He was afraid that the secrets she'd kept would always be here, inside him, an ugly malignant thing lodged near enough to his heart to upset its rhythm, and though it could be removed, cut out, there would always be scars; bits and pieces of it would remain in his blood, making it wrong somehow, so that if he accidentally sliced his skin open, his blood would--for one heartbeat--flow as black as India ink before it remembered that it should be red.

Nina knew the power of black and white images. Sometimes a thing was its truest self when the colors were stripped away.

What good did it do to light the world on fire if she had to watch the glow alone?

The hallmark of my books is the relationships that define women's lives.

I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I'd like to be known.

We can't live other people's lives for them. Even if we love them.

To lose love is a terrible thing. But to turn away from it is unbearable. Will you spend the rest of your life replaying it in your head? Wondering if you walked away too soon or too easily? Or if you'll ever love anyone that deeply again?