A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,36

to step in herself. We’ll have a look around for help in the meantime. Since you’ve been working with her, we wanted you to know.”

The beautiful Crow kitchen snaps into my mind. An empty space with no red binder and no hovering Polly cramping my style? “You don’t need to look for more help. I can take over all the baking, no problem. And Polly doesn’t even have to finish out the two weeks.”

Spence cocks his head. “Well, then. You’re certainly capable enough.”

“Capable, yes, but the full load might be more than you want to take on,” Cate adds. “You’re not here as Cinderella. Forced to work all day without any time for fun.”

I stare at my hands, noting the careless burn marks and persistent dry spots from just that much flour all the time. But to me, it’s beauty. The kitchen is all the fairy-tale castle I need. “Please. I want to.”

Cate silently consults with Spencer. Nods. “All right, but on one condition. You prepare the breakfast and teatime offerings, but I’ll set up and serve the afternoon tea like Polly does. And you find time to get out.”

“Deal,” I say, then finally give words to a wish. “I know this is a traditional British inn, but would it be okay if I started adding in some Cuban breads and pastries to the menu?”

Spencer says, “We’re game for you to float a bit of variety. How about we see how it goes over?”

They leave me with more than a new job. Thoughts of Andrés and Alexa together on South Beach sand sprout again, growing as well as anything in Tío’s garden. I can’t hack them away this time. Maybe I smudged the truth to Pili, at least a little bit. It’s not fine. And I want to know—was Alexa watching us in groups for years? Watching Andrés’s mouth on mine, his hand sliding up my bare thigh while we all lounged on his pool deck? Has she been waiting all this time, and is she now the one with skin beneath his hands, oiling on Sun Bum, his finger playfully snapping the bikini top band between her shoulder blades?

Stefanie always used to talk about emotional hooks, small points of trauma and memory that snag you every time.

Is Andrés still single? This one’s mine.

13

Orion’s supposed to be here in fifteen minutes for Jules’s show and I’m in a wicked staring match with my closet. So far I’m winning. Which doesn’t mean I’m actually dressed. Besides my general procrastinating, it’s hard to concentrate on picking an outfit when my mind is acting like a sort of wardrobe of its own. My thoughts are hung with recent images—old friends and news about ex-boyfriends and beaches and unanswered questions.

Recipe for a Breakup

From the Kitchen of Lila Reyes

Ingredients: One Cuban girl. One Cuban boy. One champagne-colored prom dress. One pair of gold strappy sandals. One gold clutch bag. One best friend. One sister. Flour. Water. Yeast. Sugar. Salt. Lard.

Preparation: Listen—stunned—as your boyfriend of three years tells you he’s not leaving you because he doesn’t love you. He just can’t be with you anymore and needs his space. Run to your best friend’s house and cry for hours as she plans his demise in endless creative ways. On prom night, while classmates dance, bake a dozen loaves of bread.

*Leave out all the prom finery. Your sister will clear it from your closet before you have to see it.

Cooking temp: 450 degrees Fahrenheit, the perfect temperature for pan Cubano.

I’m startled from my virtual closet by three strong raps on my bedroom door. “Lila? My ride’s out front, so I’m off!” Gordon yells. “Ri’s never late. Just a word to the wise.”

I’m certainly not about to admit my lagging ways and meandering thoughts to Gordon. “All good here, thanks!” I call. “See you at the club.”

“Right!”

Bundle up, Orion warned this morning during our jog along the River Itchen. And one last time when he dropped me at the Crow before work. After a brush-through of smoothing hair serum, I try on a few more clothing options in my head.

My phone dings from the writing desk.

Orion: Out front

Me: So early!

Gordon wasn’t kidding.

Me: Down in five

Orion: Yeah, I’ll just freeze out here

That gets no reply.

Back at the closet and out of time, I give up and settle for one of Pilar’s black merino sweaters. I rip off the tag and pair it with dark skinny jeans. And as long as I’m going for What Not to Wear, Miami in