That smell of fresh roses at the wedding still gets me. The starched white tablecloths, crystal glasses
It felt distinctly brisk in London that Monday morning, the kind of chill that seeped right through wool
In the corridor of a women’s clinic, an elderly woman sat on a bench. Beside her was a slender girl
Emily gave the cottage one last glance. Everything seemed in order—teacups neatly stacked, the twins’
Right, so get this – never understood why Emily’s luck with fellas was so rubbish.
Then a jolt shattered my waxen paralysis—champagne coursing down my dress like liquid ice—as Penelope’s
Clara and the Unseen Father Clara never hated her stepfather, but she certainly didn’t like him.
At the tail end of the globe, where polar bears wade through snowdrifts and midges rule summer skies
Late at night, my phone rang. I answered it to hear my daughter’s voice. “Mom, it’s me, Emily.
Right, so listen to this… nobody in Larkfield village could figure out why Emily Bishop was having