The attic was exactly as I remembered—cramped, hot, and packed with decades of accumulated family history. I found the light switch, and three of the four bulbs flickered to life, casting weak yellow light over the space.
Saffron climbed up behind me. “This looks just like ours.”
“Three generations of pack rats will do that.” I surveyed the stacks of boxes and trunks. “Where should we start?”
“The oldest-looking stuff?” She pointed toward a section near the window, where several steamer trunks sat.
The floorboards groaned under our weight as we made our way over. The attic was stifling. I could already feel sweat forming at the base of my spine.
The first trunk we opened held baby clothes—tiny gowns and knitted booties that probably belonged to my siblings or me. The second had photo albums, their pages yellowed with age.
“Look at this,” Saffron said, opening another trunk and removing a wedding dress that I knew hadn’t belonged to my mom. Maybe my grandmother. She sighed. “It’s so beautiful.”
I moved behind her to look over her shoulder. The citrusy and sweet scent of her shampoo hit me, making me want to bury my face in her hair. My chest brushed against her back, and I felt her go still.
“Sorry,” I said, not moving away. “Tight quarters up here.”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. Being this close to her, feeling the warmth of her body through our clothes, breathing her in—my brain was short-circuiting. I let my breath ghost across the back of her neck before forcing myself to step away.
She carefully set the dress aside and dug deeper. Under it were more clothes, a rosary, and a small wooden box with initials carved into the lid.
“EA,” she read. “Eduardo Avila?”
“Probably.” I opened another trunk nearby while she explored the box. Inside were old receipts, tax documents, and letters tied with string. But nothing that looked like wine formulas.
Heat built steadily in the enclosed space, and sweat trickled down my spine as we worked in silence.
Eventually, I gave in and removed my flannel, leaving just my undershirt. The cooler air against my skin helped marginally.
When I glanced over and our eyes met, she quickly looked away, but not before I caught the flush creeping up her neck.
Interesting.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“Nothing about wine.” She sounded flustered.
I reached for another box at the same moment she did. Our fingers touched, and she jerked her hand away. “You get this one. I’ll check over there,” she said.
When I opened it, I found more photographs, but instead of in albums, these were loose. I flipped through them slowly. Most were of people I didn’t recognize. Then I found one that made me pause. Two women standing in front of old wooden fermentation tanks. On the back, someone had written, “Mar and Connie, 1954.”
“Saffron, check this out.”
She came closer, looking over my shoulder, and I had to concentrate on slowing my breathing. “That’s my great-grandmother. Marilyn.”
“With my great-grandmother, Concepción.” I pointed to the second woman. Behind them, partially out of frame, was a third figure. “There’s someone else with them.”
Her breast pressed against my arm when she bent closer. I didn’t think she even noticed, but I sure as hell did. “It’s hard to see who it is. Not that I’d know who they were even if I could.”
“Nothing written on the back.” I flipped through more photos. “Wait, here’s another one.”
This one showed three women together, all smiling at the camera. Marilyn and Concepción were clearly identifiable. The third woman was tall and elegant, with striking features.
“Who is she?” Saffron murmured.
“I don’t know. But she’s in several of these.” I showed her three more photos, each featuring the mystery woman with various combinations of family members.
