The rain in Cold Spring always smelled like wet slate and dying hemlocks.

I wiped the mahogany sideboard in the library, keeping my head down.

The polish had a sharp, lemon scent that stung my eyes.

Outside, the Hudson River looked like a sheet of gray iron.

My three-year-old daughter, Lily, sat on the thick Persian rug near the hearth.

She was stacking blue wooden blocks, her fingers small and sticky with pear juice.

Ethan Cole stood by the tall window, staring out at the mist.

He was a billionaire, but he wore a faded gray cashmere sweater with frayed cuffs.

His shoulders were tight, the way they always were when he returned from the city.

“She is quiet today, Maria,” Ethan said.

His voice was low, devoid of the sharp edge he used with his uncle Richard on the phone.

“She likes the rain, Mr. Cole,” I said, holding my dust cloth tight.

“She thinks the clouds are sleeping.”

Ethan turned from the window.

A rare, faint smile touched the corners of his mouth.

He knelt on the rug beside Lily, his long legs folding awkwardly.

“Can I have a blue one, Lily?” he asked.

Lily looked up, her dark eyes wide and completely unafraid.

She handed him a block.

“For the tower,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” Ethan said.

He placed it carefully on top of the unsteady stack.

For a moment, the tension left his jaw.

He looked like a man who had forgotten the weight of his own name.

The heavy oak door of the library clicked open with a sharp metallic snap.

I expected to see Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, carrying the afternoon tea tray.

Instead, my grandmother stood in the doorway.

Evelyn Alvarez wore her old wool coat, the one with the missing plastic button at the collar.

Her hands were trembling as she clutched a small leather handbag close to her chest.

She looked frail against the high, book-lined walls of the Cole estate.

Her wet hair clung to her forehead in gray streaks.

“Abuela,” I said, my heart dropping into my stomach. “What are you doing here?”

She did not look at me.