It´s like you get started in one direction and pick up speed, and you may forget where you´re going and why,but the momentum takes you there anyway. Only, you find out when you arrive that it isn´t where you wanted to be.

Tombstones don´t list jobs, they list relationships-mother, wife, daughter.

I had nothing to fear from my father.Except his disappointment.Which was no small thing.

So, is it harder to dream about what you don´t have than to live in fear of losing what you do?

Every woman feels. It just takes the right man to make things combust.

When the truth emerges, it can’t be ignored. Nor will it wait.

Being friends is different from being lovers. It’s a sea change.

Confrontation is what happens when you are less than honest and you get caught.

Some women are born with an instinct for knowing how things work—and what to do when they break.

Especially at a time when one's life was new, roots helped.

There, on the far side of of the Atlantic, would be Maine, but despite the shared ocean, her island and this one were worlds apart. Where Inishmaan was gray and brown, its fragile man-made soil supporting only the hardiest of low-growing plants, the fertile Quinnipeague invited tall pines in droves, not to mention vegetables, flowers, and improbable, irrepressible herbs. Lifting her head, eyes closed now, she breathed in the damp Irish air and the bit of wood smoke that drifted on the cold ocean wind. Quinnipeague smelled of wood smoke, too, since early mornings there could be chilly, even in summer. But the wood smoke would clear by noon, giving way to the smell of lavender, balsam, and grass. If the winds were from the west, there would be fry smells from the Chowder House; if from the south, the earthiness of the clam flats; if from the northeast, the purity of sweet salt air.

The question was whether James would love me if I was someone else.

What she did have, after raising two children, was the equivalent of a PhD in mothering and my undying respect.

It feels like forever, like he's lived through the same things as me, like our lives ran parallel for years until last week, when they finally intersected and fused.

Aim high, hit high.

She thought about this. She had analyzed it in depth. When you live alone, travel alone, exist solely on the outskirts of other people's lives, you do have time to wonder why what you want most in life is out of reach. You also have the time to tell yourself that you don't want it at all, though whether you can ever be completely convinced is something else.

Home development is about wishful thinking. It's about capturing a dream.

Charlotte Evans was used to feeling grungy. As a freelancer, she traveled on a shoestring, getting stories other writers did not, precisely because she wasn't fussy about how she lived. In the last twelve months, she had survived dust while writing about elephant keepers in Kenya, ice while writing about the spirit bear of British Columbia, and flies while writing about a family of nomads in India.

Every man wants love, if he can get past the fear of exposure.

So where does that leave me? I like hosting the show....It’s become my identity. If that’s gone, where am I?

The important part of growing older was the growing part. Resisting change meant forever standing still, which was a sad way to live.

Rain didn't make things messy. People did that all on their own.

June would always be Charlotte's favorite month on Quinnipeague. She loved the frothy roil of the sea as it recovered from a day of rain, and in those early mornings, before the fog lifted and sun warmed the island, there was nothing, nothing better than a wood fire, wool socks, and hot chocolate made from scratch.

French toast? Frittata?Definitely frittata.Leaving the table again, she transferred a small packet from freezer to fridge. It was salmon, home-smoked on the island and more delicious than any she had ever found elsewhere. Smoked salmon wasn't Cecily's doing, but the dried basil and thyme she took from the herb rack were. Taking a vacuum-sealed package of sun-dried tomatoes from the cupboard, she set it on the counter beside the herbs. Frittata, hot biscuits, and fruit salad. With mimosas. And coffee. That sounded right. Eaten out on the deck maybe?No, not on the deck, unless the prevailing winds turned suddenly warm.They would eat here in the kitchen, with whatever flowers the morning produced. Surely more lavender. A woman could never have enough lavender- or daylilies or astilbe, neither of which should bloom this early, but both of which had looked further along than the lavender, yesterday morning, so you never knew.