Chapter 1

The call came on a Tuesday, the kind of gray morning that matched the news.

Sarah Miller stood in her kitchen, the phone pressed tight to her ear.

Her father, Pastor Miller, was gone.

The words echoed, distant, from her small hometown in Maine.

Her husband, Captain Mark Olsen, was in the living room, his voice a low murmur on his own phone.

"He's gone, Mark," Sarah said, her voice barely a whisper when he finally hung up.

Mark looked over, his brow furrowed. "Who? Oh, your dad. That's tough, Sarah." He paused. "Listen, Tiffany's having a really hard time, just got divorced, back in town, you know. She says her place is a mess, and she's feeling sick. I need to go check on her."

"The funeral is in Maine," Sarah said, her gaze fixed on him. "On Friday."

"Maine? This Friday?" Mark ran a hand through his hair. "Sarah, I can't. Tiffany really needs me right now, she's overwhelmed. And with the Guard schedule, it's just impossible. You understand."

Sarah understood. She understood perfectly.

She went to Maine alone. The funeral was a blur of kind faces, familiar hymns, and a deep, hollow ache where her father used to be. Mayor Thompson, her father's old friend, held her hand, his eyes sad. "He was so proud of you, Sarah. Always talked about you."

She returned to a husband who seemed to have forgotten she'd even been away.

"Hey," Mark said, kissing her cheek as she walked in, tired and heartsore. "Glad you're back. Could you maybe whip something up? Tiffany's coming over, she's still not feeling great, and I told her you'd make that chicken soup she likes."

Sarah looked at him, at the casual expectation in his eyes. Something inside her, already cracked, finally broke.

That night, she didn't sleep. She thought of her father, his warmth, his kindness. She remembered his dream for her: to use her skills, her love of books, to revitalize the struggling library in their Maine hometown, a place that had been his heart.

By morning, Sarah had made her decision. She would go to Maine. She would run the library. And she would leave Mark.

She typed carefully, the words stark and official. Divorce papers.

Then, she printed another set of forms, something generic from the community center's volunteer database. She clipped them together, the divorce papers hidden beneath.

Later that day, Mark was on the phone again, his voice soothing, solicitous. "Tiffany, just calm down. I'll be right there. What? The sink is overflowing now? Okay, okay, I'm on my way."

He grabbed his keys, heading for the door.

"Mark, wait," Sarah said, holding out the clipboard. "These are just some community volunteer re-registration forms. They need to be filed before my next trip to Maine. Could you sign them for me?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, distracted, his eyes already on the door. He scribbled his name on the top form without a glance, his mind clearly on Tiffany's latest crisis. "Gotta go, Sarah. Tiffany's freaking out."

He was gone.

Sarah looked down at his signature. It was done.