A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,26

stick like honey to the back of my throat.

Jules asks, “How’d you leave things?”

“Broken.” The only word that works.

Time crawls. I can actually hear the click, click, click of the wall clock above my head. It’s official. I should hold no part in any distraction posse. I am Lila Reyes, displaced Miami baker and genuine mood killer. Didn’t we come here to cheer Orion up? I groan inside at myself and hop up. “Flan?”

Jules beams a clownish grin and the boys sit up straighter in their chairs, eyes bright. Flan, the only word I need.

9

My domed plate of flan sits on the top shelf of Orion’s fridge. I uncover and present the round, yellowy cream custard topped with caramel glaze. It smells like calories and sin.

Orion gets the first slice and stares at it dreamily, almost adoringly. I imagine it’s the gaze Charlotte is missing right now, wasted on Cuban baked goods. And now it’s on me, winter-blue eyes and soft mouth. “This is brilliant. You’ve known us only a few days and still went through all this trouble.”

“It’s what I do,” I tell him and watch his peekaboo smile grow into a grin.

I pass out the remaining pieces, forgetting Gordon already had two slices at the Crow and prudently remembering my one and a quarter. I can’t resist another sliver here, though.

The others eat, and actual moaning floats over the music. “You all need a private room with your flan?” With cold velvet vanilla and sweet caramel syrup soaking into each bite.

Remy says, “Excuse our ecstasy, but…”

“God, I mean it’s similar to our traditional custards.” Jules punctuates herself with her spoon. “But it’s like you infused the batter with a steamy bout of snogging.”

We all laugh. “No snogging or French kisses went into the making of your flan.” Sadly, none went into the making of my recent past, either.

But I do enjoy people loving my food. I focus on that until multiple helpings demolish most of the flan. I start stacking empty plates to busy my hands, but Jules stops me. “Enough of that, Lila. Cooks don’t clean in my family.”

The boys pitch in too, so I rise and poke through the adjacent living room. I’d left my purse on an ebony piano bench. I pull out my phone; it’s early afternoon in Miami, but no one’s texted me. No crucial e-mails or missed calls either, like the usual state of my phone. I have officially disappeared to England.

“Lila?”

I whip around. Orion’s holding out another hard cider as a liquid gold offering.

“I’m good, thanks.”

Remy tosses a dish towel to Gordon. “Mum rang. One of the dishwashers at the pub went home sick, so I’m gonna fill in.” He points at the cider and tells Orion. “Drink another for me? And chin up, mate.” He works the locks and compliments my flan one last time.

Jules slings on a gray messenger bag then swoops the snow leopard cape over her shoulders. “Wait, love. I’m coming to help too. I look amazing in those striped aprons.”

Remy holds the door. “She just wants to sing classic rock hits with the cooks.”

Gordon’s next to rush Orion’s threshold, lobbing a broad wave at both of us. “Shit literature exam ‘rang,’ ” he says. I start to follow, but he continues, “You’ll see Lila home, then, Ri? Someone’s got to stay a bit to make sure you don’t dissolve into a puddle of your own salt water.”

“Always the optimist,” Orion says, then adds, “Hold up, Gordy.” He stops his buddy on the porch.

Alone and apparently staying for a while, I study the upright piano against the staircase wall. Bösendorfer, the gold scripted logo reads. Faint scratches mar the smooth, matte ebony finish. Brass fittings have darkened, and the keys, while in perfect order, bear a slight yellow tint. This piano is well loved and used.

As intriguing as the instrument is, the series of framed photos lined on top snags my attention. The first photo shows a bride and groom under a floral arbor. The man could be Orion—same wiry but present build under a gray morning suit, same dark blond hair with the promise of curl on the ends. On his arm is a slight woman in a column of ivory lace. Blond hair sweeps back and a posy of roses blooms in her hands. Orion’s parents—have to be. Next to it is a studio portrait of the same woman balancing a small boy on her knee and a frilly dressed baby in her arms. Lastly, there’s