At five o’clock, the heat had eased off the stone patio behind the house in Zapopan.

Paola sat on a wrought-iron bench with a bottle of coral polish, tapping her acrylic nails against the glass tabletop while I folded laundry from the line.

“Mother spent two hours with the legal team this morning,” Paola said.

She blew gently on her left hand, spreading her fingers wide.

“She said we finally locked in the commercial plaza lease extensions for the next ten years.”

“Which plaza?” I asked, setting a folded linen sheet in the wicker basket on the stone floor.