Archie Manning Quotes

No matter what anyone says, suicide takes guts. It's for heroes and martyrs, truly vainglorious men. Archie was none of these. He was a man whose significance in the Greater Scheme of Things could be figured along familiar ratios: Pebble : Beach Raindrop : Ocean Needle : Haystack

it wont be long now it wont be long man is making deserts of the earth it wont be long now before man will have used it up so that nothing but ants and centipedes and scorpions can find a living on it .... what man calls civilization always results in deserts .... men talk of money and industry of hard times and recoveries of finance and economics but the ants wait and the scorpions wait for while men talk they are making deserts all the time getting the world ready for the conquering ant drought and erosion and desert because men cannot learn .... it wont be long now it wont be long till earth is barren as the moon and sapless as a mumbled bone

For Archie was an expert in dividing the affairs of life into men's business and women's business. An empty cupboard and a full plate were the man's business, a full cupboard and an empty plate the concern of the woman.

Every honorable man is forced to yield to blackmail once or twice in his life, just for the sake of keeping peace in the community.

I remember hearing grandpa say that a love for god books was one of the best safeguards a man could have,' began Archie, staring thoughtfully at the fine library before him.

Well, do as you think best. That's every man's right and duty. But for me, I pledge you now I will not surrender one grain of my rights. What I took, I took and by God, I'll keep it, too. Take her home tomorrow, Archie, and never look back to watch what I do, for you know it before. I would not give him one knigh who had confided himself to me and none other, much less you. Only over my dead body," said Hotspur hardily, eye to eye with the friend he had made under Homildon Hill, "will King Henry ever claim you as his prisoner.

Ahhh, now, you see, we’ve been through this, and my thought is this: there’s no smoke without fire,” Archie would say, looking impressed by the wisdom of his own conclusion. “Know what I mean?” This was one of Archie’s preferred analytic tools when confronted with news stories, historical events, and the tricky day-to-day process of separating fact from fiction. There’s no smoke without fire. There was something so vulnerable in the way he relied on this conviction, that Samad never had the heart to disabuse him of it. Why tell an old man that there can be smoke without fire as surely as there are deep wounds that draw no blood?

justice...is not inherent in the universe and what man has put there he uses when he uses it at all strictly for his own purposes the world is so sad that the only way to live with it is to laugh at it

Involved. At least that was the right word, Alsana reflected, as she liftes her foot off the pedal, and let the wheel spin a few times alone before coming to a squeaky halt. Sometimes, here in England, especially at bus-stops and on the daytime soaps, you heard people say “We’re involved with each other,” as if this were a most wonderful state to be in, as if one chose it and enjoyed it. Alsana never thought of it that way. Involved happened over a long period of time, pulling you in like quicksand. Involved is what befell the moon-faced Alsana Begum and the handsome Samad Miah one week after they’d been pushed into a Delhi breakfast room together and informed they were to marry. Involved was the result when Clara Bowden met Archie Jones at the bottom of some stairs. Involved swallowed up a girl called Ambrosia and a boy called Charlie (yes, Clara had told her that sorry tale) the second they kissed in the larder of a guest house. Involved is neither good, nor bad. It is just a consequence of living, a consequence of occupation and immigration, of empires and expansion, of living in each other’s pockets… one becomes involved and it is a long trek back to being uninvolved. And the woman was right, one didn’t do it for one’s health. Nothing this late in the century was done with health in mind. Alsana was no dummy when it came to the Modern Condition. She watched the talk shows, all day long she watched the talk shows — My wife slept with my brother, My mother won’t stay out of my boyfriend’s life — and the microphone holder, whether it be Tanned Man with White Teeth or Scary Married Couple, always asked the same damn silly question: But why do you feel the need…? Wrong! Alsana had to explain it to them through the screen. You blockhead; they are not wanting this, they are not willing it — they are just involved, see? They walk IN and they get trapped between the revolving doors of those two v’s. Involved. Just a tired inevitable fact. Something in the way Joyce said it, involved — wearied, slightly acid — suggested to Alsana that the word meant the same thing to hear. An enormous web you spin to catch yourself.

it s too great a blow underlined to a man apostrophe s pride to see a woman influence other women more than he can himself

Good heavens.” Wolfe pushed back his chair, not of course with violence, but with determination. “Archie. Understand this. As a man of action you are tolerable, you are even competent. But I will not for one moment put up with you as a psychologist. I

Yes, Phebe was herself now, and it showed in the change that came over her at the first note of music. No longer shy and silent, no longer the image of a handsome girl, but a blooming woman, alive and full of the eloquence her art gave her, as she laid her hands softly together, fixed her eye on the light, and just poured out her song as simply and joyfully as the lark does soaring toward the sun. "My faith, Alec! that's the sort of voice that wins a man's heart out of his breast!" exclaimed Uncle Mac, wiping his eyes after one of the plaintive ballads that never grow old. "So it would!" answered Dr. Alec, delightedly. "So it has," added Archie to himself; and he was right: for just at that moment he fell in love with Phebe. He actually did, and could fix the time almost to a second: for at a quarter past nine, he thought merely thought her a very charming young person; at twenty minutes past, he considered her the loveliest woman he ever beheld; at five and twenty minutes past, she was an angel singing his soul away; and at half after nine he was a lost man, floating over a delicious sea to that temporary heaven on earth where lovers usually land after the first rapturous plunge. If anyone had mentioned this astonishing fact, nobody would have believed it; nevertheless, it was quite true: and sober, business-like Archie suddenly discovered a fund of romance at the bottom of his hitherto well-conducted heart that amazed him. He was not quite clear what had happened to him at first, and sat about in a dazed sort of way; seeing, hearing, knowing nothing but Phebe: while the unconscious idol found something wanting in the cordial praise so modestly received, because Mr. Archie never said a word.

Archie.” He was gruff. “No man can hold himself accountable for the results of his psychological defects, especially those he shares with all his fellow men, such as lack of omniscience. It is a vulgar fallacy that what you don’t know can’t hurt you; but it is true that what you don’t know can’t convict you.

...asked by his wife whether he wants to have his bowling shoes laced over or laced under, Archie Bunker answers the question: "What's the difference?" Being a reader of sublime simplicity, his wife replies by patiently explaining the difference between lacing over and lacing under, whatever this may be, but provokes only ire. "What's the difference" did not ask for difference but means instead "I don't give a damn what the difference is.

Despite some initial reluctance to spend a whole book’s worth of time with a man who flirted with misogyny, I took the plunge. Wolfe, after all, had the good sense to live in Manhattan, and besides, you had to like a man who surrounded himself with exotic tropical plants, consumed epicurean meals, and had the chutzpah to make the universe conform to his rules. And when I met Archie Goodwin, his ebullience and his earthy, rakish charm won me over.

Sadly, we were going to have to flee. We’d need to find somewhere new, and soon, and that would mean paying for our own security. I went back to my notebooks, started contacting security firms again. Meg and I sat down to work out exactly how much security we could afford, and how much house. Exactly then, while we were revising our budget, word came down: Pa was cutting me off. I recognized the absurdity, a man in his mid-thirties being financially cut off by his father. But Pa wasn’t merely my father, he was my boss, my banker, my comptroller, keeper of the purse strings throughout my adult life. Cutting me off therefore meant firing me, without redundancy pay, and casting me into the void after a lifetime of service. More, after a lifetime of rendering me otherwise unemployable. I felt fatted for the slaughter. Suckled like a veal calf. I’d never asked to be financially dependent on Pa. I’d been forced into this surreal state, this unending Truman Show in which I almost never carried money, never owned a car, never carried a house key, never once ordered anything online, never received a single box from Amazon, almost never traveled on the Underground. (Once, at Eton, on a theater trip.) Sponge, the papers called me. But there’s a big difference between being a sponge and being prohibited from learning independence. After decades of being rigorously and systematically infantilized, I was now abruptly abandoned, and mocked for being immature? For not standing on my own two feet? The question of how to pay for a home and security kept Meg and me awake at nights. We could always spend some of my inheritance from Mummy, we said, but that felt like a last resort. We saw that money as belonging to Archie. And his sibling. It was then that we learned Meg was pregnant.

[...]a man and a boy, side by side on a yellow Swedish sofa from the 1950s that the man had bought because it somehow reminded him of a zoot suit, watching the A’s play Baltimore, Rich Harden on the mound working that devious ghost pitch, two pairs of stocking feet, size 11 and size 15, rising from the deck of the coffee table at either end like towers of the Bay Bridge, between the feet the remains in an open pizza box of a bad, cheap, and formerly enormous XL meat lover’s special, sausage, pepperoni, bacon, ground beef, and ham, all of it gone but crumbs and parentheses of crusts left by the boy, brackets for the blankness of his conversation and, for all the man knew, of his thoughts, Titus having said nothing to Archy since Gwen’s departure apart from monosyllables doled out in response to direct yes-or-nos, Do you like baseball? you like pizza? eat meat? pork?, the boy limiting himself whenever possible to a tight little nod, guarding himself at his end of the sofa as if riding on a crowded train with something breakable on his lap, nobody saying anything in the room, the city, or the world except Bill King and Ken Korach calling the plays, the game eventless and yet blessedly slow, player substitutions and deep pitch counts eating up swaths of time during which no one was required to say or to decide anything, to feel what might conceivably be felt, to dread what might be dreaded, the game standing tied at 1 and in theory capable of going on that way forever, or at least until there was not a live arm left in the bullpen, the third-string catcher sent in to pitch the thirty-second inning, batters catnapping slumped against one another on the bench, dead on their feet in the on-deck circle, the stands emptied and echoing, hot dog wrappers rolling like tumbleweeds past the diehards asleep in their seats, inning giving way to inning as the dawn sky glowed blue as the burner on a stove, and busloads of farmhands were brought in under emergency rules to fill out the weary roster, from Sacramento and Stockton and Norfolk, Virginia, entire villages in the Dominican ransacked for the flower of their youth who were loaded into the bellies of C-130s and flown to Oakland to feed the unassuageable appetite of this one game for batsmen and fielders and set-up men, threat after threat giving way to the third out, weak pop flies, called third strikes, inning after inning, week after week, beards growing long, Christmas coming, summer looping back around on itself, wars ending, babies graduating from college, and there’s ball four to load the bases for the 3,211th time, followed by a routine can of corn to left, the commissioner calling in varsity teams and the stars of girls’ softball squads and Little Leaguers, Archy and Titus sustained all that time in their equally infinite silence, nothing between them at all but three feet of sofa;

Men sitting doubled up in the upper bunks smoked short pipes, swinging bare brown feet above the heads of those who, sprawling below on sea-chests, listened, smiling stupidly or scornfully. Over the white rims of berths stuck out heads with blinking eyes; but the bodies were lost in the gloom of those places, that resembled narrow niches for coffins in a white-washed and lighted mortuary. Voices buzzed louder. Archie, with compressed lips, drew himself in, seemed to shrink into a smaller space, and sewed steadily, industrious and dumb. Belfast shrieked like an inspired Dervish: — ‘... So I seez to him, boys, seez I, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sorr,” seez I to that second mate of that steamer — “beggin’ your-r-r pardon, sorr, the Board of Trade must ‘ave been drunk when they granted you your certificate!” “What do you say, you — !” seez he, comin’ at me like a mad bull... all in his white clothes; and I up with my tarpot and capsizes it all over his blamed lovely face and his lovely jacket... “Take that!” seez I. “I am a sailor, anyhow, you nosing, skipper-licking, useless, sooperfloos bridge-stanchion, you! That’s the kind of man I am!” shouts I... You should have seed him skip, boys! Drowned, blind with

and realized it was smarter to disappear. Even Royal took a turn. He told me about a life consumed with vanity, with material things, with ambition. He told me about the only daughter of a powerful man—exactly what kind of power this man wielded, Royal hadn’t entirely understood—and how Royal had planned to marry her and become heir to the dynasty. How the beautiful daughter pretended to love him to please her father, and then how she had watched when her lover from a rival criminal syndicate had Royal beaten to death, how she’d laughed aloud the whole time. He told me about the revenge he’d gotten. Royal was the least careful with his words. He told me about losing his family, and how none of this was worth what he’d lost. Edythe had whispered Eleanor’s name; he’d growled once and left. I think it must have been while Royal or Eleanor was talking that Archie watched Joss’s video from the dance studio. When Royal was gone, Archie took his spot. At first I wasn’t sure what they were talking about, because only Edythe was speaking out loud, but eventually I caught up. Archie was searching right there on his laptop, trying to narrow down the options of where he’d been kept in his human life. I was glad he didn’t seem to mention anything else about the tape—the focus was all on his past. I was trying to remember how to use my voice so that I could stop him if he tried to say anything about the rest of it. I hoped Archie was smart enough to have destroyed the tape before Edythe could watch. The stories helped me think of other things, prepare myself, while the fire burned, but I was only able to pay partial attention. My mind was cataloguing the fire, experiencing it in new ways. It was amazing how each inch of my skin, each millimeter, was so distinct. It was like I could feel all my cells burning individually. I could feel the difference between the pain in the walls of my lungs, and the way the fire felt in the soles of my feet, inside my eyeballs, and down my spine. All the different agonies clearly separated.

I'm a firm believer the the first two tenets of effective child-rearing boil down to "spend a lot of time with your children" and "cherish them," because, one, they need you when they're growing, and, two, they're going to be up and gone before you realize it.

He was Archie Grant, boon companion, should-be pirate, and suspected second-story man who could melt a girl with his smile but then would have no idea where the puddle at his feet had come from.

What’s the matter? Aren’t you interested in my strong, manly arms?” he said, giving her a squeeze to show just how strong and manly his arms were. “Not when they’re squeezing the life from me,” she gasped. “Archie, let me go!

There is a man in him that could support it,’ Archie said. ‘True enough. But it is maybe a man the world could do without.

The sound of stumbling made him spin around. She had tripped on a root and was on her hands and knees in the leaves. A muffled cry came from behind her curtain of silvery blond hair. He ran to her. Rejection be damned, he wasn’t about to let a lass weep on the ground if he had strength to carry her. And what man worth his salt wouldn’t have the strength to carry such a delicate thing? He sheathed his sword and lifted her slight weight. Och, did she have to feel so warm and soft against his chest? Did the sight of Gunn blood on her woolen have to tug at him so? Damn his contrary cock for stirring at the feel of her petite, lushly curved body so close to his. Gritting his teeth, he practically ran for Archie’s cart. He made the mistake of glancing down at her face. Smooth and fair as a polished opal, it would have been glorious as the sun itself if it hadn’t been so troubled and smudged with mud. Mud he’d pushed her into in his haste to protect her from the Gunn. No tears marred her cheeks, but her trembling lower lip, full as a rose bursting to bloom, hinted that she was trying not to weep. Was it so awful for her to be this near to him? He quickened his pace so he could relieve her of his unwelcome touch as soon as possible. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and uniquely accented with a delicate drawl. He nodded tightly. “Dinna fash. Soon, now, and I shall leave ye be.

When Tilly was fifteen she had imagined herself in love with Archie Cobbe, for he was exactly the sort of young man to awaken a romantic attachment. He was so big and so good-looking and people said he was wild. You met him sometimes, riding about Chevis Green on a prancing horse and he always waved his cap and shouted “Hallo!” Then old Lady Chevis had died and left him Chevis Place, and Archie had taken the name of “Chevis” and settled down into a model squire.

a man approached me once with a manuscript. He felt it could be the Next Big Thing if it had the right agent. It featured a toddler he’d left after a failed relationship. The book’s opening had him arriving home in happier times, which meant verbatim dialogue between ‘Mommeeeee’ and ‘Daddeeeeee’ and ‘Widdle babieeeeeee’. It was as heartbreaking to read as the man’s relationship must have been to live, but in a bad way. And the man wasn’t crazy. He loved books, was well read – but his writing in this case played thunderous notes on an inner piano that the rest of us just don’t have. It’s not to say the story couldn’t be beautifully told, that it couldn’t give us those feelings – but it would have to build that piano first. It means the energy from our feelings can’t always be spat directly onto a page, except to write a letter we never send. That energy instead has to propel us through the journey of writing as well as we can. It means we have to be able to stand back and see our theme in all its dimensions. It means the book about the psycho lover also shows his good qualities and isn’t a straight assassination. Before starting to write we need to assure ourselves that we’re not out to settle a score (or if we are, to make sure we do it symbolically or indirectly and with craft), and that we’re not stuck in a feeling-land where little Archie’s first birthday party would feel just as amazing to everyone else as it did to us. Nobody is interested in little Archie unless something big happens at the party.

But first a description: Clara Bowden was beautiful in all senses except maybe, by virtue of being black, the classical. Clara Bowden was magnificently tall, black as ebony and crushed sable, with hair plaited in a horseshoe which pointed up when she felt lucky, down when she didn’t. At this moment it was up. It is hard to know whether that was significant. She needed no bra – she was independent, even of gravity – she wore a red halterneck which stopped below her bust, underneath which she wore her belly button (beautifully) and underneath that some very tight yellow jeans. At the end of it all were some strappy heels of a light brown suede, and she came striding down the stairs on them like some kind of vision or, as it seemed to Archie as he turned to observe her, like a reared-up thoroughbred. Now, as Archie understood it, in movies and the like it is common for someone to be so striking that when they walk down the stairs the crowd goes silent. In life he had never seen it. But it happened with Clara Bowden. She walked down the stairs in slow motion, surrounded by afterglow and fuzzy lighting. And not only was she the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, she was also the most comforting woman he had ever met. Her beauty was not a sharp, cold commodity. She smelt musty, womanly, like a bundle of your favorite clothes. Though she was disorganized physically – legs and arms speaking a slightly different dialect from her central nervous system – even her gangly demeanour seemed to Archie exceptionally elegant. She wore her sexuality with an older woman’s ease, and not (as with most of the girls Archie had run with in the past) like an awkward purse, never knowing how to hold it, where to hang it or when to just put it down. ‘Cheer up, bwoy,’ she said in a lilting Caribbean accent that reminded Archie of That Jamaican Cricketer, ‘it might never happen.’ ‘I think it already has.’ Archie, who had just dropped a fag from his mouth which has been burning itself to death anyway, saw Clara quickly tread it underfoot. She gave him a wide grin that revealed possibly her one imperfection. A complete lack of teeth in the top of her mouth. ‘Man…dey get knock out,’ she lisped, seeing his surprise. ‘But I tink to myself: come de end of de world, d’Lord won’t mind if I have no toofs.’ She laughed softly.

Wenn ich den Namen schon höre! Archie! Ich nenne ihn stattdessen Arsch, doch der Blödmann begreift noch nicht einmal, dass ich ihn beleidige! Nach seiner Theorie bin ich ein Franzmann und kann seinen Namen einfach nicht richtig aussprechen. Wie doof muss man sein, um zu überhören, dass ich akzentfreies Deutsch – und übrigens auch jede andere Sprache der Welt – spreche?

We also cannot know whether Frank’s closeness to Archie Butt ever extended beyond the bounds of mere friendship. Archie was far too careful to ever pen anything as indiscreet as Millet’s correspondence with Stoddard. Yet within Archie’s letters there are enough clues to picture him as a Ragtime-era gay man hiding in plain sight. Archie had the same gift for observation and waspish wit found in gay diarists from Horace Walpole and Henry “Chips” Channon to Cecil Beaton and Andy Warhol. He also had a remarkable eye for the details of women’s clothes and jewelry and could, for example, describe from memory a selection of First Lady Edith Roosevelt’s gowns and include such details as “black velvet with passementerie down the front.

As Millet, Archie Butt, and Clarence Moore passed through the dining saloon that Thursday evening, a likely table to have received friendly greetings was the one occupied by Colonel Archibald Gracie IV and his two companions, Edward Austin Kent, a Buffalo architect, and a New York clubman named James Clinch Smith. The affable Gracie was the most outgoing of the three and had the polished manners of a man from an old and distinguished family. His great-grandfather, Archibald Gracie I, was a Scottish-born shipping magnate who in 1799 had built a large Federal-style home in Manhattan overlooking the East River that is now known as Gracie Mansion, the official residence of the mayor of New York.

In a fit of nostalgia, and because he was the only man Samad knew on this little island, Samad had sought Archie out, moved into the same London borough. And slowly but surely a kind of friendship was being rekindled between the two men. 'You play like a faggot,' said Samad

If she knew I went out again,' he said, 'I could get youth custody.' 'If she shopped you, you mean?' He nodded. 'But... sod it... to cut a foot off a horse...' Perhaps the better nature was somewhere there after all. Stealing cars was OK, maiming racehorses wasn't. He wouldn't have blinded those ponies: he wasn't that sort of lout. 'If I fix it with your aunt, will you tell me?' I asked. 'Make her promise not to tell Archie. He's worse.' 'Er,' I said, 'who is Archie?' 'My uncle. Aunt Betty's brother. He's Establishment, man. He's the flogging classes.' I made no promises. I said, 'Just spill the beans.' 'In three weeks I'll be sixteen.' He looked at me intently for reaction, but all he'd caused in me was puzzlement. I thought the cut-off age for crime to be considered 'juvenile' was two years older. He wouldn't be sent to an adult jail. Jonathan saw my lack of understanding. He said impatiently, 'You can't be underage for sex if you're a man, only if you're a girl.' 'Are you sure?' 'She says so.' 'Your Aunt Betty?' I felt lost. 'No, stupid. The woman in the village.' 'Oh... ah.' 'Her old man's a long-distance truck driver. He's away for nights on end. He'd kill me. Youth custody would be apple pie,' 'Difficult,' I said. 'She wants it, see? I'd never done it before. I bought her a gin in the pub.' Which, at fifteen, was definitely illegal to start with. 'So... um...,' I said, 'last night you were coming back from the village... When, exactly?' 'It was dark. Just before dawn. There had been more moon light earlier, but I'd left it late. I was running. She-Aunt Betty-she wakes with the cocks. She lets the dogs out before six.' His agitation, I thought, was producing what sounded like truth. I thought, and asked, 'Did you see any ramblers?' 'No. It was earlier than them.' I held my breath. I had to ask the next question, and dreaded the answer.

He stretched out his long legs under the table, settled on his tailbone. He shook his foot, rotated his ankle, as if he'd sat too long. The movement caught the cat's attention. Archie's back arched, his tail swung, ready to pounce. A long lunge, and Cade stiffened. "Dude, I'm not a scratching post." "Archibald Reginald Rose," Amelia called him by his full name. She clapped her hands. "No!" Grace tipped on her chair, caught the action under the table. This was no sweet kneading from the Maine coon. He bared his claws on Cade's thigh, close to the man's groin. Cade inched back, avoided kicking the cat. His jeans were white-seamed and laddered. Archie swatted, then latched on to the loose, swaying threads. He tugged. Denim split, shredded, leaving a sizable hole. No underwear for this man. A shift of his weight, and Cade flashed Grace. Not purposely, yet she got an eyeful. In that moment, she learned more about him than she ever needed to know. He tucked left. His sex, substantial.

We got our own system," said Bill. "Anything more than three quarters of a man and we bring him in. Less than that, we give him a cigarette and keep his morphine for some other poor sod. Funny thing, but they don't seem to feel the pain when they're that far gone." "Funny business all around," said Archie. "Cigarette, guvnor?

Josh shrugged. “Works for me.” Caroline nodded. “I think you should get married beside the loch,” Archie told them. Caroline helped herself to a cup of tea from the pot on the table in front of her. “The loch will be full of midges.” James bit into a biscuit and spoke with his mouth full. “With any luck they’ll only bite the foreigners.” Millicent blinked at the man before turning back to Caroline. “How about photos at the loch? That way you can have loch, castle and church.” “Sounds great to me.” Caroline took a sip of her tea. “Josh, what do you think?” “Whatever you decide is fine.” He couldn’t have come across less interested if he’d tried. “Now, the gentlemen were talking about having a grey colour scheme.” Millicent was clearly horrified by the idea. “What do you think?” They all looked at Caroline, who was wearing yet another second-hand grey skirt suit. Although Caroline had never bothered with fashion, she was beginning to think she might have to wear some other colours. “No, I don’t want grey,” Caroline sighed. “I like lavender.” “Lavender it is,” Millicent said. “Any thoughts on flowers?” “Heather,” Caroline said. Archie threw up his hands in disgust. “You can get heather on the damn hill. Pick something he has to pay for. The man is a gazillionaire. What’s the point in marrying him if you can’t splash out?” Caroline looked at Josh. “What kind of flowers do you want?” Josh was munching his way through a giant bag of chips. “I really don’t care about flowers.” Caroline felt her blood pressure rise. “Do you care about the wedding at all?” “Of course I do.” “Well, what ideas do you have for it?” “Fine.” He pushed himself away from the counter and sauntered towards them. Caroline bit the inside of her cheek to stop from commenting. Everything the man did was so unhurried. It was beyond irritating. He pulled up a chair, swung it around, straddled it and leaned on the back with his forearms. He was so close Caroline could feel the heat coming off him. “Okay, this is what I think.” Josh spread his hands wide. “I’m thinking a couple of hundred of our closest friends, large dance floor, great band. I might sing, but we can get someone else in too. Lots of food. I want steak. Apart from that, I don’t care what colour the thing is or what type of flowers we have.” “So, you’re going to leave the details up to me?” “Isn’t this what women do?