A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,91

mug of café con leche before the gossip birds are up. Chany redid his landscaping and Susana got a brand-new Honda. Grace and Cristina and Sophie left their trio of pink and purple scooters in their driveway.

I learn my house again too. Sí, the kitchen faucet drips if you don’t really jam down the tap. The floor creaks just here and the walls smell like garlic and onions. And my room—my suitcases are a tumble of rummaging and half-unpacking—carries only the sound of Pilar’s shower and the tick of an old clock of Abuela’s. But even my hazed, jet-lagged eyes spot the package on my unmade bed. The yellow sticky note reads:

Sorry, I forgot because my sister is home.

This came yesterday to LP. Sleep well?—P

DHL Express? The return address shoots tingles up my arms. Carefully, I undo packing tape and box flaps and tissue paper. I let out a helpless sob when I lift out the softest, grayest, England-est, wooliest, Orion-est cardigan ever. I clutch it to me, breathing in a Winchester townhouse and rainy soapy spice. Breathing in memories of kisses and cobblestones, motorbikes and music. I pluck out a flat white card:

This was always meant to be yours.

Love, Orion

It’s extra hard to text when your hands are shaking.

Me: I got it and you can’t

Orion: Absolutely, I can

Me: But your grandmother

Orion: Will make me another cardigan. This one belongs to you

Me: I love it so much. Thank you forever

Orion: Keep warm and talk soon

Me: Goodnight, England

Orion: Good morning, Miami

I wrap the gray cabled wool over my tank top. There’s too much heat in this city, too much for England sweaters. But this one warms a shivering heart.

* * *

“I’m a little scared for you to try this,” Angelina says, offering me her pastelito de guayaba.

I bite into flaky, sticky goodness. Yes, deliciousness. I smile broadly. “Angelina.”

“Really?” She places a paper napkin on my table.

“It’s perfect.” I’m parked at one of the two-tops at La Paloma. Rather, I’m forced to sit and look over the Family Style production details, finalize our menu choices to showcase, and greet all the customers who have been asking about me for weeks. “This is quality food and I know you’ve been doing it all summer. Thank you.”

She smiles and readjusts a bandanna over her dark blond hair before returning to the kitchen.

They don’t let me in to work today, only to poke around and bask in hugs and welcomes. In three days we will close to prepare for shooting. Showroom walls will get a fresh coat of the warm ivory I picked out with Pilar. Floors and surfaces will be scrubbed and shined.

Instead Papi gives me a throne by the entrance like I’m the panadería’s lost prodigal daughter. Their fatted calves are cafecitos and sugary samples from the kitchen. My family means well, but don’t they know I need to bake? I need to put my hands in flour, to feel like myself in this place again.

Instead I get up to look over items other employees have baked, milling around the big display rack piled with breads and Cuban rolls. Glass front cases burst with pastries, miniature desserts, and savory croquetas. Sweet and warm and inviting.

I stop at the wall where the framed Miami Herald article has hung for four years. An oversized photo in the Lifestyle section shows Pilar and me smiling over a tray of assorted pasteles. The headline beams proudly in block letters: West Miami Teens Save the “Date” at Congressman Millan’s Charity Fund-raiser.

It seems only yesterday that the same reporter who’d covered the Millans’ charity event was sitting here, interviewing Pilar and me. La Paloma grew exponentially because of my one choice to not cancel an order. To work overnight and command a kitchen at thirteen with my sister. So much change came from a single newspaper article. Now we’re going to be on TV and I can’t even dream of what will happen to this place once again.

But that same girl on the wall, printed in black and white newsprint, doesn’t sit here with a black and white mind. I think in so many shades, on the edge of myself, balanced between yesterday and tomorrow.

Basta. Enough sitting and thinking, and enough of this storefront.

In the back, the kitchen rides on grease and yeast and sugar. I stand where I would usually stand and realize too many bakers are scheduled for morning shift. They don’t need me today.

Marta whips mango mousse, alive with color. Gives me a taste with a