Gillian Harvey

“Stories, they are human souls trapped in words. One soul calling to another, across pages, miles, sometimes centuries. And they tell us the thing we need to know more than anything. That we are not alone. That we can connect. Maybe the writer and the reader will never meet. Maybe the writer has been dead many years. But there is a voice saying “We have the same mind, the same thoughts. Do not worry. You are heard. You are understood.” It is this.’ Monique said, tapping her chest. ‘This is what heals us.”
― Gillian Harvey, The Little Provence Book Shop

“a while the anger made me feel that I didn’t love him. But I do. I know now that I still do.’ ‘Your ’usband?’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I still love Ben. And it’s wretched because I know that he doesn’t love me any more. That he doesn’t want me enough. He’s back in England and—’ her voice was suddenly thick with tears ‘—I don’t even know if he’s OK or not. I can’t… we don’t even speak.’ The sky, that had been darkening slightly, rumbled as if in sympathy. A single drop of rain fell on the ground between them. ‘It’s OK,’ Frédérique said, his expression kind. ‘You do not ’ave to explain.’ ‘But I do,’ she said. ‘Because you’ve done all this. And it’s so, so wonderful. And you deserve so much better. But I couldn’t say yes to your proposal, or even a proper date, when deep down I know that if Ben was to walk through the door right now, I’d take him back without question.’ There was a silence. Frédérique’s eyes became distant as he focused over her shoulder and she wondered whether he was trying not to cry. Her guests, standing taking in the spectacle, broadcast to all over loudspeaker, fell silent too, as if in sympathy.”
― Gillian Harvey, A Year at the French Farmhouse