Papa Best Quotes

oh child", spoke papa tenderly."Don't ever discount the wonder of your tears.They can be healing waters and a stream of joy.Sometimes they are the best words the heart can speak.

I don’t believe in honors, it bothers me, honors bother, honors is epaulettes, honors is uniforms. My papa brought me up this way. I can’t stand it, it hurts me.

What I can't understand is why the silly things you say makes so much sense." "I'll tell you why," said Papa Dima. "It's because the best idea is the idea you least expect. And the unexpected always seems silly at first.

But, Papa, the endings are the best part. Sometimes, sweetheart. But other times, the beginnings are.

As the carriage rolled under the Institute’s gates, James saw his parents standing in the courtyard. “And where have you been?” Will demanded as James clambered out of the carriage. The others leaped down behind him, the girls, being in gear, needing no help to dismount. “You stole our carriage.” James wished he could tell his father the truth, but that would be breaking their sworn promise to Ragnor. “It’s only the second-best carriage,” James protested. “Remember when Papa stole Uncle Gabriel’s carriage? It’s a proud family tradition,” said Lucie, as the group of them approached the Institute steps. “I did not raise you to be horse thieves and scallywags,” said Will. “And I recall very clearly that I told you—” “Thank you for letting them borrow the carriage to come and get me,” said Cordelia. Her eyes were wide, and she looked entirely innocent. James felt an amused stab of surprise: she was an interestingly skilful liar. “I had very much wanted to come to the Institute and see what I could do to help.” Will softened immediately. “Of course. You are always welcome here, Cordelia.

In hun huis waren er dingen die je nooit mocht zeggen, en dingen die je wel tegen papa maar niet tegen mama mocht zeggen en omgekeerd. Zwijgen was dus altijd het zekerste. En kleine signalen leren lezen.

Lastly, the Hubermanns. Hans. Papa. He was tall in the bed and I could see the silver through his eyelids. His soul sat up. It met me. Those kind of souls always do--the best ones. The ones who rise up and say, "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that i want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light becausre more of them have been put out............ Lisel. His soul whispered it as I carried him.

An unreasoning tender love, of the kind sometimes engendered by Papa’s best French champagne or the melancholy cooing of pigeons on a Spring afternoon, filled her heart to overflowing. A love that included Marion, waiting with a flinty smile for Miranda to have done with Edith’s nonsense. Tears sprang to her eyes, but not of sorrow. She had no desire to weep. Only to love, and shaking out her ringlets she got up off the rock where she had been lying in the shade and began to dance.

People are always thinking they can use the Lord to get their own way-- all they have to do is pray and God's gonna take away all their suffering and give them what they whatever they ask for. But it don't work that way. God's doing His business, and it's up to us to be serving Him, not the other way around." Then why do people pray at all? My papa asked Jesus to help him escape with me when I was just a little girl. But Jesus didn't help us." Praying ain't about asking for your own way. It's all about talking things over with God, just like you and me are talking things over. In the end, you have to be trusting the Lord to do what's best." So the Lord thought it was best that my papa died and my mama was sold?" Delia slowly shook her head. "I don't know, honey, I just don't know. The hardest thing of all to understand is why a loving God keeps letting us suffer... I don't know all the answers myself. I seen my share of suffering, believe me. But there two things I do know for sure. One is that God loves us... And the second thing is that God's always in control of everything that happens. When bad things come our way and it starts looking like He don't love us, all I can say is that maybe we ain't knowing everything He knows." Kitty's tears started falling again. "I still don't understand." Remember what you told me about the fighting up in Charleston? How you was standing on that porch, not able to see what's going on? This here's the same thing. We're standing in the smoke, hearing the noise [of the battle] all around us, and we don't know what God's doing because we can't see things clearly as He sees them. But He's gonna make everything turn our okay when the smoke clears. When it does, God's gonna be the winner and all our suffering here on earth is gonna finall make sense. We're gonna look in Jesus' face and say, 'O Lord, it was worth it all.

Whenever they had a break, to eat or drink, he would play the accordion, and it was this that Liesel remembered best. Each morning, while Papa pushed or dragged the paint cart, Liesel carried the instrument. "Better that we leave the paint behind," Hans told her, "than ever forget the music.

Sometimes she sat against the wall, longing for the warm finger of paint to wander just once more down the side of her nose, or to watch the sandpaper texture of her papa’s hands. If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter and bread with only the scent of jam spread out on top of it. It was the best time of her life.

[...] “What were you going to do if he’d refused ?” Jaenelle looked at him and smiled. Butterflies filled his stomach and tickled unmercifully before turning into heavy, sinking stones. “Well,” his darling said, “you have a wonderful deep voice too. So if Papa refused, I was going to ask you.” Saetan walked into the sitting room where he’d asked Geoffrey and Draca, the Keep’s Seneschal, to meet him. “My friends, this bottle of wine arrived this evening, compliments of Prince Sadi. Since it came from the wine cellar at the Hall, I can assure you it is a very fine vintage, one best enjoyed when shared.” He called in three glasses and opened the wine. Draca said nothing until he handed her a glass. “What iss the occassion ?” Saetan grinned. “My son has just realized how much his father loves him.

It was Papa," Marian interrupted quietly, glancing up at her aunt. "He looked directly at me,not a foot away from me.It was Papa." Kathleen sighed. "Well,I can't say I'm delighted to hear it.The best thing Mortimer ever did for you gals was to die. So he couldn't even do that right?

Love is a pest and papa knows the best.

I turned around and there he was, Edward Curtis Baldwin. My best friend's father. My Sweet Pea's Papa. And my heart's true desire. I had loved this man for the better part of my adult life.

I was alone alright. And life surely had been a hard trial for me, so far. From the time mama and Katie fell sick, life had been one misery after another. But here I was. Still with breath in my lungs. And blood in my veins. And memories and voices in my heart. Good ones. And life was going on, all around me. With or without me, it was going on. It weren't a matter of the whole thing stopping or the whole thing going on. The whole thing was going on. It was only a matter of me standing up and deciding what part I had to play in it all. I could be the quitting kind. Or not. I could be the kind of man my mama and papa had raised, or not. I rose to my feet and did the best I could to scrape the worst of the mud off my coat and pants. "Sarah's going to be somebody's horse," I said to myself. "And I'm sure as hell gonna make sure she's mine.

Dear Papa, it seemed, had not left his family in affluent circumstances; but he had certainly endowed them with good looks, a commodity in which they had been bred from earliest youth to trade to the best advantage.

In mid-February, when she turned ten, Liesel was given a used doll that had a missing leg and yellow hair. “It was the best we could do,” Papa apologized. “What are you talking about? She’s lucky to have that much,” Mama corrected him.

But our home has never been anything but a playroom. I've been your doll-wife, just as I used to be papa's doll-child. And the children have been my dolls. I used to think it was fun when you came in and played with me, just as they think it's fun when I go in and play games with them. That's all our marriage has been, Torvald.

Toward the end of 1939, Liesel had settled into life in Molching pretty well. She still had nightmares about her brother and missed her mother, but there were comforts now, too. She loved her papa, Hans Hubermann, and even her foster mother, despite the abusages and verbal assaults. She loved and hated her best friend, Rudy Steiner, which was perfectly normal. And she loved the fact that despite her failure in the classroom, her reading and writing were definitely improving and would soon be on the verge of something respectable. All of this resulted in at least some form of contentment and would soon be built upon to approach the concept of Being Happy." (Page 49).

He was very tall," Francesca began. "Not so tall," Eloise said. "Benedict is taller." Francesca ignored her. "He was tall. And he smiled a great deal." "He held us on his shoulders," Daphne said, her voice starting to wobble, "until we grew too large." "And he laughed," Eloise said. "He loved to laugh. He had the very best laugh, our papa...

Sometimes she sat against the wall, longing for the warm finger of paint to wander just once more down the side of her nose, or to watch the sandpaper texture of her papa’s hands. If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter and bread with only the scent of jam spread out on top of it. It was the best time of her life.

When I walk the path between the gardens everyone is there, Mama and Papa, the aunts, Caleb and Jack. Aunt Harriet plays the flute-- But the best thing of all is that Grandfather is there waiting for me, smiling. He gives my dog husband a bone. “Be good to Cassie,” he says. “Oui,” says Nick. I am astonished. I have never heard Nick speak French words. “You speak French!” I cry. “I retrieve, too,” says my dog husband.

John, watching in dismay, saw his great chance slipping through his fingers, and he swung around to demand of his father, “Papa, does this mean Richard has bested you and Aquitaine is lost?” Eleanor winced, Geoffrey rolled his eyes, and Henry gave his youngest a look John had never gotten from him before. “My life would have been much more peaceful if I’d had only daughters,” he snapped. “As for Aquitaine, it is yours if you can take it.

You’re too good to carry hate in your heart, Mia, and that’s one of your best qualities and one that I’m the most grateful for. If you didn’t forgive me… if you didn’t give me a chance, then I wouldn’t know how big a heart lives inside you. I wouldn’t know my daughter. I wouldn’t know the amazing woman your papa raised you to be.” He looked down then, his lips pulled into to a frown. “People can change. And I hope that you see me as proof of that.

Miss Kinsley regarded him with the look of disgust girls reserved for snails and frogs. “Any man who would suggest to a young woman that she should elope rather than listen to her papa’s advice can only be up to no good.” “Elope?” Oliver queried, his eyes narrowing on Miss Kinsley. “This scoundrel proposed marriage to you?” “Now, Miss Kinsley,” Nathan began in his best placating voice, “we both know it wasn’t like-“ “Quiet!” Oliver snapped at him. “Or I swear not even Maria will keep me from throttling you.” Nathan swallowed. Hard.

When Papa finished surveying the tools, he shut the shed as best he could and they headed toward the house. Ivy gasped when they reached the back door. Someone had painted the words: “Papa, that’s awful!” Papa sucked air through gritted teeth. “I do not like these words.” “Papa, the son’s feelings will be hurt if he sees this. He wouldn’t be pleased. We should paint over it.” “I’m glad you feel that way. That’s exactly what we should do. We need to look inside the house, too, but it will take some time to go through their things. Maybe Mama can do it next week.

Is this about my birth parents?" The frown lines on her mother's forehead deepened. "Well, yes..." "Did Freya know them?" Anna asked. She'd always wondered. Freya had been such a big part of her life since the beginning. Maybe Freya had known something Anna didn't. Silence hung over the room as they stared at one another. "It's okay," Anna finally said. "If you know who they are and don't want to tell me, I'll understand. It doesn't matter anyway." She reached for their hands. "You've been the best parents anyone could ever hope for." Papa and Ma reached in for a hug at the same time. They were a family of huggers and laughters. Anna clung to them, not wanting to let go.

And that unfortunate loss? Was that really an accident,or did you lose deliberately so I wouldn't have to pay the bill?" He shrugged. "My lips are sealed." "I should have known." Once on the open highway he turned on the radio,and they both sang along with Garth as he lamented his papa being a rolling stone. When the song ended,Marilee looked over. "I'll consider that a sermon. According to Garth, a woman would be a fool to lose her heart to a man who'd rather drive a truck than be home with her." Wyatt winked,and in his best imitation of Daffy's smoky voice he said, "Honey, a man may love the open road,but any female with half a brain can figure out how to compete with a truck.Just bat those pretty little red-tipped lashes at any male over the age of twelve, and his brain turns to mush.Next thing you know, instead of revving up his engine, he's on his hands and knees, carrying a toddler on his back around a living room full of toys and baby gear." Though the image was a surprisingly pretty one,Marilee had to wipe tears from her eyes,she was laughing so hard. When she caught her breath she managed to say, "You've got Daffy down so perfectly,you could probably answer the phone at the Fortune Saloon and no one would believe it wasn't her." "She's easy." He chuckled. "I think she's the only female with a voice that's deeper than mine." She looked out the window at the full moon above Treasure Chest Mountain in the distance. "It's a shame to waste such a pretty night.Maybe you ought to pull over and park.We can make out like teenagers." "Not a bad idea." At his arched brow she added, "It would give me a chance to see if I could turn your brain to mush." "Believe it.

It is a good thing for a man to live in a family for the same reason that it is a good thing for a man to be besieged in a city. It is a good thing for a man to live in a family in the same sense that it is a beautiful and delightful thing for a man to be snowed up in a street. They all force him to realise that life is not a thing from outside, but a thing from inside. Above all, they all insist upon the fact that life, if it be a truly stimulating and fascinating life, is a thing which, of its nature, exists in spite of ourselves. The modern writers who have suggested, in a more or less open manner, that the family is a bad institution, have generally confined themselves to suggesting, with much sharpness, bitterness, or, pathos, that perhaps the family is not always very congenial. Of course the family is a good institution because it is uncongenial. It is wholesome precisely because it contains so many divergencies and varieties. It is, as the sentimentalists say, like a little kingdom, and, like most other little kingdoms, is generally in a state of something resembling anarchy. It is exactly because our brother George is not interested in our religious difficulties, but is interested in the Trocadero Restaurant, that the family has some of the bracing qualities of the commonwealth. It is precisely because our uncle Henry does not approve of the theatrical ambitions of our sister Sarah that the family is like humanity. The men and women who, for good reasons and bad, revolt against the family, are, for good reasons and bad, simply revolting against mankind. Aunt Elizabeth is unreasonable, like mankind. Papa is excitable, like mankind. Our youngest brother is mischievous, like mankind. Grandpapa is stupid, like the world; he is old, like the world.

That’s it!” “Anton,” her mother gasped. “You startled me.” “Sorry, my love.” Papa patted her hand as she returned to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. “But I’ve just had the most astounding idea.” “What is it?” The question rang simultaneously from both Nicole and her mother. Her papa smiled. A scheming, devilish, piratical smile that one would expect to see right before a blade ran him through. Nicole flopped onto the divan. “Nicki’s going to take a little trip to New Orleans.” “But why?” Maman asked. “She just got home.” Papa rubbed his palms against his thighs in anticipation. “Don’t you see? It will solve everything. It will keep Nicki away from Jenkins and secure the future of Renard Shipping at the same time.” “How?” Nicole ventured, somehow certain she’d not like the answer. Her papa’s grin confirmed it. “By giving me the next best thing to a son.” “And that is . . . ?” her mother prompted. “A son-in-law.

You have got to be—” Her sentence is cut short when the elevator makes an abrupt stop, jostling both of us into the walls of the small carrier. “Huh, would you look at that?” I glance around the small room, wondering what’s wrong. “No, no, no,” Dottie says over and over again, as she rushes to the panel and presses the emergency button. When nothing happens, she presses all the other buttons. “That’s intelligent,” I say, arms crossed and observing her from behind. “Confuse the damn thing so it has no idea what to do.” She doesn’t answer, but instead pulls her phone out from her purse and starts holding it up in the air, searching for a signal. “It’s cute that you think raising the phone higher will grant you service. We’re in a metal box surrounded by concrete, sweetheart. I never get reception in here.” “Damn it,” she mutters, stuffing her phone back in her purse. “Looks like you’re stuck here with me until someone figures out the elevator broke, so it’s best you get comfortable.” I sit on the floor and then pat my lap. “You can sit right here.” “I’d rather lick the elevator floor.” “There’s a disgusting visual. Suit yourself.” I get comfortable and start rifling through my bag of food. Thank God I grabbed dinner before this, because I’m starving, and if I was stuck in this elevator with no food, I’d be a raging bastard, bashing his head against the metal door from pure hunger. Low blood sugar does crazy things to me. I bring the term hangry to a new level. There’s only— “Why are you smiling like that?” I look up at her. “Smiling like what? I’m just being normal.” “No, you’re smiling like you’re having a conversation inside your head and you think you’re funny.” How would she know that? “Well, I am funny.” I pop open my to-go box filled to the brim with a Philly cheesesteak sandwich and tons of fries. Staring at it, I say, “Oh yes, come to papa.

It must be a shock to see us so old,” Hannah said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t climb a tree or shoot a marble if my life depended on it. Neither could Andrew, but I doubt he’ll admit it.” “If I put my mind to it,” Andrew said, “I could beat Drew with one hand tied behind my back. He was never any match for me.” Hannah raised her eyebrows. “It seems to me he outplayed you once.” “Pshaw. What’s one game?” If Aunt Blythe hadn’t come back just then, I’d have argued, maybe even challenged Andrew to a rematch, but instead, I smiled and leaned my head against Hannah’s shoulder, happy to feel her arm around me. This close, she still smelled like rose water. Turning the pages of the album, Hannah showed us pictures of Mama and Papa, Theo, herself--and Andrew. “These are my favorites.” She pointed to the photographs John had taken of us in the Model T. We were all smiling except Theo. He sat beside me, scowling into the camera, still angry about Mrs. Armiger and the music lessons. “We wanted Theo to come with us today,” Hannah said, “but he’s living down in Florida with his third wife--a lady half his age, I might add.” Andrew nudged me. “He sends his best, said he hopes to see you again someday.” I glanced at Aunt Blythe but she was staring at the photograph. “The resemblance is incredible. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was Drew.” Andrew chuckled. “Take a good look at me now. This is how the poor boy will look when he’s ninety-six.” I studied his rosy face, his white hair and mustache. His back was bent, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. Going to his side, I put my arms around him. “You’re not so bad,” I said. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you could still beat me in a game of ringer.

Hmm. Feels like my brilliant pep talk isn’t doing its job—so how about we play Name That Baby Alicorn? Otherwise I’m going to call them Sparkle Tushie Number One and Number Two. Actually, I’m probably going to call them that anyway—but I might occasionally go with something more official, as long as Mama and Papa pick something that pleases me.” Silveny didn’t seem to understand anything he was saying, so Sophie did her best to explain telepathically. Name baby? Name baby? Silveny asked, glancing at Greyfell. “I don’t think they’ve picked anything yet,” Sophie told Keefe. He clapped his hands. “Perfect! It’s a girl and a boy, right? So how about Keeferina and the Keefster?” “Keeferina?” Sophie had to ask. Even Silveny looked like she was wincing. “Or Keefette. Or Keefelle. Or Keefiana. Honestly, I thought you’d fight me harder on the Keefster.” “How about nothing with Keefe?” Sophie suggested. “See, but there really is no better name, is there?” He glanced at Silveny, who definitely did not chant any Keefes. “Fine. Your loss. How about an homage to the Mysterious Miss F instead? We could have a little Sophie and a little Foster—though now that I’m saying that out loud, I’m realizing how confusing that would get. What’s your middle name, again? Something with an E?” “Elizabeth,” Sophie confirmed. “What’s yours?” “It’s ‘Nope’—as in nope, we’re so not going there.” “Why not?” Ro asked, momentarily breaking the Bo-Ro glarefest. “Because I have enough humiliation in my immediate future, thanks to you,” he told her. “Yeah, I think you’re going to have to tell me now,” Sophie insisted. “See, but I’m too busy naming alicorn babies. They’re silver, right? So how about Sterling and Argent?” “Argent?” Sophie repeated. “Yeah, wow, I’m pretty bad at this. You might want to help, or I’m going back to Keeferina.

Four Years Since Today I remember the day but to be honest it is everyday That day then, the moment then, when you left us all here More than just a father I call, a gem I treasure, that day I lost We four girls, my mom’s other half, my brothers best bud, our first love, we lost Holding the key to the future called You, I stand still facing the gate of the past Why I keep on asking the same question? Why you? Why out of all those people? Why too soon? Why? It has been years, 4 years exact, it seems like yesterday yes You were taken too soon, words aren’t enough to express It’s not fair, but who I am to blame, who Am I to question? My eyes express longing you cannot fathom From my open mouth my broken heart pours Words that try to capture that image so faint He is the picture I could not ever paint Yet our memories is in the solid bowl being kept Spare me even just 5 or 10 minutes of your presence To build up this longing I feel, I am asking I want to hear your nag; I want to hear your laugh In my dreams please see me there I won’t get afraid nor get frightened Like a waterfalls my tears keeps on flowing Like a bubble your voice keeps on vanishing He, his shadow, he himself starts from fading I don’t want to forget you please stop time from ticking I don’t want to open my eyes don’t wake me from dreaming You are the art of my painting, the muse of my poem My strength, my inspiration why I’m still holding on My king, my superman, name them all, you are my only one I miss the old golden days when you used to carry us one by one Look papa, how I am now, hoping always, you’ll be proud It pains me to know this inevitable truth, yes That I can’t see you for now yes it’s the truth, but My father’s love undeniable not easily obtained Something that few, many people rather don’t have But I’m blessed and proud I have mine claimed.

Rockton is no more Oliver than Churchgrove is Lord Kirkwood,” Lady Minerva said stoutly. “Then why did you steal my name for him?” Oliver asked. “It’s not quite your name, old chap,” Lord Gabriel said. “And you know perfectly well that Minerva likes to tweak your nose from time to time.” “Stop calling me ‘old,’ blast it,” Oliver grumbled. “I’m not some doddering fool.” “How old are you, anyway?” Maria asked him, amused by his vanity. “Thirty-five.” Mrs. Plumtree had said little until now, but apparently the conversation had piqued her interest. “That’s long past the age when a man should marry, don’t you think, Miss Butterfield?” Aware of Oliver’s gaze on her, Maria chose her words carefully. “I suppose it depends on the man. Papa didn’t marry until he was nearly that age. He was too busy fighting in the Revolutionary War to court anyone.” When the blood drained from Mrs. Plumtree’s face, Oliver’s eyes held a glint of triumph. “Ah, yes, the Revolutionary War. Did I forget to mention, Gran, that Mr. Butterfield was a soldier in the Continental Marines?” The table got very quiet. Lady Minerva focused on eating her soup. Lady Celia took several sips of wine, one after another, and Lord Jarret stared into his soup bowl as if it contained the secret to life. The only real sound punctuating the silence was Lord Gabriel’s muttered “bloody hell.” Clearly, there was some undercurrent here that Maria didn’t understand. Oliver was watching his grandmother again like a wolf about to pounce, and Mrs. Plumtree was clearly contemplating which weapon would best hold the wolf at bay. “Uncle Adam was a hero,” Freddy put in, oblivious as usual to undercurrents of any kind. “At the Battle of Princeton, he held off ten of the British until help could arrive. It was just him and his bayonet, slashing and stabbing-“ “Freddy,” Maria chided under her breath, “our hosts are British, remember?

Grey wasn’t quite drunk, but he was far from sober when Rose entered his study later that evening. His heart stuttered at the sight of her, but his head…his head couldn’t take any more. “I’ve been drinking,” he warned her, just in case his sprawled posture and missing cravat wasn’t enough indication. “And I refuse to dance this ridiculous dance with you any more tonight.” “May I have a drink with you?” He glanced up. She stood beside the sofa where he half sat, half lay. She looked like someone who’d just lost her best friend or puppy or something equally as tragic. He sat up. “Of course.” Never mind that it wasn’t proper. Who the hell cared? They were well past proper. He was simply trying to hold on to sane. She poured herself a substantial glass of sherry and took a seat on the chair nearest him. He sat quietly, nursing the remainder of whiskey in his glass while she took several sips from her own. “Do you remember my come-out ball?” she asked after a few minutes. “Of course.” And he did. “I remember telling you that you looked lovely in pink.” She smiled. “You danced the first dance with me so I wouldn’t have to dance with Papa.” “You were afraid the other girls would laugh at you if you danced with your father.” “They didn’t laugh at me for dancing with you.” “No.” He chuckled at took a drink. “I wager they didn’t.” Rose sighed. “They thought you were so scandalous, you know. All night I had girls coming up to me wanting to know about you. I felt very important.” He saluted her with his glass. “Glad to be of service.” “I think I fell a little bit in love with you that night.” Grey choked on a mouthful of whiskey. Coughing, he cursed himself for being stupid enough to relax his guard with her. “Rose…” She held up her hand. “I’m not telling you this to make you uncomfortable, Grey. I wanted to tell you that you were a knight to me that evening-a knight on a big white horse. I didn’t know much about your reputation, all I knew was that you made me feel grown-up.

I have some questions for you.” Serious, indeed. He brushed her hair back from her forehead with his thumb. “I will answer to the best of my ability.” “You know about changing nappies.” “I do.” “You know about feeding babies.” “Generally, yes.” “You know about bathing them.” “It isn’t complicated.” She fell silent, and Vim’s curiosity grew when Sophie rolled to her back to regard him almost solemnly. “I asked Papa to procure us a special license.” He’d wondered why the banns hadn’t been cried but hadn’t questioned Sophie’s decision. “I assumed that was to allow your brothers to attend the ceremony.” “Them? Yes, I suppose.” She was in a quiet, Sophie-style taking over something, so he slid his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “Tell me, my love. If I can explain my youthful blunders to you over a glass of eggnog, then you can confide to me whatever is bothering you.” She ducked her face against his shoulder. “Do you know the signs a woman is carrying?” He tried to view it as a mere question, a factual inquiry. “Her menses likely cease, for one thing.” Sophie took Vim’s hand and settled it over the wonderful fullness of her breast then shifted, arching into his touch. “What else?” He thought back to his stepmother’s confinements, to what he’d learned on his travels. “From the outset, she might be tired at odd times,” he said slowly. “Her breasts might be tender, and she might have a need to visit the necessary more often than usual.” She tucked her face against his chest and hooked her leg over his hips. “You are a very observant man, Mr. Charpentier.” With a jolt of something like alarm—but not simply alarm—Vim thought back to Sophie’s dozing in church, her marvelously sensitive breasts, her abrupt departure from the room when they’d first gathered for dinner. “And,” he said slowly, “some women are a bit queasy in the early weeks.” She moved his hand, bringing it to her mouth to kiss his knuckles, then settling it low on her abdomen, over her womb. “A New Year’s wedding will serve quite nicely if we schedule it for the middle of the day. I’m told the queasiness passes in a few weeks, beloved.” To Vim’s ears, there was a peculiar, awed quality to that single, soft endearment. The feeling that came over him then was indescribable. Profound peace, profound awe, and profound gratitude coalesced into something so transcendent as to make “love”—even mad, passionate love—an inadequate description. “If you are happy about this, Sophie, one tenth as happy about it as I am, then this will have been the best Christmas season anybody ever had, anywhere, at any time. I vow this to you as the father of your children, your affianced husband, and the man who loves you with his whole heart.” She

‌* When the coughing stopped, there was nothing but the nothingness of life moving on with a shuffle, or a near-silent twitch. ‌* Mistakes, mistakes, it’s all I seem capable of at times ‌*No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment. ‌*It’s much easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it ‌*When death captures me,” the boy vowed, “he will feel my fist on his face.”. ‌*he’d turned for one last look at his family as he left the apartment. Perhaps then the guilt would not have been so heavy. No final goodbye. No final grip of the eyes. Nothing but goneness. ‌ *Wrecked, but somehow not torn into pieces. ‌*Life had altered in the wildest possible way, but it was imperative that they act as if nothing at all had happened. ‌*“If we gamble on a Jew,” said Papa soon after, “I would prefer to gamble on a live one,” and from that moment, a new routine was born. *‌you should know it yourself—a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.” ‌*The fire was nothing now but a funeral of smoke, dead and dying, simultaneously. ‌*Even death has a heart.. ‌* In truth, I think he was afraid. Rudy Steiner was scared of the book thief’s kiss. He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave without them. ‌*There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone. *‌That damn snowman,” she whispered. “I bet it started with the snowman—fooling around with ice and snow in the cold down there.” Papa was more philosophical. “Rosa, it started with Adolf.” *‌There were broken bodies and dead, sweet hearts. Still, it was better than the gas ‌*They were French, they were Jews, and they were you. ‌*Sometimes she sat against the wall, longing for the warm finger of paint to wander just once more down the side of her nose, or to watch the sandpaper texture of her papa’s hands. If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter and bread with only the scent of jam spread out on top of it. *‌Himmel Street was a trail of people, and again, Papa left his accordion. Rosa reminded him to take it, but he refused. “I didn’t take it last time,” he explained, “and we lived.” War clearly blurred the distinction between logic and superstition. ‌*Silence was not quiet or calm, and it was not peace. ‌*“I should have known not to give the man some bread. I just didn’t think.” “Papa, you did nothing wrong.” “I don’t believe you. ‌ * I’m an idiot.” No, Papa. You’re just a man.. ‌*What someone says and what happened are usually two different things ‌* despised by his homeland, even though he was born in it ‌ *“Of course I told him about you,” Liesel said. She was saying goodbye and she didn’t even know it. ‌*Say something enough times and you never forget it ‌*robbery of his life? ‌*Those kinds of souls always do—the best ones. The ones who rise up and say, “I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come.” Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places ‌*One could not exist without the other, because for Liesel, both were home. Yes, that’s what Hans Hubermann was for Liesel Meminger ‌*DEATH AND LIESEL It has been many years since all of that, but there is still plenty of work to do. I can promise you that the world is a factory. The sun stirs it, the humans rule it. And I remain. I carry them away.

The owner of Papa John's may not be the best pitchman, but he's the worst at acting. Papa John's commercials actually make me yearn for a Men's Wearhouse commercial.

Miss Addie!” Edward, too, rushed to her side, but Gideon reached her first and pranced around her. “I’m all right,” she said as John arrived. He knelt beside her and slipped his arm around her. “Are you injured?” She had no idea of her true condition with him so close. Assessing the pain level, she leaned her head against his shoulder. His presence was the best medicine. “I-I don’t think so.” Edward threw himself atop her, and she pulled him onto her lap when she realized he was crying. “It’s okay, darling.” “You’re bleeding,” the child wailed. John moved away, and she hugged Edward, relishing the little-boy scent of grass and dog. “It’s merely a scratch, Edward. Proof of valor.” John was still near enough that she could smell his bay rum hair tonic. “I should call the doctor,” John said. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “No, no, I think I can get up with your assistance.” Aware she was showing more of her leg than was seemly, Addie flipped her skirt into place. She brushed a kiss across Edward’s cheek and scooted him onto the grass. “Papa’s going to help me up.” She grasped John’s arm and allowed him to lift her to her feet. “Does anything hurt?” he asked. She smiled into his face. “Only my pride.” “Let’s get you inside.” She glanced at the heap of wheels and metal. “No, I want to get back on the bicycle.” His mouth gaped. “You aren’t afraid?” “I’m terrified. But if I don’t get back on now, I might never do it. The fall will expand in my mind. I want to learn this.” She released his arm and stepped away, though she preferred to stay close to him. “The bicycle appears unharmed.” “But you’re not. You’re bleeding.” She bent her elbow up to have a look. “As I said, it’s merely a scratch.

This essential difference had always been between them. Vianne the rule follower and Isabelle the rebel. Even in girlhood, in grief, they had expressed their emotions differently. Vianne had gone silent after Maman’s death, tried to pretend that Papa’s abandonment didn’t wound her, while Isabelle had thrown tantrums and run away and demanded attention. Maman had sworn that one day they would be the best of friends. Never had this prediction seemed less likely. In this, right now, Isabelle was right. Vianne would be constantly afraid of what her sister would say or do around the captain, and truthfully, Vianne hadn’t the strength for it.

I’ve been waiting for word from my parents—waiting and hoping—and finally letters arrive. But before I even have a chance to open them and find out what Mama and Papa think is best for me to do about my feelings for you, you come along and—” Thad had heard enough. She obviously had no inkling how frightened he’d been. He might have lost her. And he hadn’t yet told her how much he cared for her. Well, he wouldn’t wait another second. But she wasn’t in a state to listen to words. He’d have to show her. With a growl, Thad gathered Sadie in his arms. She let out a little squawk of surprise, but he cut it short with a firm, heartfelt, possessive kiss.

Preacher. I gotta ask you something. What the hell’s eating you?” “What do you mean?” he replied, frowning. Jack shook his head in frustration. “You have this beautiful little family under your roof. You watch over them like a papa bear. That kid adores you, you have a sweet, cuddly young beauty to knock boots with every night, and you’re depressed. I mean, you are obviously depressed!” “I’m not depressed,” he said somewhat meanly. “And I haven’t knocked boots with anybody.” “What?” Jack said, confused. “What?” “You heard me. I haven’t touched her.” “She have issues?” Jack asked. “Like the abusive ex or something?” “No,” Preacher said. “I have issues.” He laughed. “Yeah? You don’t want her? Because she—” “I don’t know what to do,” Preacher said suddenly. Then he averted his eyes. “Sure you do, Preacher. You take off your clothes, she takes off her clothes...” Preacher snapped his head back. “I know where all the parts go. I’m not so sure she’s ready for that....” “Preacher, my man, do you have eyes? She looks at you like she wants to—” “Jesus, she scares me to death! I’m afraid I’ll hurt her,” he said, then shook his head miserably. What the hell, he thought. Jack’s my best friend. If I can’t tell Jack, I can’t tell anyone. But he said, “You say anything about this and I swear to God, I’ll kill you.” Jack just laughed at him. “Why would I tell anyone? Preacher, you’re not going to hurt her.” “What if I do? She’s been through so much. She’s so soft. Small. And I’m—hell, I’m just a big, clumsy lug.” “No, you’re not,” Jack said, laughing again. “Preacher, you don’t even break the yolks. You’re—well, you’re big, that’s for sure.” He chuckled. “You’re probably big all over,” he said, shaking his head. “Believe me, women don’t mind that.” Preacher’s chin went up and he frowned, not sure whether he’d just been complimented or insulted. “Listen,

Report,” Narian ordered, umbrage in his tone. He did not appreciate the lack of respect Saadi was displaying by coming straight to him. Saadi pulled my dagger from somewhere on his belt, flipping it around to hand it to his commanding officer. “I caught her with this illegal weapon on the street, sir. Considering the interest you took in her welfare last time, I thought it best this matter be brought directly to you.” “A good decision,” Narian said, examining the knife. “Now return to your post.” Saadi gave a deferential nod to him and, to my surprise, a slight bow to Queen Alera before departing. In the silence that briefly reigned, Cannan’s gaze fell upon me, unwavering, unwelcoming and especially dark considering the reprimand he’d given me in the barn. I was in so much trouble. “Where did you get this?” Narian asked, and my attention snapped from my uncle to the Cokyrian commander, who was brandishing my dagger. Which of them was the fiercer opponent? I didn’t speak, afraid to find out, certain this was how a cornered animal felt. “Shaselle, from whom did you obtain that weapon?” It was Queen Alera addressing me now, her voice softer, kinder, but I hardly looked at her, for she was not where the problem lay. When I still did not answer, Narian turned to Cannan. “You tell us then.” “I have no more knowledge than do you,” the former captain said, not outwardly disturbed by the fact that my conduct had brought him under suspicion. “I need to know how she came by this dagger,” Narian said more forcefully, but I knew he was wasting his breath. Cannan was not about to be intimidated--certainly not by a young man of my age, regardless of whatever mythical powers he possessed. “These have been outlawed and removed from Hytanican hands. No young girl could wrangle one. Not unless she had access to some that were kept from my soldiers. Not unless she was the captain’s niece.” “My answer remains the same,” Cannan replied, unflappable as ever. “I suggest you stop accusing me.” A silent challenge passed between the powerful men, to be interrupted by the Queen, who spoke but one word--the Cokyrian commander’s name. He looked to her more quickly than I would have believed possible, and his demeanor changed along with his focus, becoming softer, more cooperative. “May I see the dagger?” she asked. Without demanding a reason, he passed her the blade. Perhaps she had more influence than I thought. She perused the weapon with a crease in her brow. “I think I recognize this.” “You do?” Narian sounded skeptical, while I was flabbergasted, and Cannan’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. “I believe this was Lord Baelic’s. It must have been missed by the Cokyrians sweeping his home. A house of Hytanican women--they might not have been thorough.” She paused and met my gaze. “This is your father’s, is it not, Shaselle?” I started nodding before I could even process what was happening. Was she mistaken? Did she actually believe the weapon had belonged to my papa? Or was she trying to help me? Whatever the case, I wasn’t about to argue with her, seizing the excuse and hoping it would be good enough to save me, at least from Cokyrian punishment. Narian scrutinized both me and the Queen with eyes so deeply blue I could not break away from them. I was glad he was no longer questioning me, for those eyes made me want to tell him everything. At the same time, those eyes revealed something to me. Was he in love with Alera?

After the races had ended, the faire wound down, and Grayden tugged me toward a stand where the vendor’s wares were rapidly depleting. “Come!” he exclaimed. “I want to get you something--a remembrance.” I laughed, for he was pulling me toward a display of headpieces made of woven flowers and ribbons, but he was not to be deterred. He worked toward the front of the stand, extracted a coin from his money pouch and flipped it at the woman in charge. “I’d like your best one for the girl I’m courting,” he proclaimed, and I suspected the real truth was that he wanted to say the words. “They are all finely made, young sir. Which one is best is a matter of the color you desire.” Grayden studied me, trying to choose. I struck a pose to help. “Green,” he decided. “For she has the loveliest hazel eyes.” His words shocked me into silence, and a strange notion flashed in my brain. He had said my eyes were lovely. Could he possibly think I was beautiful? “Shaselle?” he faltered, probably afraid he had offended me. “Would you prefer a different color?” “Not at all! I adore green!” His grin resurfaced and he nestled the chosen crown into my hair, which fell in a simple braid down my back. I beamed at him, the world seeming brighter, less tainted and revitalized, for somehow my uncle Cannan had come through--he had found me a young man that Papa would have been proud to know.

At the hospital, an attendant brought down a wheelchair for me. Steve somehow managed, without a forklift, to get me out of the truck and into the wheelchair. The birth progressed a lot faster than it had with Bindi. I wasn’t worried because I had Steve with me, and I knew everything would be fine, as long as we were together. I pushed like an Olympic baby pusher. I should have gotten the gold for my pushing. I think I pushed until I was nearly inside out. The baby came. Steve said, “It’s a boy!” and brought him to me. I remember my son’s tiny pink mouth. He looked like a baby bird with his eyes closed and his mouth open. He immediately began feeding. Steve cried tears of joy. Once we got settled, the proud papa headed for Sunshine Coast Grammar School to tell Bindi the news. “You’ve got a little brother,” he told her. Bindi was elated, in spite of the fact that she had spent every night saying her prayers for a little sister. Steve brought her to the hospital, where she took her little brother in her arms and looked at him lovingly. “How do you know he’s a boy?” she asked. “Bindi,” Thelma said, “they’re not born with clothes on.” “I think I will name him Brian,” Bindi said. “His name is Robert,” Steve told her. “Oh, well,” Bindi said. “I’m going to call him Brian for short.” It was a Sunday, December 1, 2003, and we had all just received the best Christmas present ever. Robert Clarence Irwin. Baby Bob.

Papa didn’t give a damn, his girl was the best dancer up there and he was so proud. He

To the river?” he suggested, pointing ahead down the road. The Recorah River, which flowed south out of the Nineyre Mountains before curving to the west, marked both our eastern and southern borders, and was the reason construction of the wall was necessitated only along the boundary we shared with the Kingdom of Sarterad. “Won’t there be patrols?” He shook his head. “One of my duties is to regulate the patrols. I know exactly where they are. So--to the river?” I nodded, and we lined our horses up as best we could, for our mounts had caught our excitement and were straining against their bits. We locked eyes and counted down together. “Three, two, one--” I dug my heels into King’s sides and he sprang almost violently forward. My father had never liked me racing. It was dangerous--the horse could fall, I could drop the reins or lose my seat, and at a full gallop, my chances of survival would be slim. But he had always loved to do it, and so had I. There was such freedom in letting a horse have its head, such joyful abandonment in the feel of the animal’s hooves striking the earth time after time, as fast and as hard as they could go. There was power and exhilaration in leaning forward, moving with the animal, feeling the wind on my cheeks, my hair whipping back. There was a oneness that could not be achieved in any other way, a single purpose represented by the finish line that loomed ahead. King and I had the advantage at the start, and I turned my head to grin at Saadi before giving my full concentration to the task at hand. I would leave him far behind, but there was no point in testing fate. It wasn’t long before my confidence and my lead were challenged--I caught sight of the gelding’s front legs to my left, gaining ground as they arched and reached in beautiful rhythm. We bumped and battled, following the winding road, the horses breathing hard. Then it was Saadi’s turn to grin. He gave me a nod, urging his horse up the slight incline that lay before us, gradually inching ahead until he succeeded in passing me completely as we flew down the other side. Knowing the race would be won or lost on the remaining flat ground from here to the river, I lay low against King’s neck, and the stallion pressed forward, sensing my urgency. Race for Papa, King, I thought. You can win for Papa. The Recorah River spread before us, and both Saadi and I would have to slow soon to avoid surging into it. King’s burst of speed was enough to put us neck-and-neck once more, but my frustration flared, for I doubted we could push ahead. At best, the race would be a tie. And a tie wasn’t good enough, not when King needed to come home with me. Then suddenly I was in front. I glanced over at Saadi in confusion, and saw him check his gelding, letting me win. King did not want to stop, but I pulled him down just before the river, swerving to let him canter, then trot, along its bank. Saadi came alongside me and we halted, dismounting at the same time. I leaned for a moment against my saddle, panting from my own exertion, then slid it off King’s back. Without a word, Saadi likewise stripped his mount, and we freed the horses to go to the water for a drink. Muscles aching, I flopped down on the grass and stared up through the branches of a tree to the graying sky above. A shadow passed over me, then Saadi lay down beside me. “You won,” he said. “You let me.” There was a silence--he hadn’t expected me to know. Then I heard the grass rustle as he shrugged. “You’re right. I did.” Laughing at his candor, I sat up and looked at him. He was relaxing with his arms behind his head, his bronze hair damp and sticking to his forehead.

To resume--and we’d better hurry, or they’ll be down here clamoring for our company before their supper goes cold--Lord Vidanric has been working very hard ever since the end of the war. Too hard, some say. He came to Athanarel sick and has been ill off and on since then, for he seldom sleeps. He’s either in the saddle, or else his lamps are burning half the night in his wing of the Residence. He’s here on his mother’s orders, to rest. He and your brother have become fast friends, I think because Branaric, in his own way, is so very undemanding. He wants no favors or powers. He just likes to enjoy his days. This seems to be what Vidanric needs just now.” “Do you think he’ll make a good king?” I asked. Again she seemed surprised. “Yes,” she said. “But then I’ve known him all my life.” As if that explains everything, I thought. Then I realized that to her it did. He was a good prospect for a king because he was her friend, and because they were both courtiers, raised the same way. And then I wondered just who--if anyone--at Court was willing to speak not for themselves, but for the people, to find out who really would be the best ruler? A discreet tap outside the door brought our attention round. Calden, the server from the inn, parted the tapestry and said, “Count Branaric sent me to find out if you’re coming?” “In just a moment, thanks,” I said. “Will you agree to my pact, then?” Nimiar asked. I opened my mouth to ask why they couldn’t just marry here, but I knew that was the coward’s way out. I did not wish to get involved in any more wars, but that didn’t mean I ought not do what I could to ensure that the next reign would be what Papa had wished for when he commenced planning his revolt. And the best way to find out, I realized as I looked into Nimiar’s face, would not be by asking questions of third parties, but by going to the capital and finding out on my own. So I squashed down my reluctance and said, “If you can teach me not to make a fool of myself at that Court, I’ll gladly come to see you marry Bran.” “You will like Court life, I promise,” she said, smiling sweetly as we went out of the parlor. I took care to walk behind her so she could not see my face.

My father and brothers did the best they could to keep us fed as the violence of the war escalated around us. They brought us potatoes, beans and sometimes apples. Packs of wild dogs, hungry and dangerous, roamed the streets at night. I guessed that sometimes the dogs became meat for our stew pot. We did not ask where food came from when Papa or one of my brothers brought home a chunk of meat. I didn’t allow myself to think of what I was eating or anticipate what the evening meal might be made of.

Speaking of those children...."  He tried to turn his head within the curve of Juliet's arm so that he could look at Charlotte. "It appears that one of them ... is yours." "Yes, my daughter. She's just over six months." "Will you lift her up so I may see her? I adore children." Juliet hesitated, thinking that sleeping babes were best left alone. But it was not in her to deny the wishes of a man who might very well be dying. Carefully, she picked up the infant and held her so that Gareth could see her. Charlotte whimpered and opened her eyes. Immediately, the lines of pain about Gareth's mouth relaxed. Smiling weakly, he reached up and ran his fingers over one of the tiny fists, unaware that he was touching his own niece. A lump rose in Juliet's throat. It was not hard at all to imagine that he was Charles, reaching up to touch his daughter. Not hard at all. "You're just ... as pretty as your mama," he murmured. "A few more years ... and all the young bucks shall be after you ... like hounds to the fox."  To Juliet he said, "What is her name?" "Charlotte."  The baby was wide awake now and tugging at the lace of his sleeve. "Charlotte. Such a pretty name ... and where is your papa, little Charlie-girl? Should he ... not be here to ... protect you and your mama?" Juliet stiffened. His innocent words had slammed a fresh bolt of pain through her. Tight-lipped, she pried the lace from Charlotte's fist and cradled her close. Deprived of her amusement, the baby screwed up her face and began to wail at the top of her lungs while Juliet stared out the window, her mouth set and her hand clenched in a desperate bid to control her emotions. Gareth managed to make himself heard over Charlotte's angry screams. "I am sorry. I think I have offended you, somehow...." "No." "Then what is it?" "Her papa's dead." "Oh. I, ah ... I see."  He looked distressed, and remorse stole the brightness that Charlotte had brought to his eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I am forever saying the wrong thing, I fear." Charlotte was now crying harder, beating her fists and kicking her feet in protest. The blanket fell away. Juliet attempted to put it back. Charlotte screamed louder, her angry squalls filling the coach until Juliet felt like crying herself. She made a noise of helpless despair. "Here ... set her on your lap, beside my head," Lord Gareth said at last. "She can play with my cravat." "No, you're hurt." He smiled. "And your daughter is crying. Oblige me, and she will stop."  He stretched a hand toward the baby, offering his fingers, but she batted him away and continued to wail. "I'm told I have a way ... with children." With a sigh, Juliet did as he asked. Immediately, Charlotte quieted and fell to playing with his cravat.

Are we through here? I wish to go" "Go where?" "Anywhere. Away. Back to America, if need be. It's obvious that Charles's faith and trust in his family's desire to care for his baby daughter were unfounded. Neither she nor I are wanted here." "Don't be absurd." She reached for Charlotte's blanket. "I am being practical." "Practicality is not a quality I associate with most females of my acquaintance." "With all due respect to the females of your acquaintance, Your Grace, I was born and raised in the wilderness of Maine. Those who were not practical, resourceful, and hardy did not survive." "Maine? How is it, then, that you ended up in Boston?" "My father died when I was sixteen, mauled by a black bear defending her cub. He had a cousin in Boston, who'd always fancied my mother from afar. After Papa died, he came for Mama and me, married her, and took us both back to Boston. Mama died in '74. You know about my stepfather."  She picked up her cloak, preparing to leave this house and never look back. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I think I've answered enough of your questions and had best be gone. Good night to you." He never moved as she breezed past his desk, Charlotte in her arms. "Don't you wish to know how Lord Gareth fares?" he asked mildly, in an abrupt change of subject. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you gave me no chance to ask." "I should think he'd like to thank you for saving his life." She paused halfway across the room, silently cursing him between her teeth. What tarnal game was he playing now? Without turning, she ground out, "He saved my life, not the other way around." "Not according to Lord Brookhampton.

Mama. He's a genius, I think, but he doesn't make sense half the time! It's because he is powerful, I think, but Papa is powerful and isn't nearly as--as strange as Nico is!" "Kitty," Mama says, "why don't you spend more time with them this week? Find out more about what's happening before you jump to conclusions? Ask questions! Consider it--consider it your first spy mission as a prospective super villain! Learn their habits and weaknesses and choose which would make the best nemesis for you. Just as Max and Trent are battling now, if you become a super villain wouldn't it be wonderful to have someone you can go up against on a regular basis? Your father still tells stories of his battles

for given he had not yet returned the betrothal agreement to her father, there seemed to be no eagerness on his part to do so or to proceed with their engagement. Mayhap, now that he was of a great and high title, he might find himself a little more interested in the young ladies of the ton and would not feel the need to sign the betrothal agreement at all. It might all come to a very satisfactory close, and she could have the freedom she had always expected. “Augusta!” Lady Elmsworth’s voice was sharp, as though she knew precisely what it was Augusta was thinking. “You will make sure that all of your attention is on your betrothed this evening. Do you understand me?” “We are not betrothed yet, Mama,” Augusta replied a little tartly. “Therefore, I cannot show him any specific attention for fear of what others might say.” She arched one eyebrow and looked at her mother as she turned around, aware she was irritating her parent but finding a dull sense of satisfaction in her chest. “Once the agreement has been sent to Papa, then, of course, I shall do my duty.” She dropped into a quick curtsy, her eyes low and her expression demure, but it did not fool Lady Elmsworth. “You had best be very careful with your behavior this evening, Augusta,” she exclaimed, practically throwing herself from her chair as she rose to her feet, her cheeks a little pink and her eyes blazing with an unexpressed frustration.

He could not imagine being jealous of anibody's papa. Having the best papa in the world, Matthew would be perfectly satisfied whit him. If only he could be certain that Henry Was his papa.

He could not imagine being jealous of anibody´s papa. Having the best papa in the world, Matthew would be perfectly satisfied whit him. If only he could be certain that Henry was his papa.

If you look for perfection, you will never be satisfied. And it's true, as papa says,—that when we were brought up there was one extreme—we were kept in the basement, while our parents lived in the best rooms; now it's just the other way—the parents are in the wash house, while the children are in the best rooms. Parents now are not expected to live at all, but to exist altogether for their children.

Oh, dear,” she gasped, pulling back. “I just thought of something horrible.” Nigel blinked a few times in confusion. “I don’t mean to criticize, Amelia, but that is hardly the reaction a man looks for when he first kisses the girl he loves.” She clutched at his cravat again, completely demolishing it this time. “You love me?” “Of course I love you,” he said simply. “How could I not? Now, tell me what’s wrong.” “My parents,” she said, feeling rather dazed by everything. “They’ll be furious if I reject Lord Broadmore. Especially for a man…” She trailed off, hating to insult Nigel. And, strictly speaking, he hadn’t yet asked her to marry him. “A man like me,” he finished. “Is it because I don’t have a title?” “Yes, and because you’re not rich. I know how awful that sounds, but you mustn’t think less of them because of it. Mamma and Papa just want the best for me.” He studied her. He didn’t seem offended, but he did look wary. “Are those things important to you, as well?” She winced, hating that she might have made him doubt himself. “No. Well, of course I don’t want to be poor, but I don’t need to be rich, either. And a title means little to me.” She huffed out a sigh. “I’ll just have to reconcile myself to the notion that Mamma and Papa will be angry with me for not marrying Lord Broadmore. Or anyone else, simply because they’re rich.” The tension seemed to bleed from Nigel’s shoulders as his hands drifted down to her waist. “And would you consider marrying a mere gentleman?” “Of course I would, but…” “But what?” She glanced anxiously at Gwen to make sure she was still asleep. Nigel waited patiently for her to respond. “What if my father cuts me off?” When Nigel frowned, Amelia’s heart sank. “Are you sure he would do that?” he asked. She sighed. “It’s certainly possible. I do hope that wouldn’t...” He leaned down to press a swift kiss on her lips. “My dear girl, while I might not be a nobleman, I am as rich as Croesus. Your parents might lament the lack of a title, but I’m sure the marriage settlements will make up for it nicely.” She stared at him. “I thought your fortune was quite modest, by all accounts.” He grinned. “I rarely talk about money, but for you I’ll make an exception.” After he named a staggering sum, Amelia could only gape at him like an idiot. With a little snort of laughter, he tapped her mouth shut. “I do hope your esteemed father will approve,” he said. Amelia pressed a hand over her heart, right where a bubble of joy was expanding outward. “Oh, I think he’ll be able to reconcile himself to the notion. Not that I give a fig how much you’re worth, Mr. Dash.” Nigel made a great show of wiping his brow. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said in a voice warm with laughter. “I’d hate to disappoint either of you.” Amelia went up on her toes to press a kiss on his lips. “That, my dear, wonderful sir, would be quite impossible. After all, you are the nicest, most dependable man in the world.

His father’s solicitude and sympathy were round him day and night, and this, in the midst of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that Norman might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible feelings of grateful affection. How could his father know exactly what he would like—say the very things he was thinking—see that his depression was not wilful repining—find exactly what best soothed him! He wondered, but he could not have said so to any one, only his eye brightened, and, as his sisters remarked, he never seemed half so uncomfortable when papa was in the room. Indeed, the certainty that his father felt the sorrow as acutely as himself, was one reason of his opening to him. He could not feel that his brothers and sisters did so, for, outwardly, their habits were unaltered, their spirits not lowered, their relish for things around much the same as before, and this had given Norman a sense of isolation. With his father it was different. Norman knew he could never appreciate what the bereavement was to him—he saw its traces in almost every word and look, and yet perceived that something sustained and consoled him, though not in the way of forgetfulness.

I don’t know, but I thought they were the best sort of gifts, for I saw that plenty of kind thought and clever contrivance went to them, ay, and some little self-denial too.” “Papa, you look as if you meant something; but ours are nothing but nasty old rubbish.” “Perhaps some fairy, or something better, has brought a wand to touch the rubbish, Blanche; for I think that the maidens gave what would have been worthless kept, but became precious as they gave it.” “Do you mean the list of our flannel petticoats, papa, that Mary has made into a tippet?” “Perhaps I meant Mary’s own time and pains, as well as the tippet. Would she have done much good with them otherwise?” “No, she would have played. Oh! then you like the presents because they are our own making? I never thought of that. Was that the reason you did not give us any of your sovereigns to buy things with?” “Perhaps I want my sovereigns for the eleven gaping mouths at home, Blanche. But would not it be a pity to spoil your pleasure? You would have lost all the chattering and laughing and buzzing I have heard round Margaret of late, and I am quite sure Miss Rivers can hardly be as happy in the gifts that cost her nothing, as one little girl who gives her sugar-plums out of her own mouth!” Blanche clasped her papa’s hand tight, and bounded five or six times. “They are our presents, not yours,” said she. “Yes, I see. I like them better now.

Anna, did you just indirectly admit to liking me?” She drew in a swift breath and saw from his expression that while he was teasing, he was also… fishing. “Of course I like you. I like you entirely too well, and it is badly done of you to make me admit it.” “Well, let’s go from bad to worse, then, and you can tell me precisely why you like me.” “You are serious?” “I am. If you want, I will return the favor, though we have only several hours, and my list might take much longer than that.” He is flirting with me, Anna thought, incredulous. In his high-handed, serious way, the Earl of Westhaven had just paid her a flirtatious compliment. A lightness spread out from her middle, something of warmth and humor and guilty pleasure in it. “All right.” Anna nodded briskly. “I like that you are shy and honorable in the ways that count. I like that you are kind to Morgan, and to your animals, and old Nanny Fran. You are as patient with His Grace as a human can be, and you adore your brother. You are fierce, too, though, and can be decisive when needs must. You are also, I think, a romantic, and this is no mean feat for a man who spends half his days with commercial documents. Mostly, I like that you are good; you look after those who depend on you, you have gratitude for your blessings, and you don’t think enough of yourself.” Beside her, the earl was again silent. “Shall I go on?” Anna asked, feeling a sudden awkwardness. “You could not possibly pay me any greater series of compliments than you just have,” he said. “The man you describe is a paragon, a fellow I’d very much like to meet.” “See?” Anna nudged him with her shoulder. “You do not think enough of yourself. But I can also tell you the parts of you that irritate me—if that will make you feel better?” “I irritate you?” The earl’s eyebrows rose. “This should be interesting. You gave me the good news first, fortifying me for more burdensome truths, so let fly.” “You are proud,” Anna began, her tone thoughtful. “You don’t think your papa can manage anything correctly, and you won’t ask your brothers nor mother nor sisters even, for help with things directly affecting them. I wonder, in fact, if you have anybody you would call a friend.” “Ouch. A very definite ouch, Anna. Go on.” “You have forgotten how to play,” Anna said, “how to frolic, though I cannot fault you for a lack of appreciation for what’s around you. You appreciate; you just don’t seem to… indulge yourself.” “I see. And in what should I indulge myself?” “That is for you to determine,” she replied. “Marzipan has gone over well, I think, and sweets in general. You have indulged your love of music by having Val underfoot. As to what else brings you pleasure, you would be the best judge of that.” The earl turned down a shady lane lined with towering oaks and an understory of rhododendrons in vigorous bloom. “It was you,” he said. “Before Val moved in, I thought it was a neighbor playing the piano late in the evenings, but it was you. Were you playing for me?” Anna glanced off to the park beyond the trees and nodded.

She went silent but shuddered again. When it happened a third time, he realized the woman he was holding was near tears, and he forgot all about thunder, artillery, and infantry. “Miss Farnum?” She burrowed into his chest. “Emmaline?” The crying was still not audible, but her body gave off heat, and when he bent his face to her, his nose grazed her damp cheek. “Hush, now.” He gathered her into his embrace and stroked her hair back from her face in a long, slow caress. “You mustn’t take on. Winnie won’t go anywhere for many years, and you will always be dear to her.” He pattered on, no longer aware of the storm outside, so wrapped up was he with this much more personal upheaval. Her words came back to him, the words about Winnie’s deserving and not having a papa’s affections, Winnie’s not being able to trust a gentleman’s advances, Winnie’s being sent away. Winnie, indeed. He let her cry, and soothed and comforted as best he could, but eventually she quieted. “I am mortified,” she whispered, her face pressed to his chest. “You will think me an unfit influence on Bronwyn.” “I think you very brave,” he said, his nose brushing her forehead. “Very resourceful but also a little tired of being such a good girl and more than a little lonely.” She said nothing for a moment but stopped her nascent struggle to get off his lap. “You forgot, a lot embarrassed,” she said at length. “I get like this—” She stopped abruptly, and he felt heat suffuse her face where her cheek lay against his throat. “You get like this when your menses approach. I have five sisters, if you will recall.” He tried without much success to keep the humor from his voice. “And do they fall weeping into the lap of the first gentleman to show them simple decency?” Emmie asked sternly. “If he were the first gentleman in years of managing on their own, then yes, I think they would be moved to tears.

Oh Mary Sue, she is the most popular girl in the whole entire school. You know, the captain of the cheerleaders, always looks great, I just can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t know if she would ever go for a guy like me, I mean my mommy still picks out my clothes every now and then, and then I walk downstairs to leave and my papa says, “You will never meet anyone looking like that.” I never knew what he was talking about, mommy always picked out the best. She always argued, “You leave him alone, he looks great. You go get that girl. .” So I decided that day it was my time. So last week I decided to pull up my big boy pants and go get my Mary Sue. I walked right up to her and I told her how I felt, you are my soul mate, my life. She looked at me a little funny, and then her boyfriend said, “What are you talking about you little four eyed freak.” In Which I did not get because I only have the two eyes. I don’t think he is very smart. So I looked him right in his two eyes and said, “I am here to claim my love, my girl.” And that is the last thing I remember. I did not get the girl, but the ambulance ride was very comfortable to the hospital.

By the time Papa came on the scene, Georgia had regained self-government and was bound and determined to keep it, despite the best efforts of Yankee imperialists who liked nothing better than to tell other folks how to live their lives.

You look as if you’ve just lost your best friend.” Eve took a place beside Jenny on this observation, which leavened Jenny’s sense of desolation with a spike of resentment. “With all my family around me, how could I possibly be in want of companionship?” Eve watched their mutual siblings stepping through a minuet while their brother Valentine held forth at the piano. “The same way I can long to dance while the minuet plays all around me.” Marriage had settled Eve, and impending motherhood had only honed her already formidable instincts. “You’re admiring your husband, Lady Deene, even when you can’t dance with him.” “He’s promised me a waltz, though Valentine will probably find one to play at the speed of a dirge.” She fell silent for a moment as the dancers one-two-three’d around the space created by the music room and an adjoining parlor. “You would make a wonderful mother, Jenny.” The worst pain was not in the words Eve offered, but the combination of pleading and pity with which she offered them. “Becoming a mother usually contemplates becoming a wife first, and I’ve no wish to wed some man for the sole purpose of bearing his babies.” Not the sole purpose… As the dancers twirled and smiled, it occurred to Jenny that Victor had made her promise not to stop painting, but he hadn’t said anything specific about eschewing motherhood. Had he? Another pause in the conversation, while the music played on. Eve, however, was notably tenacious, so Jenny waited for the next salvo, and Eve did not disappoint. “You look at Bernward the way I look at Deene, the way Maggie looks at Benjamin, the way—” “Louisa looks at Joseph, I suppose.” And Sophie at her baron too, of course. They needn’t start on how the Windham brothers regarded their respective wives. “Louisa’s gaze is a touch more voracious. I was going to say, the way Mama looks at Papa.” Ouch. Ouch, indeed. The duke and duchess turned down the room with the grace of a more elegant age, and yet, their gazes spoke volumes about the sheer pleasure of sharing a dance. Jenny stated the obvious as matter-of-factly as possible. “Their Graces dance beautifully.” Eve’s feet were propped on a hassock. She wiggled her toes in time with the music, the left and right foot partnering each other. “Bernward also dances quite well.” Elijah was dancing with Valentine’s lady, Ellen’s preferred partner being ensconced at the keyboard, as usual. “Bernward is dancing carefully, lest Valentine take exception.” Eve twitched her skirts. “Bernward is dancing with one eye on you, you ninnyhammer, and with the certain knowledge that all three of our brothers are waiting for him to come over here and get you to stand up with him. How many more times do you think you can check on the punch bowl between sets without Bernward taking insult?” Check

Mama, how come Captain Winston’s hair can touch his collar and mine can’t?” Jake eyed her, wondering how she was going to respond. “Because Captain Winston is a grown man, Andrew. And grown men can decide for themselves how long they want their hair to be.” Andrew frowned as he climbed down from the stool. “But boys with mamas can’t?” Jake could tell Aletta was trying not to smile. “That’s right. Once you’re older, then you can decide for yourself how long you want your hair to be.” Andrew seemed to let that settle in, then turned to Jake. “Has your mama died, Captain Winston?” Jake nodded. “Yes, Andrew. She has.” “Your papa too?” “Yes,” he answered softly. “And my only brother.” “Do you miss ’em?” “Every day.” “I miss my papa too.” Andrew bowed his head. Jake knelt beside him. “You know, as the years have passed, I can still feel my family with me. In here.” Jake touched the place over his heart. “Just like you’ll do with your papa . . . who was a very wise and good man. And you’ll grow up to be just like him someday.” Without warning, Andrew launched himself at him, and Jake hugged him close, the little boy’s arms around his neck about the best thing he could ever remember feeling. “It’s going to be okay, buddy.” “You promise?” Andrew whispered against his neck. “I promise,” Jake whispered back, praying he could be part of keeping that promise in the boy’s life.

Button had been filled with tremendous hope that the first chapter would be sold to a magazine as a story, but she had reckoned without God. The picture was clear now, for the first chapter should not have been printed that way, separated from the rest of the story. Although she had shed many a year with each subsequent rejection slip from various magazine editors, now she was thankful for them. How shortsighted humans are, she was thinking. God sees clearly far into eternity and He had known it was for Button's best interest not to succeed with those magazines for if she had, she wouldn't today be hugging this book to her heart

Everything you were designed to experience and enjoy is found in God. Knowing God is your life and your highest joy. You either believe that or you don’t. Believe it and you will experience and enjoy life, real life, eventually. Guaranteed. Disbelieve it and, at best, you will experience counterfeit life and enjoy it only for a season.

Beneath the previously mentioned disappointments on both sides and the disputes I have mentioned there lurked a deep-seated bitterness and disillusionment over the images of one another that we had fashioned for ourselves. Occasionally such feelings were expressed under the veil of an exchange of letters that the infant Stefan and I would leave out for each other. Stefan’s letters were in Dora’s handwriting, but they were written with Walter’s knowledge and possibly even with his participation. On June 20—six weeks after my arrival!—Stefan wrote me with reference to a letter of mine that, as far as I recall, never existed: Dear Uncle Gerhardt [sic]: Herewith I am sending you a better photo of me which has arrived in the meantime. Thank you very much for your letter; various things may be said about it, and that is why I am writing you, for if I visit you, you will again tell me so many things that I won’t be able to get a word in edgeways. Well then, first I must tell you that you ought to know I no longer remember. For if I could remember, I certainly would not be here, where it is so unpleasant and you are creating such a bad atmosphere; no, I long since would have returned where I came from. That’s why I can’t read the end of your letter. My mother read the rest to me. Incidentally, I have very strange parents; but more about that later. When I was in town yesterday, something occurred to me: When I grow up, I’m going to be your pupil. Better start thinking now. Best of all, start keeping a little book in which you note everything down. Now I will tell you something about my parents. I won’t say anything about my mother, because she is, after all, my mother. But I have all sorts of things to tell you about my father. You are wrong in what you write, dear Uncle Gerhardt. I believe you really know very little about my Papa. There are very few people who know anything about him. Once, when I was still in heaven, you wrote him a letter that made all of us think that you did know him. But perhaps you don’t after all. I think a man like that is born only once in a great while, and then you just have to be kind to him and he will do everything else by himself. You, dear Uncle Gerhardt, still think that one has to do a great deal. Perhaps I shall also think that way when I am a grown man, but now I think more like my Mama, that is, not at all or very little; and so all this to-do and the great excitement over everything seems much less important to me than which way the wind is blowing. But I don’t want to be smart-alecky, for you know everything much better. That’s the whole trouble. Many regards from Stefan

Father by Maisie Aletha Smikle In the image of God You were created Bestowed with God's love You always rise above To overcome whatever may Come your way Be it small as a pin Or big as an anchor With your loving arms You comforted me And consoled me Like a father should You guided me You protected me You sheltered me You fed me You clothed me You shielded me With your tower of strength Bullies stayed at arms length I run to you for help You said Come my loving child And rest for a while My worries you take And place in your pockets You promise to be the rock I could always lean on Promises you kept  Until your very last breath Rest sweet Papa rest You have done your utmost best

After you told me about the shirt cuff, I told you about the time I spilled ink on a map in my father's study." He shook his head, baffled. "It was a rare two-hundred-year-old map of the British Isles," Merritt explained. "I'd gone into my father's study to play with a set of inkwell bottles, which I'd been told not to do. But they were such tempting little etched glass bottles, and one of them was filled with the most resplendent shade of emerald green you've ever seen. I dipped a pen in it, and accidentally dribbled some onto the map, which had been spread out on his desk. It made a horrid splotch right in the middle of the Oceanus Germanicus. I was standing there, weeping with shame, when Papa walked in and saw what had happened." "What did he do?" Keir asked, now looking interested. "He was quiet at first. Waging a desperate battle with his temper, I'm sure. But then his shoulders relaxed, and he said in a thoughtful tone, 'Merritt, I suspect if you drew some legs on that blotch, it would make an excellent sea monster.' So I added little tentacles and fangs, and I drew a three-masted ship nearby." She paused at the flash of Keir's grin, the one that never failed to make her a bit light-headed. "He had it framed and hung it on the wall over his desk. To this day, he claims it's his favorite work of art." Amusement tugged at one corner of his mouth. "A good father," he commented.

Hyacinth let her voice grow even louder. “Mama is amazing and the best cook and baker and her food is delicious! And Papa is the best papa in the world! And you are mean and you make us all feel bad about ourselves and you never have anything good to say about anyone. And you won’t go to Mama’s bakery, and I think it’s because you’re afraid to see that Mama is following her dream. And Oliver is great at basketball and he’s smart too, and Isa is the best violin player and is one day going to be the most famous violinist and tour all over Europe, and Jessie will study important science things and help the world be a better place, and I don’t know what Laney is going to do but she’s going to be amazing at whatever she does because she is the nicest person to ever live and gets along with everyone. So stop making us feel bad about ourselves and if you don’t have something nice to say, then don’t say anything at all!

It’s like wise old Papa Yoder says, “Many times silence and time is the best remedy.” The Amish know that misfortune can strike at any time, to anyone, at any place, and so they carry on. The goats must be fed, the cows must be milked, and little Tobias must be forgiven for sleeping in church.

Papa tells me, “Be patient with yourself, one stitch at a time. By going too fast, you can miss the details of the process. It’s best to take your time and enjoy each moment.

Instead of heeding her advice to listen to his conscience, Stromboli had tricked her. Lied to her. The first way you begin to lose yourself is with a lie, Mamma had taught her. A lie keeps growing and growing until it's as plain as the nose on your face. "Mamma's wise words," Chiara murmured to herself. "If only they would help Stromboli, too." As soon as she uttered the command, the wand in Stromboli's hand began to glow. The boy laughed and laughed, thinking gold was about to rain from the ceiling and that his wish would soon come true. But the magic gathered around his nose... which began to grow. "Papa!" he screamed, coming to a halt. Remo seized his stool, raising it high and threateningly. "What are you doing to my son?" "Teaching him something that you would also do well to learn," Chiara replied. Outwardly, she maintained her composure, but her heart raced as she witnessed the wand's power. Let it be temporary, she commended it silently. "You will treat others the way you wish to be treated. And a lie will not get you what you want.

Misha still calls them Mr. and Mrs. Aslanhov. He never felt comfortable referring to them as Mama and Papa. Misha bonded with Alek, their youngest son, and they’ve become best friends over the years, seeing as they’re the same age.

Papa puts an arm around her. “This is what those Nazis make us do, huh? Live like barbarians. But the best revenge, my Eva, is just that—to live.…

deciding how best to play with Bambi before taking her down. Fallyn met his gaze, refusing to feel small in his presence, though in her bare feet, she was exactly that. “Your whole family spat on my mother’s casket, but you’re bringing me flowers?” “Papa D left the family business to me, and I’m tired of burying people. Aren’t you?” “Well, yeah. I’ve been trying to make peace for years, but you never seemed up for it. Now you’re bringing me flowers?” Tired of holding onto the declaration of a truce, Vince laid the bouquet on the employee desk. “I guess I am. You’re well within your rights to open a store here. Killian and I have an understanding. I trust you’re keeping everything above board?” Fallyn raised her chin defiantly, knowing her sass made her look every bit the twelve years younger than him she was. “Our family never dealt.” His lower lip tightened. “I’m well aware. I was talking about the loan sharking. None of that going on through here?” Fallyn took a steadying breath. “Killian’s moving the family business away from sharking so he can dole out more reasonable loans, and I was never involved in any of that when we did. You know that. It’s just a bakery, nothing more.” “We stopped dealing, too. I was just checking.” “You can check with Killian. You know he’s in charge.” “Yes, but I can tell if you’re lying to me or not. With them, it’s anybody’s guess. I want things to stay peaceful. With one look, you’re an open book.” He motioned around the kitchen. “More things like this happening is what I want.” He lowered his gaze to hers, piercing her with his icy stare that was both scrutinizing and superior. “Joey told me he was here last week. Did he cause any trouble?” “No, but he probably should stay away for a bit. He showed up fishing for trouble, and Danny and Carrigan almost gave him exactly that.

One of my favorite songs by you is “I Don’t Stress” whenever I’m having a bad day, I tell myself, - weight on my shoulders bring the best out of me nigga. It’s one of my favorite lyrics by you.

MSN GROUP: Mystery’s Lounge SUBJECT: Field Report—Life at Project Hollywood AUTHOR: Sickboy For those who don’t know, I’ve been sleeping in Papa’s closet at Project Hollywood. Today was the best day I’ve ever had here, despite all the crazy drama that has been going on. I woke up earlier than usual and went surfing in Malibu with Style and his girlfriend, who is really an amazing person. Seeing how cool they get along is really inspiring. He’s one of the few people I’ve met in the game who has something great to show for all the effort he’s put into it. The surfing was amazing. I was so happy to go because I haven’t gone yet this summer. I recommend taking up the sport to anyone who’s never tried it. As soon as you hit the water, your mind clears and it’s almost impossible to think of anything else. It’s truly a relaxing experience. Afterward, we ate at a fish stand right at the edge of the Pacific Ocean and had a great conversation about music, friends, traveling, life, and careers. When I returned to the house, I did some work. Then I watched The Last Dragon with Playboy, whom I’ve become good friends with. During the movie, Herbal and Mystery talked outside and settled their differences. Though Mystery’s still upset at Katya, he said he wouldn’t hold it against Herbal for falling in love with her. And Herbal said that if Mystery paid for the damages to his room, he’d forgive Mystery for his behavior. Thank God. It’s good to see this thing ended in a sane way. Mystery will be moving out of the house tomorrow anyway, which I think is a shame. At about 2:00 A.M., Playboy, Mystery, and I sat in the main room smoking a hookah, listening to music, and talking about our goals in life. I didn’t have a single conversation today about sarging, pickup, or the community. My day was filled with real conversations with real friends. I didn’t need to fuck some L.A. bimbo from the Saddle Ranch for validation. In fact, I didn’t do a single set all day. These are the days that make life worth living. These are also the days that I will miss when I move out of Project Hollywood. —Sickboy

There was one time when Papa asked him, 'Bunso, why do you love me?' We were surprised when he answered, 'I love you because I love you.' I guess it means that for Bunso, love needs no explanations, no buts, no ifs. For him, love is love, plain and simple. For him, both the quantity and quality of time that we give him are acts of love and he does his very best to reciprocate by being the most sweet and affectionate little boy that he is right now.

Life is about choices, and no matter which ones you make, I love you. Don’t ever apologize for going one way or another, just know you can always change. You’re living proof of that, aren’t you? I’ve learned from my mistakes, too. Your papa and I, we both did. We should have let you do what made you happy, not what we thought was best.

They don’t mention earthquakes in that one Mamas & Papas song and it’s a bummer cuz it’s the best part about living in california.

She attempted to brush away Emma’s tears, but the child shrank back. Surprised at the reaction, McKenna sought to comfort her with words. “Before your mama passed away, she asked me to take care of you. And I promised her I would. I’m here now, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’re going to live together in this house you love, that your papa built. And I’ll be here whenever you need anything, okay?” She reached out to hug her, but Emma’s tearful scowl told her the affection wasn’t welcome. Dr. Foster came around to their side of the bed and leaned down to pick up Emma. She went to him willingly, which stung. McKenna tried her best not to show it. Emma was only a child, after all. But when Emma laid her head on Dr. Foster’s shoulder, McKenna couldn’t mask the hurt. He cradled Emma’s head. “Don’t let this upset you, Miss Ashford. I delivered Emma. She’s known me her entire life. Vince and Janie used to have me out for Sunday lunch after church, too, so we’ve gotten to know each other real well. Give it time. She’ll come around to you.” As if on cue, Emma looped her thin arms around his neck and gave McKenna a look that said quite the opposite. A familiar dread clawed its way up the back of McKenna’s throat. “Of course,” she forced out, nodding. “I understand.” And she did. She was a stranger to the girl. But understanding didn’t remove the sting of rejection, and she wondered again if Janie had made the right choice. And if she’d made the right choice in coming West to begin with.

I’m going to marry Leo someday.” I smiled at that. “You are?” I asked. Matty nodded. “Does he want to marry you?” Another nod and then Matty was sitting up. “We talked about it. He’s my best friend like Daddy is Papa’s best friend. And I’m his.” “Okay,

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m glad we got the chance to see it.” “It reminds me of the country. Of home.” He heard the wistful note in her voice. “Gwen misses it, too. She wishes you could all be home for Christmas at Easton Manner.” He turned toward her, leaning against the window frame. She’d never really noticed it before, but his shoulders were quite nicely broad. “Is that what you’d like for Christmas too, Amelia? To be home with your family?” She thought for a moment, then decided to tell the truth. “No, I would like not to have to marry Lord Broadmore.” The sudden intensity in Nigel’s gaze set her already pounding heart tripping over itself. “Then why should you?” he asked in a low voice. She returned her gaze to the snowy square, avoiding his eye. “I suspect you already know the answer—my unfortunate reputation. Besides, my parents approve of Broadmore and are eager to see us married. In their eyes, he will make the perfect husband.” His hand came to her arm and gently turned her to face him. “Amelia, no true friend would think less of you for ending your previous engagements. They were simply mistakes you learned from.” “I’ve been called a heartless jilt by more than one person, you know,” she said, trying to make a joke of a label that had wounded her deeply. “They were wrong,” he said, looking stern. “But tell me why your parents are so eager for you to marry Broadmore. We both know he’s an unrepentant ass.” His blunt speech surprised a laugh out of her. “True, but an ass with a title and several magnificent estates. Papa is determined that I marry as well as possible.” She grimaced. “He says a girl of my looks and fortune deserves the very best.” Nigel smiled. “Your father is correct, but not for those reasons. You do have a very pretty face and your fortune is enviable, but those are not the best part of you.” She had to force the words from her tight throat. “What is?” He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. The breath whooshed out of her lungs and she clutched his hand in a convulsive grip. “It’s your heart, Amelia. Your lovely, kind heart,” he said with a smile that melted her from the inside out. “And now that you’ve told me what you don’t want for Christmas, tell me what you do want.” When Amelia thought of all the obstacles facing them, her courage almost failed. But it was Christmas, the time for wishes and dreams to come true. “I want to marry a kind, loving man who will be a good husband and father. A man who will see me as I truly am, and not as a decorative knick-knack and a means for plumping up his bank account.” Nigel gently cupped her chin with his free hand. “My sweet girl that is only what you deserve.” She stared at him, mesmerized. “And what do you want for Christmas, Mr. Dash?” she finally whispered. His lips parted in a devastatingly tender smile. “A kiss, Amelia. One kiss for Christmas.” She felt her mouth curl up in a silly grin. “Only one?” He let out a husky laugh. “To start.” Then he bent and gently, carefully—as if he didn’t want to frighten her—brushed a kiss across her lips.

But Papa Bear couldn’t have been more wrong. The Thanksgiving Legend was coming on strong. Not more than ten or twelve miles away, at that very moment of that very day, in a dark, murky forest, the ground was shaking. From crane fly to croc, swamp creatures were quaking. Something was coming. The creatures were frantic. Something enormous. Something gigantic. It was Bigpaw, of course. He was bigger by far than Paul Bunyan’s horse, with shoulders like boulders, ditto his knees, with paws big as dumpsters and arms thick as trees. Out of the forest he came and he went, each footfall leaving a monster-sized dent. But Papa just scoffed and puffed out his chest. “Just forget about monsters and all of the rest. Because, my dears, I beg to suggest, when it comes to holidays, your Papa knows best.

But Papa just scoffed and puffed out his chest. “Just forget about monsters and all of the rest. Because, my dears, I beg to suggest, when it comes to holidays, your Papa knows best. I’m a bear for holidays! I like ‘em all-- whether in winter, spring, summer, or fall! “And your Pa has perfect holiday habits. On Easter, I always make way for rabbits, and say a small poem for spring and rebirth. On Earth Day, of course, I cherish the Earth. “On Christmas Day, I think of others-- fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. On Arbor Day, I walk to the trees. “Hello, tree!” But Thanksgiving’s the best holiday, if you please-- the one that for me is really the winner. Why? Thanksgiving dinner!”

What has put that look on your face, Sophie?” “What look?” She laid the child in the cradle where Vim had set it near the hearth. “Like you just lost your best friend.” “I was thinking of fostering Kit.” And just like that, she was blinking back tears. She tugged the blankets up around the baby, who immediately set about kicking them away. “Naughty baby,” she whispered. “You’ll catch a chill.” “Sophie?” A large male hand landed on her shoulder. “Sophie, look at me.” She shook her head and tried again to secure Kit’s blankets. “My dear, you are crying.” Another hand settled on the opposite shoulder, and now the kindness was palpable in his voice. Vim turned her gently into his embrace and wrapped both arms around her. It wasn’t a careful, tentative hug. It was a secure embrace. He wasn’t offering her a fleeting little squeeze to buck her up, he was holding her, his chin propped on her crown, the entire solid length of his body available to her for warmth and support. Which had the disastrous effect of turning a trickle of tears into a deluge. “I can’t keep him.” She managed four words around the lump in her throat. “To think of him being passed again into the keeping of strangers… I can’t…” “Hush.” He held a hanky up to her nose, one laden with the bergamot scent she already associated with him. For long minutes, Sophie struggled to regain her equilibrium while Vim stroked his hand slowly over her back. “Babies do this,” Vim said quietly. “They wear you out physically and pluck at your heartstrings and coo and babble and wend their way into your heart, and there’s nothing you can do stop it. Nobody is asking you to give the child up now.” “They won’t have to ask. In my position, I can’t be keeping somebody else’s castoff—” She stopped, hating the hysterical note that had crept into her voice and hating that she might have just prompted the man to whom she was clinging to ask her what exactly her position was. “Kit is not a castoff. He’s yours, and you’re keeping him. Maybe you will foster him elsewhere for a time, but he’ll always be yours too.” She didn’t quite follow the words rumbling out of him. She focused instead on the feel of his arms around her, offering support and security while she parted company temporarily with her dignity. “You are tired, and that baby has knocked you off your pins, Sophie Windham. You’re borrowing trouble if you try to sort out anything more complicated right now than what you’ll serve him for dinner.” She’d grown up with five brothers, and she’d watched her papa in action any number of times. She knew exactly what Vim was up to, but she took the bait anyway. “He loved the apples.” This time when Vim offered her his handkerchief, she took it, stepping back even as a final sigh shuddered through her. “He

I have a few things I need to talk to you about today, honey,” she says. “First, I want an update on this guy you met.” I’ve made a point to keep it vague with her. She knows that I’m crushing on someone, but not that I went on a little trip with him. Or that he hasn’t been back to see me since. “I don’t know, Gram.” I sigh into the phone. “I don’t think he’s interested in me like that.” “Impossible!” “I mean, I thought so, maybe. But I haven’t seen him in, like, a week. I think I might need to just forget about it. I’m coming home soon anyway, right?” “Well, that’s very logical of you,” she says. “All I can say is follow your heart, honey. Sometimes it’s best to ignore your head.” “I think I’m the one being ignored, Gram.” “Your Papa used to say that whatever happens is the way it was always going to happen, so live your life. Regret nothing.

The children hadn't any Mamma. She had died when Phil was a baby, four years before my story began. Katy could remember her pretty well; to the rest she was but a sad, sweet name, spoken on Sunday, and at prayer-times, or when Papa was especially gentle and solemn. In place of this Mamma, whom they recollected so dimly, there was Aunt Izzie, Papa's sister, who came to take care of them when Mamma went away on that long journey, from which, for so many months, the little ones kept hoping she might return. Aunt Izzie was a small woman, sharp-faced and thin, rather old-looking, and very neat and particular about everything. She meant to be kind to the children, but they puzzled her much, because they were not a bit like herself when she was a child. Aunt Izzie had been a gentle, tidy little thing, who loved to sit as Curly Locks did, sewing long seams in the parlor, and to have her head patted by older people, and be told that she was a good girl; whereas Katy tore her dress every day, hated sewing, and didn't care a button about being called "good," while Clover and Elsie shied off like restless ponies when any one tried to pat their heads. It was very perplexing to Aunt Izzie, and she found it hard to quite forgive the children for being so "unaccountable," and so little like the good boys and girls in Sunday-school memoirs, who were the young people she liked best, and understood most about.