Her life was monotonous, but it kept her out of trouble. . . . This, her father would say, was called being an adult.

Memories, even hard memories, grew soft like peaches as they grow older.

She sometimes thought she was going crazy. Her first thought when she woke up was always how to get him out of her thoughts. And she would keep watch, hoping to see him next door, while plotting ways to never have to see him again.

Those silly girls had no idea what they were really celebrating. They had no idea what it took to bring Agatha and her friends together seventy-five years ago. The Women's Society Club had been about supporting one another, about banding together to protect one another because no one else would. But it had turned into an ugly beast, a means by which rich ladies would congratulate themselves by giving money to the poor. And Agatha had let it happen. All her life, it seemed, she was making up for things she let happen.

For stubborn souls like Lisette, death was easier than the courage it took to actually change your life.

He didn't think he belonged here, so she was making him face some uncomfortable facts. People adapt. People change. You can grow where you're planted.

Happiness is a risk. If you’re not a little scared, then you’re not doing it right.