But happiness ... happiness grows at our own firesides," she said. "It is not to be picked in strangers' gardens." ~ The House at Riverton

A way of looking at you that told you she was listening, that she understood all you were saying, and all you weren't.

And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.

I write what I'd like to read and just hope that, along the way, others might like to read them, too.

But in my humble opinion, a house needs a good party once in a while; remind folks it exists.

Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.

Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?