A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,55

my phone and straight through my nerve.

“Want to meet Pilar?” is my only question for now.

“I do want to meet Pilar.”

We flip around, bellies down on the blanket, heads pressed close with the phone between us. The intros are quick and pleasant: accounting queen, meet tea expert. Most important person in my life, meet… Orion.

“So Pilar, your sister is trying to bury me in pastries and Cuban dishes,” Orion says.

“She can’t be stopped and also, Lila, his voice is like natilla. Can you record him for about two days straight?” She gives me The Look. I’ll be getting another call later in which I will have to explain this guy and I will not be able to explain this guy.

I push it out in a long breath, watch it roll down, down, down this fairy hill. “He never stops talking, so I got you, hermana.”

Orion mock-glares as Pili asks, “Where are you guys? It looks like Mami’s terrarium behind you.”

Orion does the honors, taking Pilar on a panoramic tour of St. Catherine’s Hill.

“Oh… Lila.” And that’s all she needs to say. In our secret sister language with our secret sister faces, I’m healthy and okay, my cracked heart cushioned in all this soft green. And she’s okay too.

My hand domes over the phone to cut the glare. I notice the vast array of foliage behind Pilar on our dining room table. “Speaking of plants, um?”

“Dios mío. Ashley’s wedding. It was Sunday.” She turns the view and wow.

All is clear, now. My neighbor’s daughter’s wedding, which I would have attended if I’d been home. “Okay, Mami’s rule is usually one centerpiece per person and that,” I point, “is way more than a couple.”

Pilar smacks her hand on her forehead. “Mami did her thing and we got two. Fine, okay, I can deal. But then Isabella had some of her kids take them. Only, she forgot their Italy trip. The flowers would just die. So last night, little Grace shows up toting four centerpieces in her wagon. Mami was thrilled of course.”

Orion is laughing and he doesn’t even know the full story yet.

“Are those carnations?” I ask.

“It was awful. So tacky. Only Mami’s wedding cake was on point.” Pilar plucks out a pitiful flower. “They dyed them ombre blue to match los vestidos de las bridesmaids.”

Ombre carnations—gasp.

Orion sits up after I vow to call Pili later and stow my phone. “So what’s the deal with all those flowers?”

“Ready to hear the Cuban-American centerpiece episode of Mission: Impossible?”

“More than ready.”

“Every self-respecting celebration—wedding, baby shower, and so on—requires centerpieces on each table. Super important. And it’s the mission of many Cuban mothers and aunts to take home as many of these centerpieces as socially possible. All posh party gloves come off, let me tell you.”

Orion barks out a laugh. “Like a competition?”

“Of the highest order. Stefanie’s mother and mine have been in this unspoken centerpiece rivalry for years, but Mami is the undisputed champion. Since forever, her wedding strategy goes like this: near the end of the party, she sends Pilar and me to ‘mingle’ with friends at other tables. We then slowly inch their centerpiece toward us while trapping tablemates in conversation. Then when it’s last call at the bar or the final dance, we grab the flowers, air-kiss our goodbyes, and bolt.”

“That. Is. Incredible.” He’s grinning over one last empanada.

“I don’t know if it’s incredible, but it’s us.” My family, my Miami.

“Why centerpieces, though? Besides your dining room smelling like a garden?”

I do some nibbling of my own. My lemon pound cake is moist with Abuela’s citrus peel sugar syrup poured on top, fresh from the oven. “Celebrations are a crucial part of our culture. We’re generally a social bunch. Sharing our joy with loved ones is also important. Like, it’s not uncommon for Cuban fathers to start saving for their daughters’ weddings years in advance, if they can. Just my opinion, but I think it’s about wanting to bring home a piece of the party and make it last. It’s a token of a happy event that keeps blooming for a few days.”

He smiles over the image. “I quite like that notion. You don’t want the celebration to end. The sharing and memories. It’s more ritual than superstition.”

“Oh, you want Cuban superstitions? I can think of a few.”

He levels a mock glare. “I’ve known you for weeks and you’re only bringing this up now?”

“Hey, I’ve been busy trying to make other fruits act like guava and feeding guests.” One finger pokes