A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,1

this what twenty-five years in England does to a Venezuelan woman, born Catalina Raquel Mendoza? Here, in this Hampshire medieval town, with this husband, she is Cate Wallace.

“Look at you. Almost eighteen.” Cate steps back, furrowing her brows. “Let’s get you into the parlor for tea while Spence takes up your bags. There’s a fire going and I can get you a sweater before you unpack. That thin blouse—we don’t want you to catch cold.”

My chest tightens around my heart and then… it happens. Here in the cozy Owl and Crow foyer with weathered wood planks beneath my sandals and tall canisters filled with pointy umbrellas at the door. It didn’t happen at Miami International when I wore an unbreakable scowl, even as I gave obligatory kisses to mis padres and my sister, Pilar. It didn’t happen as I watched the stardust lights of my city disappear behind the jumbo jet wing. I didn’t cry then. Wouldn’t. But Catalina-Cate Wallace gets me good right here and I can’t stop it. My eyes well, and my throat closes over a memory that won’t ever let me go.

¡Ponte un suéter, que te vas a resfriar!

Put on a sweater or you’ll catch a cold! The Cuban mantra of all mantras. Tattoo it on our foreheads. Write it in indelible ink on our violet-scented stationery. Yell it at impressive volumes from windows to children eating Popsicles on Little Havana streets. My abuela threw out stacks of virtual sweaters left and right. Until that cold March morning she couldn’t. The coldest day of all.

My hand flies up to the golden dove charm hanging around my neck, Abuela’s gift from four years ago. Cate notices, her refined features wilting. “Oh, your sweet abuelita. She was such a wonderful woman, love.”

Love. Not mija. Not for English Cate.

“Abuela practically raised me, too.” Cate meets my swollen eyes. “I hated that I couldn’t come for the funeral.”

“Mami understood. It’s a long way.” Four thousand, three hundred and eighty miles.

Cate webs both of her hands over my cheeks. It is a gesture so like Abuela’s that tears want to flow again. “Tell me the truth,” she says. “Even though I’d just had neck surgery, your mother still found a way to blame me, right?”

I laugh. England hasn’t stolen everything. Her pursed lips, cocked hip, and challenging eyes hail straight from the Cate I remember from the Wallaces’ last Miami trip. “How did you guess?”

“I love your mother dearly. But telenovela mujeres could take lessons from that one.”

Soap opera drama. Mami never went to college, but she majored in drama, anyway, with a minor in extra. She also majored in doing the opposite of what’s best for me.

“Find a seat in the parlor while I fetch the tea Polly made for us,” Cate says and gestures to the archway before scooting off.

I remove my black cross body purse; the customs form peeks out from the front pocket. Enjoy your stay. I crumple the slip into the smallest ball I can manage. No so-called vacation is going to fix me.

2

I can see why Owl and Crow guests rave about the afternoon tea served in the parlor, but there’s too much sugar in this scone. Although the texture is nearly perfect, sweetness level is where many bakers fail. Flour, butter, and sugar are only platforms for other flavors—spices and extracts, fruit and cream and chocolate. A pastry never needs to be overly sweet. It only needs to be memorable.

Not that I’m a scone expert; in fact, I’ve never made one. The last one I ate was four months ago when Pilar wanted to celebrate her twenty-first birthday with afternoon tea at the Miami Biltmore Hotel.

Like that historic space, this parlor, with its icy blue walls and brocade fabrics, seems more like a painting than a room. Here, I’m a figure drawn into someone else’s life.

I’ll call it “Cuban Girl with Over-Sugared Scone in Not-Miami.”

“… and walks, and the countryside is so close. You can ride one of the guest bicycles everywhere and really, really get some rest. City center has cafés and little shops I know you’ll love.” Between sips of strong black tea, Cate has spent the last five minutes trying to sell me on Winchester like some real estate agent.

I smiled stiffly through it all, as if she could sell me. “Sounds nice. And thanks for letting me stay.” The imaginary space between wanting to drown all my words inside the rose-covered teapot and showing respect to this woman whom I’ve