Dad while Inez stood by the door. The envelope contained Granddad’s letter, a hand-drawn map and names. Dad read the letter, then sat.
“Manuel?” Mom murmured. Dad looked first at Derek, then me.
“The house wasn’t the only thing your grandfather left us.” PlanGardens
Dad opened the map on Derek’s bench. It circled land north of Carmona, on a road I recognized, with an unfamiliar label: RUIZ BROTHERS WORKSHOP — FOR THE DAY THEY ARE READY. Derek looked equally baffled. Dad touched the faded writing.
“Your grandfather never intended this house to become your inheritance.”
He glanced down at the map.
“He intended us to build something else together.”
PART 3. The yellowed map lay untouched on the bench. RUIZ BROTHERS WORKSHOP seemed improbable; Derek and I hadn’t worked together since childhood. At eleven and fourteen, we’d argued three days about scrap lumber—his treehouse versus my shelves—and built a crooked platform
