Quotes by Susan Wiggs

I see the way he looks at you when youre not aware of his gaze. I see the way you care for him. And so when you think he wants you gone, it is not that. He is simply afraid to lose you.

There is something about losing your mother that is permanent and inexpressable - a wound that will never quite heal.

This is the first real food Ive had since the patisserie trolley at the Bordeaux airport, Shannon said. She took a bite, and an expression of rapture came over her face. Theyll probably close the borders of France to me for saying this, but Ive never had a better quiche lorraine.Tesss mother possessed a combination of Irish charm and whimsy and American directness. According to Tess, these traits had served her well in her profession and maybe in her social life. As a mother, perhaps not so much, judging by what Tess had said. With her auburn hair and English tea rose complexion, Shannon didnt really look like anyones mother.

She caught herself working so hard at mothering that she forgot to enjoy her children. -from ~Homecoming Season~

The undulating terrain was cloaked in lush abundance, the vineyards like garlands of deep green and yellow, orchards and farms sprouting here and there, hillocks of dry golden grass crowned by beautiful sun-gilt houses, barns and silos. And overhead was the bluest sky shed ever seen, as bright and hard polished as marble.There was something about the landscape that caught at her emotions. It was both lush and intimidating, its beauty so abundant. Far from the bustle of the city, she was a complete stranger here, like Dorothy stepping out of her whirling house into the land of Oz. Farm stands overflowing with local produce marked the long driveways into farms with whimsical names- Almost Paradise, One Bad Apple, Toad Hollow. Boxes and bushels were displayed on long, weathered tables. Between the farms, brushy tangles of berries and towering old oak trees lined the roadway.

The garden flourished that summer because Magnuss mother was determined to feed her family despite the depredations of the distant war. In the fall, there were beans and tomatoes and pickles to can, and jar after jar of applesauce. Mamas hives yielded fresh honey, and then willow skeps were winterized. The bees would not come out until the air warmed and the sun appeared.

The estate looked vast and prosperous- on the surface, at least. Bella Vista was stunningly lovely, the orchards well tended and clearly productive. If there was a place in the world that was closer to heaven, she wasnt aware of it. Bella Vista- Beautiful View. A panorama view of the orchards, herb and flower fields radiated outward from the patio. The scents of ripe apples, lavender and roses rode the breeze, mingling with the mind-melting aroma of Isabels fresh-baked croissants.

Servers moved among the guests with trays of hors doeuvres and the signature cocktail, champagne with a honey infused liqueur and a delicate spiral twist of lemon.The banquet was bursting with color and flavor- flower-sprinkled salads, savory chili roasted salmon, honey glazed ribs, just-harvested sweet corn, lush tomatoes and berries, artisan cheeses. Everything had been harvested within a fifty-mile radius of Bella Vista.The cake was exactly what Tess had requested, a gorgeous tower of sweetness. Tess offered a gracious speech as she and Dominic cut the first slices. Ive come a long way from the city girl who subsisted on Red Bull and microwave burritos, she said. Theres quite a list of people to thank for that- my wonderful mother, my grandfather and my beautiful sister who created this place of celebration. Most of all, Im grateful to Dominic. She turned to him, offering the first piece on a yellow china plate. Youre my heart, and there is no sweeter feeling than the love we share. Not even this cake. Wait, that might be overstating it. Everyone, be sure you taste this cake. Its one of Isabels best recipes.

at the center of every fairy tale lay a truth that gave the story its power.

Wake up & Smell The Hot Chocolate ! ~ Eddie Havens

Talent is required, but much of writing is a matter of craft, which develops with time, attention, patience and practice, like playing an instrument or learning to dance.

“Her name was a silent song on his lips. Her love was like a circle in the water, radiating ever outward, inevitably encompassing even the remotest of hearts.”