foreign place. It’s entirely true. I’m wearing his sweater and it’s okay and a new kind of good that I’m starting to wear his city, too.
A night wind comes through, blowing through all the heaviness and swirling our empty plastic cups down the hill. So we share the rest of the cider, passing the bottle back and forth. Like heathens. And it doesn’t matter that his namesake constellation is only visible in Australia or New Zealand in June. I’m here, in his hemisphere. I find Orion anyway.
16
It’s because of Spencer that my mid-morning run starts and ends with the Crow kitchen. All Spence had to tell Orion when he ran into him by the rose arbor gate was four words: Cuban pastries, Cuban bread.
Winded, I wash up then toss my running partner a water bottle. “I think that’s the fastest we’ve done that loop. Your pace wouldn’t have anything to do with pastelitos, would it?”
He swipes the cold plastic across his forehead and hits the sink. “I’d completely forgotten about those.”
“Liar.” I turn my back on his snort and grab his secret stash. The kitchen gleams, newly organized and arranged to match my setup at La Paloma. With Polly gone, it’s finally my kitchen. At least until the end of summer. Earlier I repurposed one of Orion’s tea delivery boxes as a bakery box. I lift the lid to reveal a half-dozen pastelitos. The rectangular turnovers are scored at the top to reveal sweet fillings.
“Oh God. Now I see why you made me wait until after our run. No way I’d stop at one bite and it would drag me down to nothing good.” He inhales butter and flaky pastry dough.
I point out the two kinds, coco y guayaba. “Coconut and guava. My mom sent guava paste, but I’m using that for friends, not guests. And no, they aren’t all for you.” I shake my head at his pout. “Two other people live in your house.”
He bites into the guava pastel then makes a loopy, half-drugged face. “Should be illegal. Can’t remember the last time I had anything this good in my mouth.”
My eyes lock onto his, faster than a finger snap. Ready, set, blush. I can’t stop it. Please let him think it’s only my post-run face flush.
His laugh rumbles inside his chest. Fail. “What gutter did you drag that one into? I was strictly talking about the pastry dough—so light. You made that, too?”
¡Tranquila! Chill, Lila. I clear my throat and shoot off a look that says, do you even know me? “I spent all day yesterday making a freezer full of dough sheets for the next couple of weeks.”
While he munches, I bring over a large oval bread loaf, perfectly golden with a split top running down the center, still warm from the oven. “Pan Cubano. Cuban bread. Many cultures have a native bread and this is ours. It’s similar to French bread but uses lard. We love our pork products.”
“I approve of the pork.” He raises one brow when I slide the loaf forward. “The whole thing is for me?”
“For you and your family. I’m glad I hid it back here. Cate says she only had a half loaf and six pastelitos left for the service crew to share. I need to up my quantities again.” I grab a serrated bread knife and slice off a hunk, then slather it with one of my new favorite things—the grass-fed Irish butter I keep nearby in a small crock.
He tucks into the carbs and fat and makes another expression of ecstasy. “So perfect. This will make a brilliant cheese toastie, too.”
“I knew you’d say that. My mom owes me a coffee shipment, so I can make you some café Cubano.” Mami actually forgot it in my last care package but was sure to include one extra sweater and a new pack of underwear. Por Dios. “Anyway, we dunk the bread in the coffee and it’s the best thing ever.”
Already mostly finished with his slice, he says, “You make it, I’ll try it.”
I waggle my brows. “Next you’re trying Cuban sandwiches. That’s tomorrow since the meat will take all day to roast. Come around seven if you can. And you can learn how to make them.”
“Oh, I can.” He hooks one hand on his chin. “I’m beginning to wonder if all this running is about to be negated somehow.”
I sample my own cooking, nibbling the warm buttered bread, a corner of the pastelito de guayaba Orion hands over. It