The Writing Desk

Do not withhold good . . . when it is in your power to do it.

Doubt is just another color of fear.

We live in a world of fortune and luxury, yet how poor and sad we are at times.

She wasn't sure she could breathe without him.

Youth isn't all it's cracked up to be either." "Then you're doing it wrong.

Spend sunny afternoons writing. Take weekends in the country. Dream. Drink good wine, eat fabulous cheese and great bread. Make the kind of love that destroys the bed.

Look, this isn't about the ring or when I ever made a hamburger, which, for your information, was my senior year of college." "Right, when you almost caught our kitchen on fire." "And you dated one of the firefighters for six months. You're welcome. Back to my problem.

Rubbing salt in my wound won't change what I did.

Death required me to pay attention to my life, to what I believe. A woman never knows when her life will be required of her.

Standing there in her robe, that ridiculous robe, with the socks and slippers bulging from the pockets, Jonas saw a glint, the sparkle of a buried gem, in Tenley. He saw a woman worthy of love. Deserving of a man who would give her himself.

This was Miss Blanche’s daughter? She was a mess. A beautiful mess.

Going with it was Tenley’s superpower. Only child of a single dad, she’d learned to roll with almost any situation. The upside was very little ruffled her. The downside was very little ruffled her.

Alone was the loneliest place on earth

She ate--so, so good--cocooned in the harmonic dissonance of a large family, where every sound was distinct yet blended.

You make every case for marriage but love.

Do not open that door until I'm in my room. I may be old and losing my hair, but I still want to look nice for a handsome man.

Why must duty require me to break my own heart?

Percival pinched his lips, sending his laugh to his eyes.

In the darkest of nights, there is only one thing on your mind--should I be required to stand before the Almighty, will I find myself in His favor?

The grandfather clock struck the half hour. She must be away. Glancing from Mama to Mrs. Smith to Mrs. Astor, she did the only polite thing she could do. She rolled her eyes back in her head, exhaled a loud gasp and swooned out of her chair.