“Clear them out before three o’clock, or the cleaning crew will throw them in the basement bin.”

By four in the afternoon, the sun hit the tiled floor of the main kitchen in Zapopan at an angle that showed every speck of dust on the marble island.

Doña Victoria sat on the terrace with three women from the country club, their laughter drifting back through the open glass doors.

I carried out a heavy silver tray with four cups of dark espresso and a china plate of shortbread.

“Elena came to us with absolutely nothing,” Doña Victoria was saying as I reached the table.