RUIZ BROTHERS WORKSHOP.
The words looked almost absurd.
Derek and I had not built anything together since we were children.
When we were eleven and fourteen, Dad gave us scrap lumber and told us to make something useful.
Derek wanted a treehouse.
I wanted shelves.
We argued for three days and finally built a crooked platform with one shelf attached to the side.
Dad kept it behind the workshop until the wood rotted.
“Proof,” he used to say, “that compromise can be ugly and still work.”
Now, decades later, our grandfather seemed to be asking for another compromise.
“What property is this?” I asked.
Dad studied the map.
“I think I know.”
He pointed at an old county road north of town.
“When your grandfather first came to Carmona, he worked for a man named Esteban Ruiz.”
“Our relative?”
“No.”
Derek frowned.
“Same last name?”
Dad nodded.
“It confused everyone. Eventually they called themselves cousins even though they weren’t.”
