“If I close my eyes, I’m in Miami again,” Cate continues, “and the air conditioner is broken and we’re all dripping sweat with portable fans blowing loud behind us and the music playing louder.” Her hands on her heart. “Your abuela Lydia could have been in the most high-end kitchen in her mind. And more than me, she fed everyone. When times were tough for her neighbors, she brought pots of caldo de pollo and pan Cubano.” I lift my gaze through the molasses drag of memory. Flora and Jules have stopped chopping, just listening. This is my Miami, my history. This is me. “Stay,” I tell Cate. “You
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