A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,74

lose. I close my eyes, giving in.

“I’ve seen you on London’s Le Cordon Bleu website while bread bakes. It reminds me of Gordon, all wide-eyed when he studies grand homes and buildings. All the possibilities.” A short sigh, then, “I want you to understand you always have a place here. Our guest room is yours as long as you need it.”

I lift up, blinking away moisture. “Thank you. I really do love this inn. And all the England I’ve seen.”

Cate toys with the tie on her robe. “You seem to especially enjoy the tea, here.”

Oh, Cate. “I’ve become super fond of the tea here.”

“We all think it’s extra special. A rare blend. You can’t find tea like that just anywhere. It seems to agree with you, too.”

“Mucho,” I tell her. So much. I shake my head. “Tell me. After you left Miami with Spencer, when did you stop missing it so much? Your family, your friends?”

She sips wine, then nods toward me. “Any minute now.”

25

One day before Orion takes me to London to check out one school, I’m head instructor in another: Bread 101. After two weeks of basics, Flora is ready to knead today. We double quantities to prepare for my extra day off.

“Good, now a quarter turn,” I tell her as we press the heels of our hands into the spongy white bread dough. She follows my every movement, adjusting pressure and minding my warnings to use only enough flour to combat the stick and keep fingertips out of her knead.

“This is kind of fun,” Flora says. “Getting to push something around. Having it do what you want.”

“Ha. Only if you know how far to push. Too much flour or handling makes the loaf all tough and chewy.” Flora looks like a bona fide baker today. Her bobbed curls shoot backward over her ears under a blue bandana. Her apron’s stained with cinnamon from the apple breakfast cake we made while the dough was rising.

“But you’re right,” I add. “When my ex-boyfriend and I had one of our blowouts, my family had bread for days.”

“A better outlet for your rage than faces, though?”

I turn to her with a dramatic wink. “You should have seen me on prom night. The neighborhood got bread the next morning. Wait, do you have something like prom? A big formal dance at the end of your last year?”

“We do, except the ones at my school tend to focus on how much alcohol you can work into your evening. Flasks. Plonk hidden in the bushes, Alcopops,” she says then stops to explain about the branded spiked lemonades and punches. “Loads of Tesco champagne before you even leave with your date.”

I send her a wry, knowing look. “Actually, that’s exactly like prom. Okay, time to flip.” The dough smacks against the butcher block.

“What was yours like? You had time to knead and bake dough before you got ready?” She laughs. “If anyone would, it’d be you.”

“Thanks. I think.” My voice grays. “But I didn’t actually go to prom. My ex had mono during his. And then he dumped me a few days before mine.”

Flora’s movements halt. “Does it get lower than that?”

“Long story, but it was one of the worst weeks ever. Pilar and I shopped way ahead for my gown. It was long and fitted, champagne colored, and had this amazing slit. Some subtle beading, too, and crisscross straps in the back.”

“Was? You returned it?”

So real in my mind, Pilar clearing my bedroom of prom. The beautiful gown, the matching gold heels. The chandelier earrings. She hid it all, then made it disappear when I gave her the go-ahead. I tell Flora these things as we start on the last two dough balls.

Flora says, “I think I would’ve gone anyway—I mean, I so get why you didn’t—but I would’ve put on my stunning gown and gotten my hair fixed really nice and stepped out proud with my friends or something.”

“I might’ve, but my grandmother died the month before.”

“Oh. I see.” Her words quiet a notch. “You talk about her a lot. But I didn’t know she was gone. She really taught you all this? The cooking we did and all the baking?”

“That’s only a fraction. My sister was really close to Abuela too, but they had more girl talks in the bakery office than the kitchen. My natural love for cooking and baking made me Abuela’s shadow. My grandfather died when I was only three and she moved in with us. I was with