For the past few years, I've been on a quest for a good old-fashioned date, the kind where the guy calls, makes the plans, picks you up in a car that's not his dad's or his other girlfriend's, and takes you somewhere that shows he put thought into what you might like, not what he might get off on like the latest how-many-naked-boobs-can-we-cram-into-this-movie-to-disguise-the-complete-lack-of-plot movie. I'm looking for the kind of date that starts with good conversation , has a sweet and satisfying middle, and ends with long, slow kisses and the dreamy feeling that you're walking on clouds.

I kept it to remind me that although there is evil, there is sometimes beauty and light. You, Jillian. You were always my light.

Gwen Cassidy needed a man. Desperately. Failing that, she'd settle for a cigarette.

Home, Ms. Lane?” His deep voice was gently amused. “I have to call it something,” I said morosely. “They say home is where the heart is. I think mine’s satin-lined and six feet under.

He was still frowning at the cake, looking at it as if he expected it to sprout dozens of legs and begin scuttling toward him, thin-lipped, teeth bared.

Dubh is do?" I was incredulous. It was no wonder I hadn't been able to find the stupid word. "Should I be calling pubs poos?" "Dubh is Gaelic, Ms. Lane. Pub is not.

She's too young. Too innocent. Too human. For what I'm becoming.