At half past seven, Samuel and I sat at the wrought-iron table on the villa’s high stone terrace in the cool evening air and the scent of pine needles.

A brass tray sat between us with a pot of dark coffee, two porcelain cups, and a heavy wooden box filled with thirty-two thick ivory envelopes.

Each envelope had a raised gold crest in the middle of the flap: two pine branches crossed beneath an old church bell.

“I have the master guest list from the country club,” Samuel said, setting a typed sheet next to his coffee cup.

“Thirty-two adults, including Alejandro, Doña Victoria, Paola, Oscar Garza, and every extended cousin in their social circle.”