As she always did on any really important day, Penelope Hayes wore red.

She found herself longing for home-not just for the hotel but for New York and all the real novels that she could lose herself in there.

She was full of some strange energy that morning. Her every movement had purpose and life and she seemed to find satisfaction in every little thing.

The living are made of nothing but flaws. The dead, with each passing day in the afterlife, become more and more impeccable to those who remain earthbound.

Henry turned his hat in his hands but went on looking at Diana in a way that made her want to crawl into his arms and stay there forever.

She considered herself unconventional.

She was trying to sound tough and impatient, but she knew that vulnerable desire to be wooed was still brimming in her tone.