The town of Port Clyde, Maine, was carved from granite and stubbornness. It was a place where the scent of low tide, diesel, and cold, clean salt was the local perfume, and where a person’s worth was measured not in dollars, but in the callouses on their hands and the honesty in their eyes. It was Michael’s world, and now, six months after the sea had claimed him, it was Sara’s to defend.
At forty, Sara wore her widowhood not like a shroud of grief, but like a suit of armor. She had a strength that was quiet and deep, forged in the harsh sun and fierce storms of the Atlantic she’d shared with her husband. She now ran Garrison Fisheries, the successful company Michael had built from a single, rusty trawler into a small fleet, and she ran it with his same steady hand.
