She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the song blasting from the radio and waited at the town's single stoplight. Not much had changed in the six years she had been gone. The bakery, the bank, the drugstore and the flower shop still anchored the four corners of the main street. Just down from the bakery was her cousin's coffee shop, a rare new addition to Riverbend.

And the place she had arranged to meet her father. Since she had moved away, she had received an envelope from him on the first of every month, his decisive handwriting on the outside, a check inside.

And nothing else. No letter. No note. Nothing to show that this came from her father.

A few weeks ago, however, instead of the check, inserted in the envelope was a single piece of paper with the words "Come Home. I need to talk to you" written on it.

When she phoned to find out what he wanted, he kept the call short, as he always did, and businesslike, as he always did. He said he wanted to tell her what he had to, face-to-face.

Her father wanted to meet her at home, but after all this time, she had no desire to visit with him in that large empty house echoing with memories. So they had arranged to meet at her cousin Janie's coffee shop. Neutral ground, and not far from his office.

A horn honked behind her and Sarah jumped. The light had turned green. She gunned her car through the intersection and slid over the snow and into the lone parking spot down the block from her cousin's coffee shop. O