“Lucy gripped her chilled glass of orange and raspberry juice. When Rebecca talked about Austen, she’d mostly mentioned Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley. She hadn’t really thought of the doe-eyed, pale-skinned heroines. On the screen, Anne Elliot walked down a long hallway, glancing just once at covered paintings, her mouth a grim line. Lucy thought Jane Austen would start the story with the romance, or the loss of it, but instead the tale seemed to begin with Anne’s home, and having to make difficult decisions. Maybe this writer from over two hundred years ago knew how everything important met at the intersection of family, home, love, and loss. This was something Lucy understood with every fiber of her being.”

“Lucy gripped her chilled glass of orange and raspberry juice. When Rebecca talked about Austen, she’d mostly mentioned Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley. She hadn’t really thought of the doe-eyed, pale-skinned heroines. On the screen, Anne Elliot walked down a long hallway, glancing just once at covered paintings, her mouth a grim line. Lucy thought Jane Austen would start the story with the romance, or the loss of it, but instead the tale seemed to begin with Anne’s home, and having to make difficult decisions. Maybe this writer from over two hundred years ago knew how everything important met at the intersection of family, home, love, and loss. This was something Lucy understood with every fiber of her being.”

“So, does that make me your girlfriend?”“Do you want to be?”“I’ve never liked that word, actually. It sounds so juvenile. ”He shot her a worried look. “Is there another term you’d prefer?”“I’ve always liked ‘companion of my heart’. Or ‘my better half’. Or maybe even ‘the sun in my universe’.”

“Oh, right. She doesn’t know your secret identity.” Andy unzipped his sweatshirt and tossed it on a chair. “So, Meg Ryan just sent Tom Hanks a book but…” “No, Meg Ryan just sent NY152 a book, which was then overnighted to Tom Hanks, who lives above Meg Ryan and knows she’s Shopgirl, while she has no idea he’s NY152.” “I’m a little disturbed you know that movie so well.” “It was actually a remake of a 1937 play called Parfumerie by Miklós László.” Paul blew out a breath. “And it’s really not as fun as they made it sound.” “But hey, at least you can say you’ve got mail,” Andy said, chuckling.”

“It's the truth." Her voice was barely more than breath."I believe you." He was gently kissing his way along her jaw. "You came all this way to bring me a photo.""Yes." She said. "Well, I can..this morning..here bring it."He raised his head, "What?"She glared at him, "I can't talk when you're doing that."He grinned, dimples appearing. "Sorry. Say it again.”

“The sound of the rain faded away and she kissed him, letting herself be as honest as she'd wanted to be, letting her kiss speak for everything she was afraid to say with words.”

“His mama put down the bag and headed for the door, her mouth a thin line. “Wait! What are you doing? Don’t go over there and yell at her.” Paul jumped off the stool and tried to beat her to the door. “Oh, honey, I would never do that.” His mama stepped into the hallway. “I’m fixin’ to invite her for dinner.”

“He's come a long way, but he's still never accepted that he's forgiven.”

“. “Don’t be a stranger. And pray about that petition you filed.” “Mama,” Paul groaned. That was the Christian way of saying “I know you’re wrong but you won’t take my word for it, so God will have to explain it to you.”

“I know we sort of said goodbye, but I don’t have anyone else to tell this to and I’m going to burst with it. You know EBB’s verse: God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed For in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in it. –”

“No, I went to the bar to ask for a mojito and that guy Johnny said he didn’t make mojitos. Then he offered to make me a mint julep, in one of those silver cups and everything.” “Did you know say the true cause of the Civil War was some Northerner adding nutmeg to a mint julep?” Lucy asked.”

“It’s just a party. You eat some food and drink a beer and pretend you don’t want to be crawdad fishing,” Angie said. “No, it’s an echo chamber of sycophants and I can’t listen to some bimbo recite her newest purchases while pretending I don’t want to throw myself from the roof.”