A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,9

fell asleep as late as I did. After three days, my body is still ignoring all the clocks here, still swinging from the Eastern time zone hour hands I’ve been under my whole life. My stiff leg muscles protest as I head downstairs. The gold filigree mirror in the Owl and Crow foyer says my eyes look like half-baked death discs.

As it’s clear I won’t be heading back to Miami anytime soon, I need something in England that’s mine. Necesito correr. More like, I really need to run.

One thing I did pack was my workout gear. Over my calf-length running leggings and sports tank, I layer a long-sleeved quick-dry top. My closet holds two running jackets (Pilar), but I rarely need them in Miami. I don’t need them here, either.

Fellow early risers pass through as I stretch my calves and quads in the foyer. My cell phone juts from the zip pocket on my tights. I’ve been careful to avoid Instagram for weeks, first because of Andrés and now, Stef. But after so much silence and homesickness, my fingers itch for one click, one glance at a page that used to be filled with as much of my life as his. Is Andrés seeing anyone else yet?

The thought pulls tighter, but my oath to Pilar drags along my runner’s lunge.

I swore to Pili I’d cut back on my Insta-stalking. I promised to move on, though forward feels like the last place my feet want to go right now. But my promises to my sister mean something, and I hate that. So the phone stays in my pocket and I move to quad stretches.

Two pigtailed girls squeal as they scurry up the grand staircase ahead of their parents. The family’s brisk movement has moved the air, which smells of baked goods. I can’t resist. Instead of going outside to the trail, I run toward the opposite service corridor. The carb trail stops at a wide push door with a peek-through window. The kitchen.

Qué hermosa. Beyond the threshold is officially the second most beautiful kitchen I have ever seen. Only the sight of our kitchen at Panadería La Paloma makes my blood pump harder. Rows of industrial hanging glass pendants illuminate a massive space. A large butcher block island marks the center and carries dusty scatters of white rolling flour. My gaze falls over French pins and glass mixing bowls, canisters and open shelves housing dishware, equipment, and pans of all sizes. An open door across the room teases an abundant, walk-in pantry. I step toward the commercial deck oven; four oval loaves rise and tan like Miami sunbathers. The smell…

I might be forced from my city, tricked into this summer break. I’m desperate for home but here I find a faint glimmer of myself. The equipment and ingredients call to me in a voice I’ve heard since I was little. Measure, mix, season, and simmer—these are my words. And most of all, this warm and yeasty room feels like Abuela and me. No matter what it takes, I will not be just an Owl and Crow guest. I will become one of its bakers.

An exterior screen door creaks open, then slams shut. “Lost, are you?” The voice at my back is brassy with the cries of parrots. “The parlor’s across the main hall. Opposite end.”

I turn.

“Ah, sorry then. You’re that Lila girl.” The voice pours from a white woman I’d peg as mid-sixties. The kind of tall that makes my eyebrows notice, her frame scored with creased edges and paper-cut lines. Her unpainted face sits under a squat cap of gray hair, circular, reminding me of a B-movie flying saucer.

“Yes, hi, I’m Lila Reyes.”

“Polly. The missus showed me your picture.” She beelines to the sink to wash her hands. “If you’re wanting breakfast other than what’s in your flat, I’ll be setting up the usual parlor spread. Shortly.” I know a firm dismissal when I hear one.

And, no. I plant myself across from her, the wooden island like gold-rich land between us. “Actually,” I say, “I’m here for the summer.”

“So I heard.”

“My family owns a bakery. Has for more than forty years.”

Polly checks a digital wall clock, then the rack oven. “I believe I heard that, too. Mrs. Wallace mentioned a little Cuban place.”

Little. Cuban. Place. I clamp my mouth tight to stop the flames. But as much as I’m prime to detail my extensive baking résumé, I respect the “kitchen.” And this one is Polly’s. If I want to pass