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Margaret Stohl

Margaret Stohl Books

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Jo & Laurie

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Forever Red

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Icons

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Idols

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“Love was madness, was foolish, was senseless. Love was a problem, and yet somehow the loss of it was a worse one. Love made normal things, sensible things, make no sense at all. It made Meg almost refuse a good man who loved her. It made their mama give all their bread to the Hummels and wait forever for a chaplain husband who was practically a ghost. It made Amy and Poppet speak in their own private language, the language of long-lost and now-reunited twins, shipwrecked together in the seas of some faraway world. It made familiar things terrifying, and terrifying things familiar. It burned the wings off moths, sending them headlong into the flame. There was no escape, no recovery, no happy ending. You loved and you lost. Your heart beat and the beating left it bruised beyond recognition. You could feel it, or try not to feel it, or long for it, but you didn't get to keep it. It didn't matter how, or even why. He loved you or he didn't. She died or she didn't. He left or he didn't. In the end, you were always the loneliest person in the world, no matter who you were. Because that was what love was, the very raggedy edge of that feeling, the coming or the going of it. There was nothing else. Only shadows.”

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“Meg watched her sister stand up straight to buck up her courage. Perhaps no one but a sister would have seen the little tremble in Jo's chin, the hurt in her eyes. Laurie certainly didn't seem to notice. Only Meg felt all the air go out of the room as she realized Jo was very close to tears - that in another minute they would have a scene on their hands, and it would all come out at last. Instead, Jo said, 'Congratulations, Laurie. I hope you're very happy together.' And she ran up the stairs and away before he could say another word.”

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“There are no eyes like those in the whole world, she thought. Eyes like glaciers, like cold northern afternoons. Lapis eyes, blue-sky blue. She hadn't known how much she loved them. And that face. She loved the frown. She loved the furrowed brow. She loved the one irritated eyebrow. She loved the total indifference, the moment one idea or another pushed her temporarily out of his thoughts. She loved it because she loved the sweetness, in the other moments, when he came back to her. The softening, when she came near.”

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“Every cell in her body was screaming at her to flee, but every beat of her heart was telling her to stay. And now she knew. She did belong to him, because he belonged to her, and they belonged to each other. There was no wedding vow that needed to be spoken for her to understand that. Even unmarried, even under separate roofs, they belonged together. No suitable wife would ever care for him more.”

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“And in that moment - sitting on the splintering veranda steps of Orchard House, surrounded by Vegetable Valley, looking up at the first and last great love of her life - Josephine March knew precisely what to do. And even more, she knew she was going to do it. Risk it. Embrace it. Maybe even, one day, lose it. Love. It would be her honor and her pleasure to go down with this particular ship. They could be dashed together upon the rocks, sink together to the ocean floor. Only blurry, ink-splotched pages to mark their watery grave. Because it was always our story. It just never had the right ending.”

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“Amy sulked. 'And they're not even talking about anything. They never are. Just loads and loads of nonsense.' Meg patted her sister's arm. 'Only they know what they're talking about, Amy, but I do believe - in their own way - it's not nonsense.' 'Shipwrecks and sunken manuscripts and Jo's Venetian?!' Amy looked at Meg, confused. 'If that's not nonsense, what is it?' Meg circled her arm affectionately around her little sister's slender shoulders. 'He's Jo's Cherry King, don't you see?' 'I do,' said Amy. 'But does she?”

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“Aunt Mercy put down her tiles, one at a time. I-T-C-H-I-N. Aunt Grace leaned closer to the board, squinting. "Mercy Lynne, you're cheatin' again! What kinda word is that? Use it in a sentence." "I'm itchin' ta have some a that white cake." "That's not how you spell it." At least one of them could spell. Aunt Grace pulled one of the tiles off the board. "There's no T in itchin'." Or not.”

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