She had died peacefully, in her sleep, after an evening of listening to all of her favorite Fred Astaire songs, one crackling record after another. Once the last chord of the last piece had died out, she had stood up and opened the French doors to the garden outside, perhaps waiting to breathe in the honeysuckle one more time.
Anne FortierJanice used to say that instinct was reason in a hurry; I was not so sure about the reason part.
Anne FortierA novel is, hopefully, the starting point of a conversation, one in which the author engages readers and asks that they see things from a different point of view than they might otherwise.
Anne FortierBy the time we left college, I had become my own image: a dandelion in the flower bed of society. Kinda cute, but still a weed.
Anne Fortier