A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,16
control over my words, my heart, my pain.
The oven beeps. I grab pot holders and transfer my loaves to the wooden prep island. Abuela’s pound cake, done perfectly. “I’ll go to bed when I get these glazed and ready for Polly to find when she comes in. Promise.”
Cate leans over the cakes. “So this is about Polly.”
No. Sí. “She barely said two words after… earlier. She thinks I suck.”
“No, she doesn’t. Polly’s worked here fifteen years and has her routine. I understand you wanting to redeem yourself. But you’ll get sick if you keep doing this,” Cate says. When I don’t respond, she sighs. “I’ll be checking to make sure you’re back in bed in an hour. And that’s my promise.”
And then I’m alone again.
Redeeming myself? Is that what I was trying to do? Or was I just trying to fix the one crumbled, burned thing in my life I knew for certain I could make right?
Minutes later, the cakes are glazed, plated, and perfectly documented in my own Instagram photos. Minutes after that, I’m at the private apartment stairs.
Cate left a weak hallway light on for me. At my door, I notice something wedged against the base molding. I must’ve missed it on my way downstairs. I peer down at the framed drawing of a Coral Gables home. I grab the frame and an attached note and read it on the way in.
I thought you might like this for your room to remind you of home. Don’t get any ideas about stuffing it in your bags. It’s just on loan while you’re here. —Gordon
I shake my head and lean the drawing on my nightstand; I’ll meet the peachy stucco and tiled roof every time I wake. After a quick scrub, I reach from underneath ivory sheets to touch the tiny white front door behind the glass. I never had a dollhouse as a little girl. I played with wooden spoons and clanging bowls. But here I make-believe my dream home before I close my eyes. I push a doll-sized Stefanie into the door first, dressing her in the University of Miami t-shirt. Andrés comes next, legs bent to sit, drinking lime and Coke on Gordon’s meticulously drawn porch. Then mini-Pilar and mini-me, plotting our world domination—family business style—one pastry at a time. I can’t forget Mami and Papi, curled up on the couch watching their favorite TV show, Family Style. Lastly, I place Abuela. She goes inside the kitchen, where we made tamales and a hundred other dishes. I set her feet by the sink, right where I found her three months ago. I stand her up tall. In this little peach house, there is a heartbeat.
7
Three suppers later, after Spencer’s roast chicken (yummy) with a side dish of Gordon’s ramblings on Winchester home developments ruining the beloved medieval feel of their town (snooze fest), I close myself in my room. The clock pegs Miami time at early afternoon; Pilar should be done with her summer session class at Florida International University.
My sister’s face materializes on FaceTime. Again, she’s parked inside La Paloma’s back office, which is now looking more like her space than Papi’s. Just like the kitchen becomes more mine every single day, even when I’m four thousand miles away. Mami and Papi are letting go of La Paloma matters, little by little, transitioning their efforts into finding a new cake shop property. In less than one year, all the managerial responsibilities will fall onto Pilar and me, and I can’t wait to get started. After a quick greeting I have to say, “Take me in.”
Pilar knows where in is. “But, you—”
“Just do it, yeah?” The it’s half your fault I’m here and I miss it so much look must be blaring across my face because she huffs and walks her laptop through the rear corridor.
“After ten whole days, the paint’s the same and the floor, también.”
“Shut up, Pili.” On my panoramic tour, I note the wholesale flour and sugar bags piled in the storage room. Closer to the kitchen, rack carts wait in line. Now she pans over fluorescent lights and the huge metal sink area and flour-dusted work spaces.
“¡A ver! Say hello to Lila in England!” Pilar barks. I hear my nickname under today’s back room soundtrack of Afro-Cuban jazz. Estrellita. Javi and Marta and Joe rush the screen and blow me kisses.
I return them, emotion scarring my throat. I also learn my parents are on a big catering run. “Angelina around?”