Melissa Book Quotes

Life is too short to read books that I'm not enjoying.

She talked like a woman who knew more books than people.

My point is, it takes a special person to cry over a book. It shows compassion as well as imagination...Don't ever lose that

...I like to be around all these books. They’re very good at making you forget your troubles. It’s like having a million friends, wrapped in paper and scrawled in ink

I remembered less from my own life than I did from the books I read.

...she wasn't reading Deathly Hallows at all. Her book wasn't orange but rose and water and sand, and featured a kid on a broomstick and white unicorn. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. She didn't notice me staring at her. 'Oh, I envy you,' I thought, but was smiling for her. She had just begun.

And while they're being told, stories create the energy that makes this world go. They keep our stars in place. They make our grass grow.

if you’re not with the book you want, you might as well want the book you’re with.

Echo looked around at her sea of tomes, and a single word came to mind: tsundoku. It was the Japanese word for letting books pile up without reading them all.

She was fond of books. They were an escape from responsibilities,

You cannot force me to make my wishes now" She squared her shoulders and looked at him. "I've read texts.

Are all these books doors?' 'A book is always a door.

A promise, a bond, a joy, a love for the ages, for the history books.…But what was love but pain?

You might think it’s strange, but you get used to those karmic moments in the book business. Books want to be read, and by the right people. There’s nothing surprising in it, not to me.

Rufus didn’t pay any attention to the voice back then. At that time, he attributed the voice to his lack of confidence, causing him to doubt the durability of his friendship with Melissa. But as the years passed, the voice became louder in his head, and it seemed to be someone else’s. It didn’t sound like Rufus did when he spoke. And it didn’t think like he thought. The most crucial difference between Rufus and the voice was that it didn’t tell the truth because the truth was that only good things had happened to him since he’d met Melissa.

I've read Reverend Kirk, in fact. My uncle's library has quite a few books of your people. I have read Mr. Lang's fairy tales as well. (Katherine Rae O'Flaherty) "Books are not the same as reality," Devlin stared at her. "My world is not always kind to mortals.

I avoided my eyes while brushing my teeth, then climbed into bed with a copy of _The Blind Assassin_, because if you're not with the book you want, you might as well want the book you're with. --Melissa Albert, _The Hazel Wood_

It gives me pleasure to walk through a room full of books and know that one of them might be the next story I fall in love with.

Every time we left a place, I felt the things that happened there being wiped clean, till all that was left was Ella, our fights and our talks and our winding roads. I wrote down dates and places in the corners of my books, and lost them along the way.

Writing is a form of freedom more accessible than many and there are forces at work that would like to withhold it from those whose stories most threaten the regimes that govern this society. Fuck them. Write your life. Let this book be a totem of permission, encouragement, proof, whatever you need it to be.

it’s because you’re a different person, every time you re-read a book, and you learn things your earlier self wouldn’t have noticed or wouldn’t have cared about. Or sometimes it’s just because the story is an old favorite, and it’s a comforting reminder of good things.

You wanna know something," was Dad's refrain while we were growing up, "get a book." Of course,he predates Google, but it stuck with me.

Books had always felt like the cure to her loneliness, but lately she'd wondered whether they were the cause of it, too.

What if in every breakup, the dumper gets to live happily ever after, while the dumpee gets a lifetime membership in the Bitter Book Club?

Tomorrow I'd probably wake up to find my shoes talking to me. And let me tell you, the price I pay for shoes, they'd have one heck of an attitude.

books are passports to a deeper knowledge and understanding of the world

Books want to be read, and by the right people.

I had wanted Melissa to take an interest in me and I was't even sure I liked her. I didn't have the option not to take her seriously, because she had published a book, which proved that lots of other people took her seriously even if I didn't. At twenty-one, I had no achievements or possessions that proved I was a serious person.

Most parents send their children off to school with little bromides like "Have a great day! I can't wait to see you later!" or "Do your best at school today. We're having your favorite pizza for dinner tonight!" My mother would send me off with "Enjoy yourself. We could all be dead tomorrow.

A book is always a door.

tsundoku. It was the Japanese word for letting books pile up without reading them all.

Like her mother Lauren used to say, books were solid proof that ordinary people were capable of creating magic.

Half the shit I thought had happened to me happened in books. Or to Ella, in one of her stories about her early single-mom days, trying to make ends meet.

What does she (J. K. Rowling) hope people will take with them about this time? “When all the fuss and hoopla dies away, and when all the press commentary dies away, I think it will be seen that this phenomenon was generated, in the first instance, by kids loving a book. A book went on shelves, and a few people loved it. When all of the smoke and lights die away, that’s what you’ll be left with. “And that’s the most wonderful thought for an author.

I used to think that happiness, like God, was an idea weaker people were sold on, to manage the grief of a world with so much suffering. It is just easier, I thought, to decide that you are doing something wrong and you just need to buy the right thing, read the right book, find the right guru, or pray more to be happy than to accept that life is a great long heartbreak. Happiness is not what I imagined that mirage to be: an unending ecstasy or state of perpetual excitement. Not a high or a mirage, it is just being okay. My happiness is the absence of fear that there won't be enough -- enough money, enough power, enough security, enough of a cushion of these things to protect me from the everyday heartbreaks of being human. Heartbreak doesn't kill you. It changes you.

Sometimes,” the Ala said, “when I’m feeling sad, I like to be around all these books. They’re very good at making you forget your troubles. It’s like having a million friends, wrapped in paper and scrawled in ink.

But what’s both uncomfortable and damaging is reaffirming the story that someone else’s feelings are more important or worthy than your own—which is what you do every time you swallow your healthy boundary in an effort to keep the peace.

No one talks about it. No one talks about them at all. “The Ancients prefer discretion,” Mom once told me. But some say it’s because they’re so freakish we’d drop dead of fright. Others say they’re too attractive, too tempting. I prefer this theory.

I was spinning—from the kiss, the alcohol or the lack of air, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I needed to pull away if only just to breath.

My love runs deep, strong and pure. If only it was your love, instead of this disease. I could die knowing, there was no cure.

It is unfair that life doesn’t come with a rewind button; an undo button that can reset time after you make a terrible mistake.

Open communication is one of the key foundations to a good relationship. 

A boundary doesn’t tell someone else what to do, it tells them what you will do.

People reacting this badly to your boundaries means you’re revoking a privilege they were never meant to have.

Self-boundaries are a gift from Present You to Future You, and if that gift isn’t what Future You needs, exchange it for something better.

We can choose to be offended by things that actually are meant for our ultimate good, or we can learn from them and allow them to benefit us.

The dream I’d been living in for the past hours was fading away. I could remember everything I’d done, but it felt flat as a picture book.

Hey, Melissa-is there anything I should know about having this kid that isn't in the books I've been reading?" Sunlight streamed through the window, making the golden, hormone-induced mutton chops glisten upon my cheeks. As I waited for her answer, I thumbed through the glossy parenting magazines on her kitchen table. A candle flickered by the sink, adding sweetness to the spit-up scented air that was gutting punched in the face by a diaper change...

I page through the book, my heart thumping in my chest as I’m brought back to him, to Mayson Holt, the boy who stole my heart, broke it and disappeared from my life five years ago. The man who I do not allow myself to think about. The man who still owns a very large piece of my soul.

Remember that the next time you’re tempted to feel guilty for setting a boundary at work—you’re a true team player because you’re helping to create a workplace culture in which everyone thrives.

I spent hours millin’ about the library, readin’ the backs of so many books I couldn’t keep track. I loved to sit between the rows of shelves, pullin’ book after book into my lap, and takin’ my time nosin’ through ‘em, lookin’ for the one that held voices that called out to me in a way I couldn’t turn away from.

Sometimes,' the Ala said, 'when I'm feeling sad, I like to be around all these books. They're very good at making you forget your troubles. It's like having a million friends, wrapped in paper and scrawled in ink.

I pushed Ezra back for a second. He had taken the make out session up a notch upon Logan’s arrival. I knew what he was doing, it was ticking me off. I wasn’t just some territory he could mark. "Hike a leg and pee on me, why don’t you?" Logan snorted and practically choked on his coffee. - RUHK'S RISING; Phoenix Elite Book 2

Transforming my secrets into art has transformed me. I believe that stories like these have the power to transform the world. That is the point of literature, or at least that's what I tell my students. We are writing the history that we could not find in any other book. We are telling the stories that no one else can tell, and we are giving this proof of our survival to each other. What I mean is, tell me about your navel. Tell me about your rape. Tell me about your mad love affair, how you forgot and then remembered yourself. Tell me about your hands, the things they have done and held and hit and let go. Tell me about your drunk father and your friend who died.

Andy: Andrew Makepeace Ladd, the Third, accepts with pleasure the kind invitation of Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Channing Gardner for a birthday party in honor of their daughter Melissa on April 19th, 1937 at half past three o'clock. Melissa: Dear Andy: Thank you for the birthday present. I have a lot of Oz books, but not 'The Lost Princess of Oz.' What made you give me that one? Sincerely yours, Melissa. Andy: I'm answering your letter about the book. When you came into second grade with that stuck-up nurse, you looked like a lost princess. Melissa: I don't believe what you wrote. I think my mother told your mother to get that book. I like the pictures more than the words. Now let's stop writing letters.

I don’t see love as some perfect happily ever after thing like it is in books and movies. It’s more like a bumpy road filled with potholes…and detours. Sometimes we even veer off into the ditch. But the places that road will take you, the things you’ll experience, are worth all of the uncertainty.

Her seven-year-old self had decided that stealing books was morally bankrupt, but since the books hadn’t actually left the library—they’d merely been relocated—it wasn’t technically stealing. Echo looked around at her sea of tomes, and a single word came to mind: Tsundoku. It was the Japanese word for letting books pile up without reading them all.

You will never be alone or broken again if I can help it.

Hugh's veiled threat, circled in her mind. She shook her head as if she could erase the thought like shaking an Etch-a-Sketch dissolved whatever had been drawn there

I don't trust him, but even people who lie sometimes tell the truth

People show you what they want you to see

Her father had loved books as much as her mother had despised them

There’s nothing ugly about you. Ugly things happened to you, but everything about you is beautiful.

I won't let ignorance murder the people I love.

I could practically hear the unspoken ‘good girl’ accompanied by a pat and scratch behind my ears like I was his obedient pet.

I threw my hand over my mouth and blurted out the first best excuse I could come up with, “Morning breath!

My fingers itched to touch, my lips begged to taste and my body buzzed with a frenzied energy, but my mind screamed to move far away from him fast.

Sometimes it takes a little madness to fulfill great things.

We must be our own before we can be another’s.

She couldn’t imagine how anyone would want to forego the intimate experience of a book—pages whispering between the fingers, hurried glances at the colorful cover before immersing oneself again.

Spider or gum? Spider or gum? I thought quickly trying to come up with a believable excuse when I blurted out, “I swallowed a spider!” What? I swallowed a spider? What the hell is wrong with me?!

My life wasn’t glamorous, or exciting, or even overly social, but it was mine. Comfortable. I read my books, fed my cats, went to work, and enjoyed my quiet evenings at home. As a bonus, I have you and a few friends to keep me company. That’s what I need again. This love stuff?” I lifted a shoulder. “Let’s leave it for the romance novels. There’s a reason they live in the fiction section.

I like your hair," he said quietly, "but I think you'd look good whatever you did with it." Here's the thing.He looked like he meant it, and like it had been the most natural thing in the world to say. I blinked at him. "Okay," I said. "You want to know something about me that I don't really want to tell you? How about this. I dont get it.This.I hate that I don't. I wish I were the kind of girl who took guys like you as my sovereign right in life. But I don't." "Yeah,I've sorta figured that out,too." He let go of my hair and put his hand on my waist, so his thumb was against my skin. I shivered. "Here's my first reveal for the night. One day, not so long ago, I'm just sitting in the dining room, digesting, minding my own business-literally. Trying to decide whether the second hamburger had been such a good idea and whether to break up with my girlfriend of a year and a half. Then I try to stand up, and suddenly there's this really pretty girl doubled over and looking at my book like it was covered with crap-" "I wasn't." "Yeah.You were. So there you were, with that amazing face and a yard of hair that smelled like flowers, and all this stuff drawn on your jeans. I really liked that." "You liked my jeans." "Among other things.But, jeez, Ella. After that, if you weren't making me feel like I had the IQ of a stone, your friends were looking at me like I'd crawled out from under one. I won't even go into what you obviously think of my friends." "Chase Vere is a reptile.

Habits are built on consistency, and you build consistency by showing up again and again. It’s not about the actual workout, how many shirts you hang up, or what you do after you turn off Netflix; the point is, you went to the gym, made it to the bedroom for tidying, and turned off the TV. If you just keep showing up, it will feel far more natural and effortless to do more—get into the workout, fold the rest of the laundry, or prep your lunch for the next day. Chase consistency.

It becomes too easy to have something divide a family, and before long a little crack becomes an insurmountable chasm. It comes right back to what we talked about earlier. The truth. If you let the truth be your compass, that's all that matters

The goal is for your children to feel as if they can come to you without fear or disappointment, anger, or judgment. That means both of you have to make the shift and it starts with you- you have t make the effort to see them in a new light so they see themselves in that light too.

I’ll emphasize this here because women have been conditioned to see selflessness as a virtue, and to require a damn good reason (and often approval) to ask for anything for ourselves. It can feel deeply uncomfortable to state our boundary and let it stand without overexplaining, making excuses, or justifying our desires—so that is exactly what I’m asking you to practice, as a means of reminding yourself that you are worthy of having and meeting your own needs. Every time I acknowledge and honor my own needs without asking for “permission” first, I think of it as giving a quiet middle finger to the patriarchy.

The book was sandwiched firmly between Analytic Keys to the Genera and Species of North American Mosses, and the Complete English-Russian Dictionary by A. Alexandrow, which had me actually speculating on just what terrible crimes I might have committed against love and peace in a former life to have earned myself this one.

For Pippin Lane Hawthorne, being in her father's secret study was akin to wrapping herself up in a cashmere blanket on a chilly afternoon. It had become her safe place. It was the room in the big, rambling house where she could forget everything and everyone. Where she could focus on the Lane family curse, picking up where her father, Leo, had left off

A wealth of nuances, family expectations, words, and laughter. So many stories that are by themselves unremarkable, but together are meaningful and the story of our lives so far. And yes, there are more to come, but not the same kind of stories-in the same house with the same dynamic- with each of us in our set role before we make the big shift to the future us.

Boundaries help you perform your best when you’re on the clock, and they help you recharge effectively when you’re not. They improve your mental and physical health; create a culture of respect and trust; keep morale, motivation, and loyalty high; and prevent good employees (like you) from burning out—because burnout is very, very real even if you’re doing a job you love. When employees are feeling energized, respected, and valued, it has a positive impact on their productivity, creativity, and the results they achieve for the business. Remember that the next time you’re tempted to feel guilty for setting a boundary at work—you’re a true team player because you’re helping to create a workplace culture in which everyone thrives.

The next book I read was a novel, described as the tale of a woman “unraveling” after the death of her wife. All I could think was, Who unravels this neatly? There was no mention of fear. Zero messes or catharses. If a feeling did surface, it was an elegant dribble, pristine, assonant. Was this really the inside of a person’s head? I’ve been more unraveled by a yeast infection.

Whatever you want," he said. "Will you please come here now?" I slipped a piece of protective tissue over my drawing and flipped the book closed. A piece of blue scratch paper slid out, the line I'd copied from Edward;s poetry book. "Hey. Translate for me, Monsieur Bainbridge." I set the sketchbook on my stool and joined him on the chaise. He tugged me onto his lap and read over his head. "'Qu'ieu sui avinen, leu lo sai.' 'That I am handsome, I know." "Verry funny." "Very true." He grinned. "The translation. That's what it says. Old-fashionedly." I thought of Edward's notation on the page, the reminder to read the poem to Diana in bed, and rolled my eyes. You're so vain.I bet you think this song is about you..."Boy and their egos." Alex cupped my face in his hands. "Que tu est belle, tu le sais." "Oh,I am not-" "Shh," he shushed me, and leaned in. The first bell came way too soon. I reluctantly loosened my grip on his shirt and ran my hands over my hair. He prompty thrust both hands in and messed it up again. "Stop," I scolded, but without much force. "I have physics," he told me. "We're studying weak interaction." I sandwiched his open hand between mine. "You know absolutely nothing about that." "Don't be so quick to accept the obvious," he mock-scolded me. "Weak interaction can actually change the flavor of quarks." The flavor of quirks, I thought, and vaguely remembered something about being charmed. I'd sat through a term of introductory physics before switching to basic biology. I'd forgotten most of that as soon as I'd been tested on it,too. "I gotta go." Alex pushed me to my feet and followed. "Last person to get to class always gets the first question, and I didn't do the reading." "Go," I told him. "I have history. By definition, we get to history late." "Ha-ha. I'll talk to you later." He kissed me again, then walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

I have something to show you." He sank down next to me and handed me a sketchbook. I opened it. And saw the mermaid. She was drawn in colored ink, exquisitely detailed; each scale had a little picture in it: a pyramid, a rocket, a peacock, a lamp. Her torso was patterened red, like a tattoo, like coral. She had a thin strand of seaweed around her neck, with a starfish holding on to the center. Her hair was a tumble of loose black curls. She had my face. I turned the page.And another and another. There she was fighting a creature that was half human, half octopus. Exploring a cave. Riding a shark. Laughing and petting a stingray that rested on her lap. "I'm calling her Cora Lia for the moment," Alex told me. "I thought about Corella, but it sounded like cheap dishware." "She's...amazing." "She's fierce. Fighting the Evil Sea-Dragon King and his minions." I traced the red tattoo on her chest. "This is beautiful." Alex reached into my sweater, pulled the loose neck of the T-shirt away from my shoulder. I didn't stop him. "It looks like coral to me." He touched me, then,the pad of his thumb tracing the outline of the scar. It felt strange, partly because of the difference in the tissue, but more because in the last few years, the only hands that had touched me there were mine. I set the book aside carefully. "Guess I don't see what you do." "That's too bad, because I see you perfectly." I curved myself into him. "Maybe you're exactly what I need." "Like there's any doubt?" He buried his face in my neck.I didn't stop him. "So." "So?" "We'll kill a few hours, watch the sunrise, have pancakes, and you'll drive home." "What?" I felt him smile against my skin. "I got you swimming with sharks. Next on the Conquer Your Fears list is driving a stick shift.Right?" "One thing at a time," I said. Then, "Oh. Do that again." In another story, the intrepid heroine would have gone running out and splashed in the surf, hypothermia be damned. She would have driven the Mustang home, booked a haircut, taken up stand-up comedy, and danced on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. But this was me, and I was moving at my own pace. Truth: My story started a hundred years ago. There's time.

Then I got my hands on Althea’s book. And it was perfect. There are no lessons in it. There’s just this harsh, horrible world touched with beautiful magic, where shitty things happen. And they don’t happen for a reason, or in threes, or in a way that looks like justice. They’re set in a place that has no rules and doesn’t want any. And the author’s voice—your grandmother’s voice—is perfectly pitiless. She’s like a war reporter who doesn’t give a fuck.

The biggest is family- unless they are certifiable or criminals, try to keep your kids connected to their cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, whatever you've got, even if it means sacrificing vacations and that new fridge. And visit each other in good times and bad. It teaches your kids more than you can imagine about love and loyalty, and means they will not always have a place to celebrate and someone to celebrate with, but a net to catch them if they fall.

Pippin marveled at the vastness of the collection. How many stories did the pages of all these books hold? But not only that, what stories did the books themselves tell? Who had held these volumes? Who had loved them, hidden under a sheet, flashlight in hand, to read them into the wee hours of the morning, or screeched from a shocking twist? Imaginary people came to life through the words on the page. Book boyfriends, best friends, worlds in which people wanted to live

Oh,for God's sake." Frankie rolled his eyes under his green porkpie hat. The color perfectly matched the VINCE stitched onto the pocket of his brown bowling shirt. Frankie is all about vintage chic. "Give me the book.I'll throw it at him." Frankie's daring. He's also conversant in postmodern art and tells me he loves me on a regular basis. He does lie like a rug,but only to people he doesn't care about, like the gym teacher. "Badminton?" he gasped once, early in our friendship, when I assumed I'd found a gym partner (him) who would actually talk to me. "And risk this nose?" It's a good nose. In a really, really good face.

I hadn't wanted to explain the lipstick. Or the mascara. Or the skinny jeans I'd snagged from Sienna's laundrey and washed under cover of darkness and paired with a black turtleneck that a jaunt through the dryer had made, to ne honest, a size too small. But this news about the Willing Archive trumped all of that. He gave me a careful once-over. "Well." I sat down next to him, aiming for casual. I should have aimed my butt. I sat on his geometry book. "Well what?" "Don't even.The day you become a good liar is the day I leave you for one of the Hannandas." "I have an appointment at the Willing Archive." I will say this for Frankie: He pays attention. "The utterly-off-limits, place-to-bury-your-face-in-Edward's-old-knickers archive?" "Nice.But yes,that one.Mrs. Evers got me in." "About time someone did." He bumped a shoulder against mine. "I really do hate to burst your bubble, Fiorella, but Edward is a century past appreciating the sight of you in tight jeans. So tell me whassup." I squirmed a little. "What sort of idiot do you think I am?" He sighed. "You look good, but I am concerned about the inspiration." "It's not a big deal. It's some makeup." "When I want a boy to look ta me, it's a day that ends in y. You, it's something else. It's a big deal.

Like what? What else have you found in a book?" "Well..." he looked around, like the walls might have ears and reopened the cigar box, faced it towards him so I couldn't see the contents. "Things like this." He showed me a pressed blue flower as big as my fist, it's stamens flattened in all directions like a firework display. A cookie fortune that read simply 'woe betide you'. A neatly clipped page of personal ads dated September 1, 1970 from a paper called the East Village Chronicler. "Funny stuff right?" It was. I liked it. The thought that you could find harmless, interesting things tucked inside books. A reminder that the world contained mysteries.

I wove my way between the tables, pulling my hair forward over my shoulders as I went.Alex was still sitting when I reached him. "Hey.This was on the floor in the upstairs hall..." I stood behind his chair.Completely frozen. I might have stood there for a very long time if he hadn't pushed himself away from the table to get up. The chair thumped me in the stomach first, then in the knees.I think I made a noise. I dropped his book. "Oh.Oh,crap.I'm really sorry!" Alex jerked the chair out of the way and bent down a little. He had to, to see my face. "You okay?" I did manage to nod. "Seriously.I must have really pounded you there.You sure you're all right?" "Yes,fine," I whispered. Across the table, Chase Vere laughed. "Dude, she was,like, standing right behind you.

Sunlight penetrated the darkness behind my eyelids.  I no longer sprawled sideways on the bed on top the comforter but underneath it, snugly tucked in.  Clay sat up in the space next to me, pillows stacked behind him as he read a book.  His posture didn’t fool me.  He really sat there to watch over me while I slept.  I knew with an unexplainable certainty that he would never leave me again. “Good morning,” I said, pulling the covers up to my chin.  Thanks to Rachel-the-heat-miser, the room felt cool, but I enjoyed lower rent. Clay closed his book as soon as I woke and turned to examine me. “I want to talk to you but keep falling asleep.  If I do it again, wake me up.”  I smiled at him when he pulled me close to snuggle against him.  It was much warmer that way. “During

It hit me,then,while he stared down at me with a slight frown.I was standing almost chest to chest with Alex Bainbridge in a very small space. I backed up a step and bumped into the toilet. "I should go," I said, a little shakily. "I should go home." "Right." Always polite, he let me walk out first. "Next week....Next week, we can have our tutoring session in here. We'll discuss art. Or bathroom fixtures. You can sit up there"- he pointed to the counter- "next to the Willing." Now,out of the bathroom, and a few feet away from him, I could laugh- "Okay. Before you start to think that I am obsessive and insane, there has to be something,the sight of something, that would make you go all goofy." He didn't miss a beat. "Mademoiselle Winslow in a tutu. No..." He looked a little goofy when he said, "Spider-Man versus Doctor Octopus. July 1963." "That's a comic book, right?" He sighed. "Oh,Ella." Then, "Come on. I'll drive you home." "You don't have to-" "Yeah,I do.

Well,that all worked out nicely," Edward said from my hand. "Yup." I sat down and propped the postcard upright against my books. "Thanks." "Whatever for?" "Being real,I guess. I'm pretty sure this paper about your life will get me into NYU.Which,when you think about it, is a pretty great gift from a guy I've never met who's been dead for a hundred years." Edward smiled. It was nice to see. "My pleasure,darling girl. I must say, I like this spark of confidence in you." "About time,huh?" "Yes,well.Have you forgiven the Bainbridge boy?" "For...?" "For hiding you." "He wasn't.I was hiding me." I gave Edward a look before he could gloat. "Yeah,yeah. You've always been very wise. But this isn't really about my forgiving Alex,is it?" He had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "I suppose not. So?" "So.I think you were a good guy, Edward. I think you probably would have told everyone exactly how you felt about Marina of you could have.If she hadn't been married, maybe, or if you'd lived longer. I think maybe all the pictures of you did of her were your public delcaration. Whaddya think? Can I write that? Is it the truth?" "Oh,Ella." His face was sad again, just the way he'd cast it in bronze. But it was kinda bittersweet now, not as heartbroken. "I would give my right arm to be able to answer that for you.You know I would." "You don't have a right arm,Mr. Willing. Left,either." I picked up the card again. "Fuhgeddaboudit," I said to it. "I got this one covered." I tucked my Ravaged Man inside Collected Works. It would be there if I wanted it.Who knows. Maybe Edward Willing will come back into fashion someday,and maybe I'll fall for him all over again. In the meantime, I had another guy to deal with.I sat down in front of my computer.It took me thirty seconds to write the e-mail to Alex. Then it took a couple of hours-some staring, some pacing,an endless rehearsal dinner at Ralph's, and a TiVo'd Christmas special produced by Simon Cowell and Nigel Lythgoe with Nonna and popcorn-for me to hit Send.

Hey,Alex." I composed the words in my head. "I have your book..." D'oh.I would be standing there, holding his book. "Alex.Thought you might want to have this back." Nope.Sounded like I'd taken it, which would be bizarre, or that he'd given it to me, which would be ludicrous. "Hey.This was on the floor in the upstairs hall, and I figured you probably didn't know where it was." Truth is always good. He would look blank for a sec (he probably had no idea he'd dropped it; European history was first period ), then smile gratefully, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, that mouth turning up in that unbelievably cute way. "Wow.Thanks,Ella! I didn't even know I'd dropped it." See? And I would hand it over-if our fingers brushed, no complaints-and say, "I saw the stuff inside.It's really..." "El.Ella." Sadie bumped me with her button again. "Coming?" "Hmm?" "Where were you? Oh, yeah..." She followed my slightly unfocused gaze and nodded. On her other side, Frankie snorted. She elbowed him.No button on the other sleeve.

Thanks for the ride.It was really nice of you." "No worrie. Since I'm down here, maybe I'll swing by Geno's for a cheesesteak." He shook his head. "You saw what was in my fridge." "I did. Alex..." I could ask. It would be so easy. A pizza,some of Nonna's fettuccine... "I had a good time," I told him. Coward, I scolded myself. "I didn't expect to." "Yeah,well,you can't beat a good raptor attack. Next time before we get started, I'll show you my French comic book collection..." He wiggled his eyebrows at me in perv fashion. "Then we'll work." "Okay," I agreed. "Sounds good." I started up the sidewalk. Instead of going home,I'd decided to go over to Marino's. Offer to peel garlic or something.Dad would appreciate it. "Hey,Ella." I turned. "Yeah?" "I'll see you tomorrow." I must have looked blank. "At the dance," he added. "Oh.Yeah.See you tomorrow." I turned back toward the restaurant. "Hey,Ella." "Yeah?" "J'ai passe un tres bon moment, aussi." When I just stared at him again, he snorted. "Work it out." I did,but not before he'd driven away. He'd had a really good time,too.

I'm sorry I looked. Or saw, I guess. I didn't go digging through your book. The pages fell out." "Yeah. I kinda figured that might have been what happened." He scuffed one heel against the cement. "The book fell out of my bag again...and,well..." And,well, there he was,forgiven. "Zippers," I said. "One of mankind's better inventions. Your bag has one; I've seen it." "You see much, Grasshopper." I blinked at him. "C'mon. Kung Fu?" He let go of his knees and sliced both hands through the air in a choppy spiral. "Shaolin monk fighting against injustice while searching for his long-lost brother in the Old West?" I shook my head. "Nope.Sorry."" "Sad. I bet you wouldn't recognize 'Live long and prosper,' either." "Nope." "How did I know? My dad got me into seventies TV.It's awfully brilliant. Or brilliantly awful, maybe." He had relaxed and was looking monumentally pleased with seventies television or himself or something. You're awfully beautiful, Alex Bainbridge. I managed to keep that one to myself,but... "You're really good." That one got away from me. "Your drawing, I mean.

Pretty,eh?" I jumped a foot. "Nonna!" She was standing in my doorway, beaming like a demented gnome. "For your underwater dance." "It looks like....a toga." "Toga," she sniffed as she stalked across the room to lift the dress from its hanger, "is for boys at silly parties. This is for a goddess." She held it up to me. "You will be Salacia, Roman goddess of water." It still looked like a toga, and not a very big one, although it did almost reach the floor. My legs would be covered, which was all well and good, except that, other than going a little too long without defuzzing, I didn't have much of a problem with my legs. I did know this wasn't going to work. I just had no idea at the moment how I was going to make it not happen. "This is awfully...pagan of you, Nonna." She rolled her eyes. "Ai, sixteen, with the smart mouth and such certainty. You think I just read the Bible? A goddess, she has more fun than a saint." "Nonna!" "Ah!" She poked me in the center of the chest with her middle finger. "Fun, si, but a bad end if she thinks to hold the heart of a boy who wants only to play. Salacia, she let Neptune chase her and chase her and prove his heart was true." I didn't argue. My grasp of Greco-Roman mythology is shaky at best, and derived mostly from the Percy Jackson books. I had my doubts about Neptune's heart, but figured it would only be smart-assy to mention that to my grandmother.

Are his letters to Diana downstairs?" She sighed. "What is it about girls and letters? My husband left me messages in soap on the bathroom mirror. Utterly impermanent.Really wonderful-" She broke off and scowled. I would have thought she looked a little embarrassed, but I didn't think embarrassment was in her repertoire. "Anyway. Most of the correspondence between the Willings is in private collections. He had their letters with him in Paris when he died. In a noble but ultimately misguided act, his attorney sent them to his neice. Who put them all in a ghastly book that she illustrated. Her son sold them to finance the publication of six even more ghastly books of poetry. I trust there is a circle of hell for terrible poets who desecrate art." "I've seen the poetry books in the library," I told her. "The ones with Edward's paintings on the covers. I couldn't bring myself to read them." "Smart girl. I suppose worse things have been done, but not many.Of course, there was that god-awful children's television show that made one of his landscapes move.They put kangaroos in it. Kangaroos. In eastern Pennsylvania." "I've seen that,too," I admitted. I'd hated it. "Hated it.Not quite as much as the still life where Tastykakes replaced one orange with a cupcake, or the portrait of Diana dressed in a Playtex sports bra, but close." "Oh,God. I try to forget about the bra." Dr. Rothaus shuddered. "Well, I suppose they do far worse to the really famous painters.Poor van Gogh. All those hearing-aid ads." "Yeah." We shared a moment of quiet respect for van Gogh's ear.

Recipe for a Perfect Wife, the Novel INGREDIENTS 3 cups editors extraordinaire: Maya Ziv, Lara Hinchberger, Helen Smith 2 cups agent-I-couldn’t-do-this-without: Carolyn Forde (and the Transatlantic Literary Agency) 1½ cup highly skilled publishing teams: Dutton US, Penguin Random House Canada (Viking) 1 cup PR and marketing wizards: Kathleen Carter (Kathleen Carter Communications), Ruta Liormonas, Elina Vaysbeyn, Maria Whelan, Claire Zaya 1 cup women of writing coven: Marissa Stapley, Jennifer Robson, Kate Hilton, Chantel Guertin, Kerry Clare, Liz Renzetti ½ cup author-friends-who-keep-me-sane: Mary Kubica, Taylor Jenkins Reid, Amy E. Reichert, Colleen Oakley, Rachel Goodman, Hannah Mary McKinnon, Rosey Lim ½ cup friends-with-talents-I-do-not-have: Dr. Kendra Newell, Claire Tansey ¼ cup original creators of the Karma Brown Fan Club: my family and friends, including my late grandmother Miriam Christie, who inspired Miriam Claussen; my mom, who is a spectacular cook and mother; and my dad, for being the wonderful feminist he is 1 tablespoon of the inner circle: Adam and Addison, the loves of my life ½ tablespoon book bloggers, bookstagrammers, authors, and readers: including Andrea Katz, Jenny O’Regan, Pamela Klinger-Horn, Melissa Amster, Susan Peterson, Kristy Barrett, Lisa Steinke, Liz Fenton 1 teaspoon vintage cookbooks: particularly the Purity Cookbook, for the spark of inspiration 1 teaspoon loyal Labradoodle: Fred Licorice Brown, furry writing companion Dash of Google: so I could visit the 1950s without a time machine METHOD: Combine all ingredients into a Scrivener file, making sure to hit Save after each addition.