A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,2
known since birth—that’s where I sit.
“No bullshit,” Cate says. “You can be straight with me.”
“Fine.” I set down my teacup with an undignified clank. “I don’t want to be here.” Family or not.
The words don’t even pierce her gaze—cool like the white marble sky outside the windows. Cate traces the rim of her teacup. Her oval-shaped nails shine with black cherry lacquer. “Of course you don’t. No need to pretend. But your parents think some time away will help—”
“What about what I think? How I feel?” I’m a broken record, repeating the script I’ve been reciting since my flight was booked. All the help I need lies four thousand miles across the Atlantic. It’s the place where, weeks ago, I had everything I wanted. It’s the home of our bakery that I will take over and grow—the one that would always rest on Abuela’s roots. Panadería La Paloma. Her memory and spirit are still inside those walls and now, I’m not.
I don’t need England. Miami is my charm city. The home where I have won so often in seventeen years. It calls me, blood thick and marrow deep. You are mine, it says. You can win again.
But not here. Not in England.
Miami held my most cherished relationships, the ones I cry for in secret. Abuela. Andrés. Stefanie. My heart and body and memory are not finished with them yet. In eighty-five days in England, too many more things can change and I won’t be home to stop them.
“You’re hurting, Lila. And you frightened your parents,” Cate says. “Your mental health is more important than your taking over La Paloma right away.”
Bueno. Well. The no-bullshit rule goes both ways. But I was handling it. I need more time, not more talking. Not more space. Why can’t Mami and Papi see that?
Cate twists a blond strand escaping her bun. “Just promise one thing, because we both know the wrath of tu mamá.”
I flick my eyes up at her use of Spanish.
“Try to find your place here. Maybe even have a little fun. But you’ll do it carefully, no?” It sounds like spending the last half hour with me has caused her accent to lean southwest a little. “Don’t jog alone at night or do anything… reckless.”
Reckless. Like what I did two weeks ago? My cheeks flame with ire and regret. I was so sloppy. Careless.
But I don’t say any of this. I hide the rest of my verbal responses under my last bites of Polly’s black currant scone. Yes, too sweet.
Half of the tea remains in my cup when Cate jostles my forearm. “Let’s get you settled. Spence should have your bags set up by now.” She stands, motioning for me to follow her into the foyer and up the sweeping staircase.
The second floor of the Owl and Crow Inn hosts eight guest rooms. Cate had mentioned all are booked, but right now the paneled hallway is only occupied by rows of brass sconces. Large, golden bird wings flank each fixture.
We stop at a wide, unmarked door with a keypad. “Here are the stairs to our private flat. The door code is the Miami zip code for our old neighborhood.” Cate’s features soften with nostalgia. When her parents moved to Miami from Venezuela, Cate spent so much time at Abuela’s with Mami, it became her second home. Pilar and I never called her cousin. She’ll always be our tía.
She motions for me to enter the five digits I know well. After a beep, the lock clicks open, revealing the mouth of another carved-spindle staircase.
The stairs dump us into a sprawling loft-like space. Cate points to one hallway. “Spence and I have our rooms down there.” She pivots, leading me across the living room through the opposite wing. “This side has your guest room, one bath, and Gordon’s room. He’s with a study group at the library.”
I have a vague memory of being told school exams run well into summer around here. “I can’t believe Gordon’s sixteen.”
She grins. “And so tall you’ll barely recognize him. The last time you saw each other he must’ve been around twelve. Right before our Key West trip.”
“Yeah, he loved running around the kitchen at La Paloma while you and Mami drank cafecito out front.” My dark hair falls over my face and smells like airplane. I rake it back. “He tried to steal an empanada from every tray Abuela pulled from the oven. She kept whacking at him with her hand towel, but it didn’t stop him.”