what a luxury it was for people to hold their loved ones whenever they wanted

I would love to write a mystery - a romantic, funny mystery.

When you're on your own, you look for signs. Sometimes you make them up, sometimes they're actually there, but most of the time you can't tell the difference from the two.

Love is not a theme. It's an atmosphere, a mood.

Elizabeth’s hands flew to her mouth; tears filled her eyes with happiness as she realized he was fulfilling yet another of her and her mother’s intended activities. “Why are you fulfilling all of my mother’s dreams?” she asked, studying his face and searching for answers. “So you don’t run away like she did in search of them,” he replied, taking her hand. “Come on, join in!” he said, leaping around.

I’ve learned that home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.

Not like a heart, which let people in without permission, held them in a special place she never had any say in and then yearned for them to remain there longer than they planned.