A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,20
kindly shut—”
Movement in the form of Fountain Girl arrowing toward the front gate chops the rest of Orion’s thought. Her fairy-like body shoots up into a cute, bobbed cap of blond curls.
“You can spare thirty seconds.” His words cut like a meat cleaver.
She stomps toward us on black Doc Martens and skintight gray jeans.
“Lila, my sister, Flora.”
Ahh, sister. Close up, they do look alike, sharing the same curls and clear, peachy skin. Ocean-blue eyes, too, although Flora’s hold a storm.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
I get a chin lift. “Yeah. Enjoy England,” she deadpans, then tells her brother, “Gotta run.”
“Where did you say you’re off to?” Orion asks.
“I didn’t.”
Orion looks left then right before gently tugging Flora by the elbow. Yards away, I hear bits of, “The rules don’t change just because Dad’s traveling.” They volley low whispers and obstinate stares.
The other three have moved to Jules’s bench. Gordon and Remy are studying Gordon’s phone screen while Jules writes with her head on Remy’s lap and her knees hooked over the wooden armrest, feet seesawing.
I sit alone on the fountain lip, cold from the stone surface bleeding through my jeans, until Orion makes my party of one a two-top. He folds himself in half, clasped hands over his lap. “She’s fifteen and hates that the four years I have on her make me responsible for her when Dad’s away.”
“He travels a lot?”
“For the shop. He makes a couple big trips a year to remote parts of the world, trying to discover the latest blends or crops. He’s in China now.”
What about their mother? She must have more than a little to do with everyone’s reaction to my unintentional blunder. But it doesn’t feel like my place to ask. It barely feels like my place at all. My mind drifts to what I know, ideas forming. “I could help, too. With Sunday night and your…” My face crinkles.
“Her name’s Charlotte.” Miniscule eye roll over a wisp of smile. “It’s no big secret and my friends are ridiculous.”
“She lives around here?”
“No, but close. A neighboring town. Her family likes the tea at our shop.”
“Looks like she likes more than just the tea.”
Orion’s face pings with mischief and just a touch of mayhem. Blue eyes train onto something shapeless and distant, not walled inside this tiny courtyard. “About your proposition?”
I tug his sweater tight across my chest, burrowing my nose into tree sap and the remnants of woody-spiced cologne. “Right. An impressive dinner—”
“Tea. That’s dinner. And means a meal invitation, versus inviting someone for a cup of tea.”
Ugh, England. “An impressive tea deserves an impressive dessert—”
“Pudding.”
Big glare. “No, not pudding. What I was trying to say is that I can make a cake or pastry for your date in the Crow kitchen.”
“First of all, no need for all the trouble. Secondly, dessert around here is often called pudding. Which makes it even more confusing, I suppose, that various puddings are also commonly served as… pudding.”
Oh, my head. Not jet lag this time. England all the time. “See, I could use the trouble. Believe me when I say I have nothing better to do. Also believe me when I say my puddings are legitimately awesome.”
Orion smiles. “All right, I accept. Thank you.” He opens then shuts his mouth, fidgeting, shifting his head into various angles. “I have a proposition of my own.”
I motion for him to go on.
“Well, it’s just that since you’re new here, you might need someone to show you ’round a bit. I’ve lived here all my life.” He jerks a thumb toward his friends. “They have too and their exams end soon. So we could, um… we could all… err, do that. Show you around I mean.”
My Cuban radar beeps. Espérate—something is off. Orion’s fingers are skittering across one side of his jeans and his eyes flit around like a deer evading a hunter’s footsteps.
“Show me around. Okay. And this is your idea?”
His sneakers must be interesting. He’s studying them intently. “Well, I mean, I think it would be helpful—”
I rasp out a laugh. “She got to you, didn’t she?”
He snaps up. “What?”
“Your proposition has Latina mother written all over it on Latina paper in Latina ink. It was Cate, right? What, did she come into your tea shop, or bump into you at the farmers’ market?” When his chin twitches, I get enough confirmation to press on. “I knew it!”