She shook her head and reached for another box, but that ghost of a smile lingered.
“How come we never…?” I started, then stopped.
“Never what?”
“You know. You and me.”
She froze, her hand halfway into a box. “What?”
“We’ve known each other for years. We’re friends. But how come we never tried to be more?”
Her expression shuttered. “It wasn’t worth the risk.”
“You never know until you try.”
“Snapper—”
“I’m serious. What if?—”
“You’re just bored,” she cut me off. “No rodeo this year means no buckle bunnies throwing themselves at you. I’m convenient. That’s all.”
That stung. “Is that really what you think?”
“It’s not like you’re ever around anyway.” She sorted through a stack of papers without meeting my eyes. “And when you are, you turn right around and leave again.”
“I’m here now.”
“For how long? Until your shoulder heals and you’re back on the circuit?”
Fair question. One I didn’t have a good response for. “Saffron?—”
“Let’s just keep looking, okay?” She turned away, shutting down the conversation.
I wanted to push. Wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she wasn’t convenient, that I’d been half in love with her for years. But the set of her shoulders told me now wasn’t the time.
We searched in silence for another hour. I found old correspondence, barrel inventories, nothing useful. Then Saffron gasped.
“What?” I moved closer.
She held up a leather-bound journal, smaller than Marilyn’s but similar in style. “Look at the inside cover.”
I leaned in to read the faded inscription: “Concepción Maria Ramirez Avila.”
“Holy shit.”
She carefully turned pages filled with flowing handwriting. Some entries were in English, others in Spanish. There were recipes, family notes, and daily observations. Then she stopped on an entry dated February 1956.
“Listen to this,” she said, reading aloud. “‘My heart is breaking. E says she won’t allow us to make the wine again. M and I have agreed—I will keep my formulas; she will keep hers. What we created together is finished.’”
“‘She won’t allow,’” I repeated. “E is a woman.”
“Ellen,” Saffron said, looking at the photograph of the three women. “E is Ellen.”
“But who was she? And what did she do?” I shook my head. “We need to figure out who she is.”
Saffron continued reading, but the entries became less specific after that. Just daily observations and recipes.
“This doesn’t help us much,” she said, closing the journal. “We still don’t have the formulas we need. At least not the percentages.”
