A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,68

just me who’s been hearing the same whispers for days, and it’s finally time to listen. “I’ve been keeping a secret.”

He’s toying with a blade of grass. “That it’s not really you making me all those delicious Cuban foods?”

“Ha––never. But here’s the backstory. Today at the farmers’ market, one of the merchants personally helped me pick the best peppers and onions and tomatoes. He said he knows how picky I am. And while there, I bumped into Mr. Robinson, the butcher. He told me he’s getting some particularly fine free-range chickens in this week and would I like him to save me a couple of the best ones.”

Orion shrugs. “That’s Winchester. How we are.”

“And I have dozens more examples. People have welcomed me. And everywhere I look it’s a storybook. Castles and cobblestones, old things mixed with new things. The countryside—there’s so much space. Then I just found out about Le Cordon Bleu, too, and I keep thinking about the pastry program. And thinking some more.”

I’m tinkering with the soft grass too. “I didn’t even want to come here.”

“I know.”

“But now, I’m in love with England.” Right behind it, there’s a star-named boy. My heart goes on beating when he’s not with me, but the missing him pumps as much as blood. “That’s my secret.”

“It’s more than just a tourist having a favorite travel spot,” I add. “Love, love. Real love.”

His smile gleams. But if he has words or answers or even more questions, he leaves them with the castle ghosts. It’s okay, though. It’s all okay. Today, I just want his smile. I want mine.

So I don’t tell him the other part, that it feels like I’m cheating on my own city, loving another place the way I do. I acknowledge this exactly one time, being extra precise like I’m measuring out cake ingredients. Then I prove to myself I can be good at forgetting.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Lila Reyes,” he finally says, more to the castle walls than my face.

I know, I know what I should and shouldn’t feel. Like vegetables and vitamins, I know what’s good for me. But today I am going to love something just because I do. I’m going to love a place so magical, even I could believe in the spells and potions of it—the air, thickly sweet like butterscotch. I’ll focus on Orion’s promise to take me to dinner at a cute pub, and mine to steal chips off his plate. And the promise an England summertime night will make when we ride back on a vintage motorbike, bodies open to the road through shaved-ice wind.

I love England. I just do. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s what it feels like to fall in love.

23

Wednesday calls for fruit empanadas. Flora assembles them on the other side of the island. Her task is simple: fill the dough circles, seal and fork-press the edges, then brush them with egg wash.

We prepared two sugary filling choices, but my mind is focused on the bittersweet. Monday was swans, a haunting castle, and delicious fish and chips—and the boy who showed me all of it. I shared a secret. England has turned from place I wanted to hate, to a place I can’t leave without ripping myself away. At the castle I refused to think about this part and just enjoyed all the others. But two days later, that ripping away part is back, hidden behind my heart.

The timer dings into my memories. I dart from sink to oven to transfer four loaves of honey oat bread to a cooling rack. Now, empanada time. “Can you grab the pans of strawberry filled?”

“Yeah.” Flora brings the unbaked pastries from our prep rack.

I look them over before letting the oven do its magic. “Nice. I always make extra. They’re a guest favorite.” The mini half-moons are uniformly shaped—perfect. Earlier, I taught Flora the way Abuela taught me: I do a few, then we do a few, then you do a few.

On tiptoes, I try to gauge the progress at her workstation. “Do you have the blueberry ones ready?”

She nods on a flat smile. “Just one more pan to go.”

Flora did so well on the first two dozen, I let her take over the blueberry batch while I cooked and chilled a pot of Cuban vanilla cinnamon pudding. I wipe my hands, then wind around to the prep rack where she’s been stacking her empanadas. “Let’s see your mini masterpieces,” I say and pull out one pan