Especially when I take you to see wide-open landscapes you probably can’t find in Miami. Except the ocean, I suppose. The Atlantic goes farther than your eyes work too,” he muses softly. “Are those smiles for real?”

  “Realest. Even though I miss that ocean and it’s colder here. But there are sweaters for that and why are we whispering?”

  “Because we’re ridiculous fools. And yes, lots of jumpers and wooly sheep to make them.”

  This would not happen in Miami. A woodland boy talking about sheep, our sides fused together, faces tipped to catch every ounce of blue raining down from a cloudless sky. We’ve been touching more lately—and not in any way that feels deliberate. Even with Andrés’s face still in the back of my head, my body always seems to drift close to Orion’s. And his drifts right back. More than sometimes, his fingers thread into mine or his palm spans the curve of my back. We hug for the perfect amount of too long, but never talk about it. We need to talk about it.

  Guy friends have never touched me this way. Sure, Orion is my friend, but he’s also something else. Whatever that something is sits unknown on my palate, a taste I can’t describe. He’s not my boyfriend or trying to become the one I so recently lost. He’s also not acting like a guy who’s hours or days away from a hookup. Eight thousand miles—there and back, what I’ve left, and what I’m returning to—tells me that. It doesn’t whisper, either.

  I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask. But just when I think I’ve found enough words to start, the FaceTime icon flashes on my phone and straight through my nerve.

  “Want to meet Pilar?” is my only question for now.

  “I do want to meet Pilar.”

  We flip around, bellies down on the blanket, heads pressed close with the phone between us. The intros are quick and pleasant: accounting queen, meet tea expert. Most important person in my life, meet… Orion.

  “So Pilar, your sister is trying to bury me in pastries and Cuban dishes,” Orion says.

  “She can’t be stopped and also, Lila, his voice is like natilla. Can you record him for about two days straight?” She gives me The Look. I’ll be getting another call later in which I will have to explain this guy and I will not be able to explain this guy.

  I push it out in a long breath, watch it roll down, down, down this fairy hill. “He never stops talking, so I got you, hermana.”

  Orion mock-glares as Pili asks, “Where are you guys? It looks like Mami’s terrarium behind you.”

  Orion does the honors, taking Pilar on a panoramic tour of St. Catherine’s Hill.

  “Oh… Lila.” And that’s all she needs to say. In our secret sister language with our secret sister faces, I’m healthy and okay, my cracked heart cushioned in all this soft green. And she’s okay too.

  My hand domes over the phone to cut the glare. I notice the vast array of foliage behind Pilar on our dining room table. “Speaking of plants, um?”

  “Dios mío. Ashley’s wedding. It was Sunday.” She turns the view and wow.

  All is clear, now. My neighbor’s daughter’s wedding, which I would have attended if I’d been home. “Okay, Mami’s rule is usually one centerpiece per person and that,” I point, “is way more than a couple.”

  Pilar smacks her hand on her forehead. “Mami did her thing and we got two. Fine, okay, I can deal. But then Isabella had some of her kids take them. Only, she forgot their Italy trip. The flowers would just die. So las
t night, little Grace shows up toting four centerpieces in her wagon. Mami was thrilled of course.”

  Orion is laughing and he doesn’t even know the full story yet.

  “Are those carnations?” I ask.

  “It was awful. So tacky. Only Mami’s wedding cake was on point.” Pilar plucks out a pitiful flower. “They dyed them ombre blue to match los vestidos de las bridesmaids.”

  Ombre carnations—gasp.

  Orion sits up after I vow to call Pili later and stow my phone. “So what’s the deal with all those flowers?”

  “Ready to hear the Cuban-American centerpiece episode of Mission: Impossible?”

  “More than ready.”

  “Every self-respecting celebration—wedding, baby shower, and so on—requires centerpieces on each table. Super important. And it’s the mission of many Cuban mothers and aunts to take home as many of these centerpieces as socially possible. All posh party gloves come off, let me tell you.”

  Orion barks out a laugh. “Like a competition?”

  “Of the highest order. Stefanie’s mother and mine have been in this unspoken centerpiece rivalry for years, but Mami is the undisputed champion. Since forever, her wedding strategy goes like this: near the end of the party, she sends Pilar and me to ‘mingle’ with friends at other tables. We then slowly inch their centerpiece toward us while trapping tablemates in conversation. Then when it’s last call at the bar or the final dance, we grab the flowers, air-kiss our goodbyes, and bolt.”

  “That. Is. Incredible.” He’s grinning over one last empanada.

  “I don’t know if it’s incredible, but it’s us.” My family, my Miami.

  “Why centerpieces, though? Besides your dining room smelling like a garden?”

  I do some nibbling of my own. My lemon pound cake is moist with Abuela’s citrus peel sugar syrup poured on top, fresh from the oven. “Celebrations are a crucial part of our culture. We’re generally a social bunch. Sharing our joy with loved ones is also important. Like, it’s not uncommon for Cuban fathers to start saving for their daughters’ weddings years in advance, if they can. Just my opinion, but I think it’s about wanting to bring home a piece of the party and make it last. It’s a token of a happy event that keeps blooming for a few days.”

  He smiles over the image. “I quite like that notion. You don’t want the celebration to end. The sharing and memories. It’s more ritual than superstition.”

  “Oh, you want Cuban superstitions? I can think of a few.”

  He levels a mock glare. “I’ve known you for weeks and you’re only bringing this up now?”

  “Hey, I’ve been busy trying to make other fruits act like guava and feeding guests.” One finger pokes his stomach. “Feeding you.”

  Orion snatches my finger and slides his hand to capture mine. He rises, using a firm grip to pull me up. “Let’s go check out that wooded patch and you can school me.”

  As we hike up to the small cluster topping the hill, I tell him first about the mal de ojo. Evil eye.

  “I know about evil eyes but say those words again?”

  “Mal de ojo. Why?”

  “I like hearing you speak Spanish.”

  Instant blush—I angle away slightly as if that will erase the pink. “Well, one hour with me and Pilar and some smuggled rum and you’d beg us to stop.” We enter the hilltop grove, our sneakers crunching damp clods of soil, rocks, and dead leaf mulch. Trees huddle closely, trapping us in dappled shade. “My family’s not big on the mal de ojo, but the curse stems from jealousy and is usually brought on when people pass by and gaze at newborn babies or young kids. They’re most susceptible.”

  Orion spots a felled tree trunk; we sit under a leafy umbrella. “There must be a charm to ward off the curse?” he asks.

  “Typically a black eye charm or tiny carved piece of black jet, or azabache.” Again, we’re close, thighs together and arms brushing. “Then there’s the one about never going out at night with wet hair, and the three-hour rule about swimming after eating. These are both crucial. Not obeying them will surely bring on a stroke or a cough or maybe you’ll need a heart transplant.”

  His laughter comes wildly, dimples on display. He settles and my head is already tipped against his shoulder before my mind realizes.

  “My mum was adamant about the no swimming after eating, although her rule only required an hour,” Orion says.

  I want to joke that he got off easy, but I smack the words back and down.

  “See, we’re not so different after all,” he adds.

  No, not on the inside. But our outsides are as opposite as our coasts—my Cuban, tanned and brunette. His British, light and blond. Beach sand and cobblestones, spaghetti straps and sweaters. But I remember we are both stars. Estrellita and Orion, a fierce little star and a warrior constellation. We sit close on this tree a bit longer, golden warm but silent, like one sun in the cooling shade.

  19

  No tacky centerpieces top our table at Bridge Street Tavern, but this party doesn’t need them. With school exams well over, a summer holiday for Winchester youth plus Gordon nabbing a coveted part-time job at an architectural firm is plenty cause for celebration. Last night, we all went to the cinema, but this Saturday evening is all about food.

  Everyone is here. And by everyone, I mean not only Orion’s friends, but parents and siblings, too. Even Flora doesn’t look miserable from her seat down the table. Remy’s mom plants our massive party at one end of the pub, then passes off her usual hostess duties to join us. All the parents huddle together at an adjacent table and pay us no mind. It’s a tight fit; Orion’s smooshed into the corner and I’m fairly smooshed next to him by Jules to my left.

  A waitress drops off my lemon water and places two pints in front of Orion, one pale amber and the other golden brown.

  “Thanks, Bridget,” he says.

  “Extra thirsty then, Orion?” Bridget doesn’t wait for an answer before serving drinks to the rest of our crew.

  I cock one brow. “This is what happens when I visit the loo? Two beers?”

  “Oh, I’ll likely drink two but not together. You’ve still got a few weeks before you can order one yourself. So technically, I wanted a light pale ale.” He points to the first. “As well as a darker, but slightly sweet nut-brown ale. Try both and you can have your favorite.”

  I wink at his slyness and smile as his thoughtfulness before yet another taste test. “The nut-brown,” I decide. It’s richer and bites back just a little.

  Remy bends around Jules and says, “I see what you’re on to, mate.”

  “Where do you think I learned it?” Orion motions toward sixteen-year-old Jules and the similar pint of golden amber sitting closer to her place setting than eighteen-year-old Remy’s.

  I sip my beer. “Have you picked what I’m eating?” Bridge Street doesn’t believe in menus. A big chalkboard on the central wall lists specials and I decided it’s Orion’s turn to feed me. Spencer usually cooks and I’ve had only a couple of pub meals out with the Wallace family. I appeal to my local guide.

  Gordon leans forward. “Best make it black pudding, Ri. Lila needs an initiation.”

  “If he does, he’ll be wearing it.” I picture the round sausages. No. Nunca. “Lila does not need anything made with sheep’s blood or weird meats.”

  Orion holds up both palms. “My clothes are safe. I already ordered while you were in the loo and I aced it.”

  Truth. When our meals arrive, I learn how close shepherd’s pie is to our Cuban papas rellenas. Spiced ground beef sits under a carb lover’s dream of mashed potatoes, baked until the top is golden crisp. I eat heartily while also sneaking fried potato wedges from Orion’s fish and chips plate.

  “Hey.” He pretends to swat my hand away but also passes me the curry dipping sauce Remy’s mom makes from scratch.

  I will ask for this recipe, I decide, then pause from stuffing my face to take in the scene.

  A wily beehive of voices. Clanging glasses and crude jo
kes. Remy kissing Jules on the temple while arguing with Gordon over the pros and cons of two new gaming systems.

  If I could twist people and places, this could be any one of my extended family’s big dinners. At Bridge Street Tavern, I sit inside another kind of family. They welcome me in—all of me: my lost and prodigal parts, too. But I’m not any precious thing here. They tease and give me hell like their own, deeming me the middle child and squishing me into an extra chair.

  After another moment, my mind clicks back into now. My beer’s down to a third and Orion’s already ordered himself another. And Gordon’s telling his friends about his upcoming job.

  “I’ll likely be on coffee-stirring and menial shit, but at least I can get a feel for how it all works.” Gordon bites off a hunk of sausage and mostly swallows before saying, “They saw photos of my house drawings on Instagram. Got me the spot over another bloke.”

  I picture the little Miami house framed in my room. The peachy-pink tones and palm trees. “So all that work skipping between songs at your drafting table paid off. What are you going to draw next?”

  He tips his Coke at me. “Maybe a few more structures typical of Winchester housing.”

  “But Winchester’s so boring compared to London,” Flora says. “Take Notting Hill, for one—all the colors. Here it’s the same red brick after gray stone. Blah, blah, blah. We need a few wonky joints. Like a bright purple house with triple mismatched stories and black trimming.”

  Jules swoops in. “Yeah or one painted in zebra stripes with a rainbow of flowers all messy in front.”

  “You want bright and colorful, come visit me in Miami,” I say, snagging Orion’s eye over the words. Gray, dim, shade—those are the colors on his face before he thumbs his chin and half-smiles for me. Blue eyes twinkle. Which face is closer to truth?

  Tonight my truth is still this: eighty-five days, and no longer quietly waning. Lately the hours turn like seconds. We lock gazes and Orion raises another curry-dipped potato between us, the twinkle now a burst of playful fireworks. I snatch it before I miss my chance.

  “Look, Henry’s here,” he says while I munch. “I know you’ll like this.” Orion gestures to a portly, older white man, hair a disorganized clop of gray and black, with a straggly beard to match. Henry drags a pear-bellied stringed instrument to an appointed stool and mic. This local crowd must know him. They cheer then settle, hushing. Lights dim and everyone across from us turns their chairs to watch.