A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,12

grins. “Sorry. Meant to get ’round sooner but we had an issue at the shop. How’s your sister?”

Snap! Crack! Polly’s a glow stick. Orion has broken her right down the middle and she’s beaming from gray hair to orthopedic kitchen clogs. “She’s faring much better, thank you. Was only a virus.”

“Good to hear.” He points to the white box. “That should do you. English breakfast, Jasmine green, a double order of Earl Grey this time, like Mrs. Wallace said. Dad threw in a sample of a new Darjeeling reserve he’s discovered. Really smooth.”

“Oh, I’ll have to try it later,” Polly says.

“It won’t disappoint. See you.” He moves to the door, dragging his gaze over me, standing in an ivory apron over running clothes, clutching a bottle of almond extract.

“Wait up.” Polly rushes to him with a small brown sack and a wide-toothed smile. “Biscuits from yesterday’s tea.”

“Thanks, I’ll try to make them last the ride back.” He sniffs inside the bag. “Lemon! My favorite.”

I thought meringue was his favorite.

Now he’s not dragging, he’s planting his eyes into mine, nodding a stray pigtail curl over his forehead. “Lila.”

I make a small, noncommittal noise.

Polly’s glow wanes when Orion shuts the door, her face tightening, but she says, “Orion’s family owns the best tea shop in Hampshire—Maxwell’s. Such a darling boy.”

Right. Darling. I pour batter into cake pans.

“Get used to him being around.” She huffs as she drops my dirty mixing bowls into the sink, then makes a big show out of moving the utensil canister back to where I’d found it on the counter. “Things here are best as they were. And that includes established business dealings. So do, at least, attempt to be pleasant. He always hand-delivers our orders at no extra fee.”

Perfect. Even better. Orion sticks his finger into my bowl and he’s rewarded with a happy Polly and cookies? Bah. I slide on a heat-proof glove, open the oven, and shove in my cake pans. Then I slam the door shut.

6

My first clue is the smell. To say I know a few things about baking is an understatement. I know when I’ve screwed up a pastry or cake. Which is never. Which is also right now.

Rushing through the swing door, I kill the heat on the oven as my belly sinks with dread. Smoke fills the shallow rack area. I have to go in. Coughing, I don gloves and quickly remove all four loaf pans as a sooty cloud—the kind usually following botched magicians’ tricks or genie lamp escapes—envelops me.

Even from the kitchen garden, I’m certain Polly can smell the smoke. The guests probably think the inn is on fire. More cough-swearing as the air clears enough for me to see the blackened loaves shriveled into doorstop bricks ¿Qué pasó?

I’ve been making Abuela’s recipe forever, using the same kind of pans, in the same model oven, but… oh. My mind clicks onto a key fact I’ve known for years and completely spaced out on when I preheated. England cooks in Celsius, not Fahrenheit. Me, trying to set my temp to 350 degrees Fahrenheit made this UK calibrated oven heat to way over 600 degrees. Standard for pizza. Devastating for cakes.

Polly’s footfalls in from the garden slash through my thoughts.

I curl my fingers around my apron hem, bracing for a verbal onslaught to rival that of mis tías, or Mami when Pilar and I used to turn curfew into a suggestion. The tone will be the same, maybe even the acrobatic hand motions. Only the accent and maybe the words will vary.

She sniffs, clears her throat, and briefly leans over my shoulder. “Well then,” she says crisply.

I hinge open my eyes. Polly’s at the freezer. She swings around with a pyramid of small loaves in her arms. “I had these on hand for such a time as this,” she says. “Ginger cakes. They’ll thaw before teatime.”

Polly drops the cakes on a rack and heads straight for the sink, frowning at my equipment pile-up. “Simply dreadful! Around here, I clean as I go.” She gestures broadly to the stacks of bowls and spoons I was just about to wash before my cake fail. “Mrs. Wallace won’t like all these piles of greasy, disorganized items. What if she tours a special guest through the kitchen?” Polly stomps to the swing door and barks, “I trust you’ll see to it immediately.”

Shaking, I scrape my ruined cakes into the trash—or as Polly says, the rubbish bin. Rubbish, verdad. I spend extra time scrubbing pans