“He told her the story of the missionary's bride who wrote home describing her bungalow in an African forest clearing. "Outside my window as I write is a magnificent hibiscus with hundreds of blooms making a splendid splash of color against the jungle." A year later, she wrote again, and she said outside her window was that "damned hibiscus, still blooming.”

“Katie cleared her throat again. Then she looked into the window at her gums. She said, "To change the subject, do you think I could tell if I had gingivitis?”

“She'd filled twelve notebooks and still she hadn't stopped. Indeed, the more she wrote, the louder the stories seemed to grow, swirling in her mind, pressing against her head, anxious for release. She didn't know whether they were any good and in truth she didn't care. They were hers, and writing made them real somehow.”

“— and there, on the table under her bedroom window, lies the voice that has set her dreaming again. Fragments of a life lived a long, long time ago. Across a hundred years the woman’s voice speaks to her — so clearly that she cannot believe it is not possible to pick up her pen and answer.”

“We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses blooming outside our windows today”

“He stalked up behind her to clench her hips, and she stilled.In a breathy voice, she asked, "You're going to make love to me again, aren't you?"In answer,he lifted her onto the counter, tore off her shift, then pressed her naked body back into the blooms.”