A few days before one of my books is released, I always find myself thinking about the journey that brought it into being—and about the readers who are preparing to enter its world for the first time.

By the time a book reaches publication day, I have lived with its characters for so long that they no longer feel imaginary to me. I know their fears, their secrets, their stubborn habits, and the truths they are not yet ready to admit to themselves. Letting readers meet them is exciting, but it also feels a little like introducing close friends and hoping they will be loved.

A Timeless Equation, Book Five in my Upon a Time series, will be released on September 22. Before it arrives, I would like to share five things about the story—without revealing the secrets waiting inside.

1. The Story Begins With a Brother’s Love

At the center of A Timeless Equation is Andrew Morris, Nika’s younger brother.

Andrew is a mathematician—a man who believes that every problem has an answer if one is patient, disciplined, and clever enough to find it. Numbers follow rules. Equations can be tested. Patterns may be hidden, but they exist. His sister’s disappearance follows no rules at all. Nika seemingly vanished under baffling circumstances, leaving behind questions no one could answer. As time passes, others begin to accept that the mystery may never be solved. Andrew cannot.

His determination to understand what happened to Nika becomes the driving force behind his work. He is not interested in theories for the sake of intellectual curiosity. He is searching for something deeply personal: a path to the sister he refuses to believe is beyond his reach.

Long before this becomes a story about time, it is a story about family—and about the promises we make to the people we love, even when they are not there to hear them.

2. The Mathematics Matters—but the Heart Matters More

The title A Timeless Equation reflects Andrew’s world. He trusts mathematics because it offers him order in a life disrupted by the impossible. But what happens when the numbers begin to suggest something that logic says cannot exist? Andrew’s calculations lead him toward a possibility too extraordinary to accept and too compelling to ignore. The equation may offer a path, but mathematics alone cannot prepare him for what waits at the end of it.

Numbers can reveal coordinates. They can expose patterns. They can point toward a door. But they cannot tell Andrew whether he should open it. That decision requires something far less predictable than logic. It requires courage, faith, and the willingness to risk everything for an answer he may not be ready to receive.

This is one of the ideas I loved exploring while writing the novel: even the most rational person may eventually encounter something that cannot be understood by reason alone.

Sometimes, the mind takes us as far as it can. The heart must carry us the rest of the way.

3. Scarlett Has Questions of Her Own

Scarlett Fitzpatrick is a curator, a woman trained to examine the past through the objects and stories it leaves behind. She understands that history is never truly silent. It speaks through paintings, documents, photographs, forgotten belongings, and details that seem insignificant until someone looks closely enough.

Scarlett is intelligent, observant, and grounded. Yet she, too, becomes drawn into a mystery that challenges everything she believes she knows about the past. Her connection with Andrew begins amid questions neither of them can answer easily. He is searching for his sister. Scarlett is trying to understand discoveries that should not be possible. Together, they begin following clues that connect mathematics, art, history, and Coleman House in ways neither of them expected.

But Scarlett is not simply waiting beside Andrew while he follows his quest. She has her own voice, her own strength, and her own reasons for needing the truth. Andrew may be determined to solve the equation, but Scarlett helps him understand that not every answer can be calculated—and that finding what we have lost is not the same as knowing what to do once it is found.

4. Coleman House Still Has Secrets to Reveal

Readers of the Upon a Time series already know that Coleman House is more than a setting. It has witnessed love, separation, sacrifice, and reunion. Its rooms carry memories from more than one lifetime, while the grandfather clock at its heart continues to guard secrets that few people would ever believe.

In A Timeless Equation, the house once again becomes part of the mystery.

Andrew approaches it differently from those who came before him. He does not begin with faith in the impossible. He begins with calculations, coordinates, and the conviction that there must be a rational explanation. Coleman House is not particularly interested in rational explanations. There are places that seem to remember everyone who has passed through them. Places where the past never feels entirely gone and where time appears thinner somehow—as though one moment might still be able to reach another.

For Andrew and Scarlett, the house offers both possibility and danger. It may hold the answer they have been seeking, but it will not surrender that answer easily.

And the grandfather clock is waiting.

5. Every Answer Comes With a Price

We often imagine that discovering the truth will bring relief. Sometimes it does. But answers can also create new questions. They can demand choices we never expected to make. They can change our understanding of the past and leave us standing before a future that suddenly looks very different.

Andrew believes that finding the solution will be the most difficult part of his journey. It is not.

The true challenge begins when the impossible becomes real and he must decide how far he is willing to go—and what he is prepared to leave behind. That is the emotional heart of A Timeless Equation. It is not simply a story about whether time can be crossed. It is about what makes someone attempt the crossing in the first place.

How much would you risk for someone you love? Could you walk away after discovering that the impossible was within reach? And if you finally found the answer you had sacrificed so much to obtain, would it give you peace—or ask even more of you?

The Door Is Almost Open

A Timeless Equation is a story about mathematics and mystery, but it is also about siblings, family, grief, devotion, and a love that appears where it is least expected. It is about the courage to keep searching when everyone else has stopped. It is about the traces people leave behind and the invisible threads that continue to connect us across years, distances, and lives. Most of all, it is about the moment when a man who trusts only what he can prove must decide whether he is willing to believe in something impossible.

The equation has been solved. Coleman House is waiting. And on September 22, the door will open.

A Timeless Equation Book Five in the Upon a Time series Releasing September 22

There comes a moment in almost every difficult journey when the voices around us begin to change.

At first, people encourage us. “Keep going.” “Don’t lose hope.” “You’ll find the answer.”

But as time passes and nothing changes, their optimism begins to fade. Encouragement becomes concern. Hopeful words give way to gentle suggestions that perhaps it is time to accept what cannot be changed.

And eventually, someone says the words we have been trying not to hear: “You have to let it go.”

Sometimes, they may be right. There are battles that exhaust us without bringing us any closer to peace. There are questions that may never be answered and doors that will remain closed, no matter how long we stand before them. But sometimes, the heart knows something that cannot yet be proven.

Sometimes, giving up would mean abandoning not merely a dream, but a part of ourselves.

When Hope Stops Making Sense

It is easy to keep searching when progress is visible. It is much harder when every road seems to lead nowhere. True perseverance begins after the reasonable amount of hope has run out. It begins when the facts are stacked against us, when other people have moved on, and when we can no longer explain—perhaps even to ourselves—why we still believe.

The world admires determination once it produces results. We celebrate the person who refused to surrender and eventually proved everyone wrong. What we rarely see are the lonely years before the victory—the unanswered letters, failed attempts, closed doors, and quiet mornings when that person had to choose hope all over again.

Continuing to search does not always look heroic. Sometimes, it looks like getting out of bed and trying once more. Sometimes, it means returning to a problem everyone else has dismissed as impossible. Sometimes, it means protecting a fragile thread of hope when even the people who love us are afraid it will break our hearts.

The Difference Between Hope and Denial

There is a delicate line between refusing to give up and refusing to face reality. Denial asks us to ignore the truth. Hope asks us to acknowledge the truth and still leave room for possibility. Hope does not promise that we will find exactly what we are seeking. It does not protect us from disappointment or guarantee that courage will be rewarded. It simply whispers that the story may not be finished yet. Perhaps that is why hope requires so much bravery.

To keep searching is to risk being disappointed again. It is to open the same wounded place in our hearts and admit that we still care. Walking away may sometimes feel easier—not because we have found peace, but because we are tired of hurting. Yet certain questions refuse to release us. Certain people remain part of us, no matter how much time has passed.

And certain mysteries seem to wait patiently for the one person stubborn enough to keep looking.

Searching Is an Act of Love

We often think of searching as an intellectual pursuit—a quest for facts, proof, or understanding. But some searches begin in the heart. We search because someone matters. We search because a promise matters. We search because accepting the absence of an answer feels too much like accepting that what was lost no longer matters.

That is not always obsession. Sometimes, it is love refusing to become indifferent. Love can make us persistent in ways logic cannot explain. It can send us through old photographs, forgotten letters, family stories, historical records, and memories we have examined a hundred times before. It makes us notice the smallest inconsistency and wonder whether it might be the beginning of an answer.

Love says, “Look again.”

The Man Who Refused to Stop Searching

This kind of courage lies at the heart of my upcoming novel, A Timeless Equation.

Andrew Morris is a mathematician—a man who trusts reason, patterns, and answers that can be proven. But when his sister Nika disappears under circumstances no one can explain, logic fails him. Other people may learn to live with the mystery. Andrew cannot.

He continues searching, not because he knows he will succeed, but because giving up on the search would feel like giving up on his sister. His determination leads him toward an equation that should be impossible, a mysterious house, and Scarlett Fitzpatrick—a woman who may understand more about his journey than either of them initially realizes.

Andrew begins with numbers, believing that somewhere within them he will find the answer he needs. What he does not expect is that the search will ask far more of him than intellect. It will demand faith, courage, sacrifice, and the willingness to step beyond everything he believes he understands.

Because sometimes, the answer we are seeking changes us before we ever find it.

When the World Says It Is Time to Stop

Not every search ends with a miraculous discovery. Not every unanswered question becomes clear. Sometimes, courage means continuing. At other times, it means recognizing that we have done all we can and allowing ourselves to rest. Only the person making that journey can know the difference. But I believe there are moments when the quiet voice inside us deserves to be heard—even when it cannot offer proof.

The people who keep searching are not necessarily fearless. Often, they are frightened, exhausted, and painfully aware of everything they may never find. They continue anyway. Not because they are certain of the ending, but because something—or someone—is worth one more attempt. Sometimes, the mind declares that all possibilities have been exhausted.

And sometimes, the heart answers: “Not yet.”

As the release of A Timeless Equation approaches, I’d like to share a brief moment from Andrew’s journey—a glimpse of the determination that refuses to let him surrender his search.

The room looked like it had been hit by a hurricane.

Torn pages from his notebook littered every surface—the floor, the bed, the small writing desk. Papers everywhere, covered in frantic scribbles and abandoned calculations.

He sighed. What he wouldn’t give for a whiteboard and a couple of decent markers.

Adding it to his growing list of things to buy, he bent down and began gathering the scattered sheets.

Determined to solve the problem, Andrew had thrown himself headfirst into the formula. But no matter what approach he tried, the calculations refused to cooperate. The numbers made no sense. For days, he had fueled himself with coffee, trying to force clarity from exhaustion.

All he had to show for it was a pounding headache—and pages of meaningless figures.

Time and again, he arrived at the same sequence of numbers.

What am I missing?

He crouched, smoothing one page covered in dense calculations, and studied it again. Twelve digits in the first row. Thirteen in the second. What could that mean?

And then— It clicked. Coordinates. Longitude and latitude.

Of course!

“How did I miss that?” he muttered.

Springing to his feet, Andrew grabbed his iPhone and opened the Google Earth app. His fingers moved quickly as he entered the numbers. The result appeared instantly—a blinking red dot.

He froze. Then entered it again. Same result.

“I’ll be damned…”

If the numbers were correct, they pointed to a location right here on Amelia Island.

Excitement surged through him, sharp and electric. Was it possible? Had the formula actually worked? Had he solved it?

“Yes!” He pumped his fist, riding the rush of victory. “Eureka.”

Numbers never lied. What a fool he had been to doubt them.

Eager, breath quickening, he switched to Google Maps and pulled up the exact location. Then—

Everything inside him went still. The address stared back at him. The Coleman House Museum.

His excitement drained away in an instant. He frowned, staring at the screen.

Of all places…

That was not what he had expected.

A Timeless Equation, Book Five in the Upon a Time series, releases September 22.

Can love be measured? Can destiny be calculated? And if someone you love disappears without leaving a trace, could mathematics help you find the place—or the time—where they have gone?

These questions lie at the heart of my upcoming novel, A Timeless Equation, the fifth book in my Upon a Time series.

The story belongs to Andrew Morris, a brilliant mathematician who has always trusted numbers more than emotions. Numbers are orderly. Predictable. They follow rules and lead to answers.

But there is one mystery Andrew has never been able to solve: the disappearance of his older sister, Nika.

To everyone else, Nika simply vanished under baffling circumstances. Andrew refuses to accept that explanation. He knows his sister would never leave without telling him, and he cannot bring himself to stop searching for her—even when every reasonable possibility has been exhausted.

Then he discovers a mathematical equation that may prove time is not as fixed as it appears.

For Andrew, the equation is more than an intellectual puzzle. It might be the only path leading to Nika. The only chance to discover what happened to her. And perhaps the only way to bring her home.

His search leads him to Scarlett Fitzpatrick, a museum curator whose knowledge of history may be as important as Andrew’s understanding of mathematics. Scarlett is intelligent, independent, and accustomed to protecting her heart. She has no intention of becoming entangled in Andrew’s impossible quest—or in the life of the quietly determined man behind it.

But some mysteries cannot be solved alone.

As Andrew and Scarlett follow the clues, the boundaries between history and the present begin to blur. Paintings hold secrets they should not possess. An old house seems to remember those who passed through it. And a grandfather clock may be more than an elegant relic from another century.

The closer Andrew comes to the truth, the more dangerous his search becomes. Because finding Nika may require him to challenge everything he believes about time, reality, and love.

I have always been fascinated by time-travel stories, but for me, the true heart of such stories is never merely the journey into another era. It is the reason someone is willing to make that journey.

Andrew’s reason begins with devotion to his sister. He refuses to forget her. He refuses to surrender to the impossible. Yet along the way, his search becomes something more. It brings Scarlett into his life and forces him to confront the one force he never expected to encounter in any equation: love.

A Timeless Equation is a story about family, destiny, courage, and the extraordinary things we are willing to risk for the people we cannot bear to lose.

The book will be released on September 22, and today I would love to share a small glimpse of Andrew and Scarlett’s journey with you.

An Excerpt from A Timeless Equation

The redhead caught Andrew’s attention the moment he stepped inside the museum. Her dress—long, fluid, almost shapeless—moved around her tall frame like water, concealing more than it revealed. Deliberate? Or simply comfortable? Probably both.

The interior felt warmer than expected, despite the steady hum of the AC. A space this large must be difficult to cool. Uneasy from the strange episode outside—and his lingering reluctance to enter—Andrew nevertheless sharpened, alert and curious. About her.

Surrounded by a small group of tourists hanging on her every word, she smiled as she spoke—but fatigue showed in the fine lines around her eyes. And what a face. Even in profile, it was arresting. Dusky skin. A generous mouth. An upturned nose. That slightly off-center, pointed chin kept it from perfection. Good. Perfection was overrated. And boring.

Nothing about this woman was boring. Her features were vivid. Alive. Impossible to ignore.

A flame.

Her hair—deep, burnished red—caught the light streaming through the tall windows. Pulled into a high ponytail, it revealed the elegant line of her neck.

A swan’s, he thought absently. Beneath the loose dress, her figure suggested curves. Subtle. But unmistakable. His imagination, unhelpfully, filled in the rest. Andrew flushed.

What the hell is wrong with you?

She looked young. Too young. And here he was—thirty-two—mentally undressing her. Pervert.

He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus elsewhere. The furniture. The rugs. The grandfather clock. Anything.

It didn’t work.

Like a magnet, his eyes found her again. This time, she looked straight at him. Their gazes locked. Held. For a heartbeat. Two.

The air between them tightened—charged, electric. He felt it. A pulse. Real.

And then—

The clock.

The steady ticking grew louder. And louder.

Until it filled the room—deep, resonant, almost overwhelming.

They both froze. The sound swelled, then stopped. Abruptly. Silence rushed in. Thick. Heavy.

Broken only by the quiet, familiar tick…tock. Andrew held his breath.

What just happened?

Another episode? Or something else entirely? That connection—brief but undeniable—still hummed through him. Real. Too real to dismiss. And the clock…

That sound hadn’t been normal. It had felt like a warning.

He glanced at her. She was already speaking again, smiling at the departing group as though nothing had happened. Unaffected. Unbothered. As if she hadn’t heard a thing.

He exhaled slowly. Ridiculous. A trick of stress. Had to be it. What else could it be?

Shaken, he turned his attention to the clock. Positioned beneath the sweeping staircase, half-shadowed, it appeared perfectly ordinary. Polished mahogany. A gleaming face. A pendulum swaying in calm, measured rhythm. An object. Nothing more. Relief mingled with something else. Disappointment. For a moment there, he had felt…something extraordinary.

Almost—

No. Don’t go there.

His rational mind snapped back into place.

Get a grip, Morris.

He hadn’t come here for ghosts or fantasies. He needed information. Facts. About the house. About its last owner. That was all.

He scanned the room, looking for another guide. Another staff member. Anyone. No luck.

She was alone. Damn. He braced himself. No way around it. He would have to talk to her.

The last of the tourists filed out, leaving the foyer quiet. Empty. Just the two of them.

He slipped his hands into his pockets, stalling.

Move, Morris.

With a quiet curse, he forced himself forward.

She didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just watched him approach. The light from the windows wrapped around her, soft and bright, obscuring her features. But not her expression. Startled. Guarded. Like a deer caught in headlights.

He slowed.

Is she afraid of me?

Maybe. Especially after the way he’d been staring. He stopped a few feet away. She stepped back immediately.

Message received. Andrew winced inwardly and summoned what he hoped was a non-threatening smile. Her lips remained pressed together. Her posture tense. Wary.

I wish I could see her eyes.

But the light hid them completely.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked at last.

---

A Timeless Equation Book Five in the Upon a Time series Coming September 22

Every year on Labor Day, we celebrate the dignity of America’s workers and the labor unions they have built. 

Unfortunately, for most people today it simply marks the last weekend of summer and the start of the school year. The holiday’s founders in the late 1800s envisioned something very different from what the day has become. The founders were looking for two things: a means of unifying union workers and a reduction in work time.

Labor Day honors the contributions of workers in every field to maintain our country’s strength and prosperity.

Happy Labor Day!

We often think of autumn as the season when things end. The flowers fade. The leaves loosen their hold. The bright abundance of summer gives way to cooler mornings, longer shadows, and earlier sunsets. But perhaps autumn is not truly a season of endings. Perhaps it is the season when transformation becomes visible.

A tree does not apologize for changing. It does not cling desperately to every leaf or mourn the green it once wore. Instead, it turns gold, amber, and crimson. It makes change beautiful. And when the time comes, it lets go—not because what it carried was unimportant, but because holding on forever would leave no room for rest, renewal, or new growth. There is a quiet lesson in that.

We spend so much of our lives resisting change. We hold tightly to familiar places, old dreams, former versions of ourselves, and plans that no longer fit the people we have become. Even when we know it is time to move forward, letting go can feel like failure. We wonder whether releasing something means it never mattered. But letting go does not erase love. It does not diminish the value of what came before. A season can end and still have shaped us. A dream can change and still have led us somewhere important. A person may no longer walk beside us, yet remain forever woven into who we are. What mattered remains—not always in the form we expected, but in the wisdom, tenderness, strength, and memories we carry forward.

Autumn reminds us that transformation does not have to be loud. Sometimes it happens almost imperceptibly. One cool morning. One golden leaf. One moment when we realize that something within us has shifted.

Perhaps we are a little braver than we were before. Perhaps an old sorrow no longer hurts in quite the same way. Perhaps the future, once frightening, has begun to feel open and full of possibility. We may not even know exactly when the change began. We only know that we are no longer standing in the same emotional place.

As a writer, I am drawn to characters who find themselves between seasons of life. They cannot return to who they were, but they do not yet know who they are becoming. They stand at the edge of the familiar, frightened to step forward and equally unable to remain where they are.

That uncertain space is where the most meaningful stories begin.

My characters may travel through time, but their greatest journeys are often the ones taking place within them. They must release old fears, forgive what cannot be changed, and trust that love can survive transformation. Sometimes they cross decades to find another person. Sometimes they must cross the distance between who they have been and who they are ready to become.

Real life asks the same courage of us. There are seasons when we flourish openly, like gardens in summer. There are seasons when we must be still. And there are autumn seasons—times when life asks us to loosen our grip, accept change, and make room for what is coming next. This does not mean we must welcome every change immediately. Some transitions are painful. Some goodbyes take time. We are allowed to grieve what was beautiful, what was familiar, and what we hoped would last longer.

But grief and hope can exist together. We can miss what has passed while remaining curious about what lies ahead. We can honor an earlier version of ourselves without needing to become that person again. We can carry the love forward without carrying every weight that came with it.

Perhaps becoming is not about transforming into someone entirely new. Perhaps it is about uncovering the person who has been quietly taking shape inside us all along. Autumn does not hurry this process. The season changes leaf by leaf, evening by evening. It teaches us that transformation has its own rhythm. We do not have to force it. We only have to remain open to it.

So as the air cools and the world begins to turn gold, perhaps we can ask ourselves a gentler question—not, What am I losing? but, What am I becoming?

Maybe we are becoming more patient. More courageous. More forgiving. More willing to choose what truly matters.

The trees will soon stand bare, but they will not be empty. Beneath the quiet surface, life will be gathering strength for another beginning. And perhaps we are doing the same. Autumn is not simply the season of letting go.

It is the season of becoming.

There are still warm mornings and bright blue skies. There are still flowers holding on to their color and trees dressed in green. There are still evenings meant for sitting outside, listening to the familiar sounds of a season that has not yet said its final goodbye.

These last golden days feel different from the days that came before them. In June, summer seemed endless. We made plans freely, certain there would always be another weekend, another sunset, another chance to do the things we had been postponing. But at the end of August, every beautiful day begins to feel borrowed—and therefore more precious. Perhaps that is true of more than seasons.

We rarely recognize the final moments of anything while we are living them. The last time a child reaches for our hand. The final evening spent in a beloved home. The last conversation before life carries two people in different directions. These moments often pass quietly, without announcement. Only later do we understand what they were. That may be why the end of summer touches us so deeply. It reminds us that nothing stays exactly as it is, no matter how much we love it. Time moves forward. Seasons change. People grow, relationships evolve, and life keeps turning its pages.

As a writer—especially one who writes about time—I often return to this longing to hold on. My characters cross years and generations for one more chance at love, one more answer, or one more moment with someone they thought they had lost. They know better than most that time can be merciless. But they also discover that what is truly meaningful does not simply disappear. Love leaves an imprint. Memories travel with us. The past continues to shape the people we become. Maybe that is the gift hidden inside every ending.

The last days of summer ask us to slow down and notice what remains. To watch one more sunset. To take the longer walk. To sit outside for a few extra minutes instead of hurrying indoors. To call someone we have been meaning to call. To be fully present in a moment precisely because it cannot last forever. Soon, autumn will arrive with its own beauty. The air will turn crisp, the leaves will change, and the world will invite us to begin again. But there is no need to rush toward the next season. For now, summer is still here—softer, quieter, and perhaps more beautiful because it is almost gone.

Let us hold these golden days gently. Not with sadness, but with gratitude. Not because we can stop time, but because we were here to experience it.

And when summer finally slips away, perhaps it will leave a little of its warmth behind—inside the memories we carry with us into autumn.

Some love stories are gentle. Others must fight to survive. They endure separation, misunderstanding, loss, impossible choices—and, in some of my books, more than a century standing between two people who belong together.

Again and again, I find myself writing about love that refuses to surrender. Not because I believe love should always be painful or that every relationship must be saved at any cost. Some endings are necessary. Some doors should remain closed. But when love is genuine, mutual, and worth protecting, I am fascinated by its ability to survive what seems impossible. Perhaps that is because I have never believed that the greatest love stories are about finding the perfect person and living happily ever after without another struggle.

I believe they are about choosing not to give up when the story becomes difficult.

Love Must Be Tested

A love story needs more than attraction. Two people may be drawn to each other instantly, but desire alone does not reveal the depth of their bond. That depth emerges when something stands between them.

Time. Distance. Fear. Pride. Family obligations. Old wounds. A truth that arrives too late—or a goodbye that comes too soon. Obstacles do more than create tension in a novel. They force characters to answer the question at the heart of every meaningful romance:

How much am I willing to risk for this love?

The answer tells us who they truly are. It is easy to promise forever when the road ahead appears smooth. It is much harder to keep moving toward someone when every reasonable voice says the journey is impossible.

That is where the love stories I want to tell begin.

When Even Time Is the Enemy

In my Upon A Time series, love is tested by the most unforgiving barrier of all: time itself.

Nika and Eli do not simply come from different backgrounds or disagree about their future. They belong to different centuries. Their love asks them to believe in something that should not be possible. It demands courage, sacrifice, and the willingness to step into an unknown world. They cannot rely upon an ordinary promise of tomorrow because even finding the same tomorrow is uncertain. For them, love is not passive.

It searches. It waits. It crosses the impossible distance between one century and another.

Alex and Abby also discover that loving someone does not guarantee that you will be allowed to remain beside them. Their story carries the ache of separation—the terrible knowledge that the person you love exists somewhere, yet may be unreachable. And still, love refuses to disappear simply because the path back has been lost.

That is what moves me most: not the absence of despair, but the decision to keep hoping despite it.

The Ones Who Keep Searching

Sometimes love refuses to give up in ways that are not romantic at all.

In A Timeless Equation, Andrew Morris is driven by his determination to find his sister, Nika, after she vanishes under circumstances no one can explain. To others, the mystery may seem unsolvable. Logic suggests that he should accept the evidence before him and move on. But Andrew is a mathematician. He believes that even the impossible may have an explanation. More importantly, he is a brother who cannot accept that someone he loves has simply vanished beyond his reach. His search becomes an expression of devotion.

This is one of the reasons I love writing about families as much as romantic couples. Love exists in every person who continues looking, waiting, protecting, or believing when hope has become difficult to defend.

Sometimes I won’t give up on you is the purest declaration of love there is.

Love Does Not Always Look Heroic

We often imagine devotion through dramatic gestures: crossing oceans, risking everything, or defying an entire world. My characters occasionally do all of those things. But love that refuses to give up is not always loud. Sometimes it is a person returning after an argument instead of walking away. Sometimes it is telling the truth when silence would be safer.

It is offering forgiveness without pretending the wound never happened. It is remaining beside someone through grief, illness, fear, or failure. It is seeing a person at their lowest and reminding them that this moment is not the whole of who they are.

Those choices may not look heroic from the outside. But they require a quiet kind of bravery.

Love does not survive because two people never hurt or disappoint each other. It survives when they are willing to repair what has been damaged—and when both people continue doing the work.

Devotion Is Not the Same as Losing Yourself

There is an important distinction between love that perseveres and love that demands self-destruction. I do not believe that devotion means accepting cruelty, betrayal without remorse, or the loss of one’s dignity. Refusing to give up on love should never require someone to give up on themselves.

The love I want to write about makes people braver, not smaller.

It may challenge them. It may ask them to confront painful truths, abandon old assumptions, or step beyond everything familiar. But ultimately, it allows them to become more fully themselves.

True love does not say, Disappear for me. It says, Stand beside me—and let us face this together.

Hope Is at the Heart of Every Story

Perhaps I return to these stories because I am, at heart, a hopeful writer. Even when my characters are separated by time, haunted by the past, or standing before a future they cannot understand, I want to believe there is still a thread connecting them. It may stretch. It may tangle. It may seem to disappear entirely.

But somewhere, it remains unbroken.

Hope does not mean believing everything will be easy. It means believing that difficulty is not necessarily the end. A locked door may have a key. A mystery may contain an answer. A goodbye may not be final.

And love—if it is deep enough, brave enough, and stubborn enough—may still find its way home.

The Stories I Will Always Tell

As a writer, I am drawn to extraordinary circumstances: vanished centuries, mysterious houses, old paintings, dreams of other lives, and clocks that refuse to obey the rules. But beneath all those mysteries, I am always writing about something deeply human. The need to be remembered. The longing to be found. The courage to return. The hope that someone, somewhere, will refuse to stop looking for us.

That is why I write about love that refuses to give up. Not because love conquers every obstacle effortlessly, but because it gives us a reason to face the obstacle at all. And perhaps the most beautiful love stories are not the ones in which two people are never lost.

They are the ones in which, against every possibility, they keep finding their way back to each other.

The Quiet Choices Behind a Lifetime Together

With my thirty-seventh wedding anniversary approaching, I have found myself thinking about love—not only the breathtaking kind celebrated in novels and movies, but the quieter, deeper love that is built across a lifetime.

We often speak of falling in love as though it were a single magical moment. A glance across a room. A first kiss. The instant when two people realize they have found something extraordinary.

But falling in love and building a life together are two very different things.

The beginning may be filled with excitement, possibility, and discovery. Lasting love, however, is created in the years that follow—in ordinary kitchens, during difficult conversations, through disappointments, illnesses, changing dreams, unexpected losses, and countless unremarkable days.

Perhaps love lasts because, somewhere along the way, it stops being merely something we feel and becomes something we choose.

Choosing One Another Again

A lifelong commitment is not made only once, during a ceremony or with the exchange of rings. It is renewed quietly, sometimes without words, over and over again. It is choosing to listen when you are tired. Choosing kindness when irritation would be easier. Choosing to stay present during the difficult seasons instead of retreating behind silence. It is looking at the person beside you—not as the person they were when you first met, but as the person they have become—and loving them through every new version of themselves.

Because none of us remains unchanged.

We grow older. We encounter experiences that reshape us. Our priorities shift. Our bodies change. Dreams are fulfilled, postponed, or replaced by entirely new ones. Lasting love makes room for that transformation.

It says: You are different now, and I am still here.

The Romance of Ordinary Days

Grand gestures are beautiful, but they are not what fills most of a shared life. Most love stories are lived in smaller moments. A cup of coffee prepared exactly the way someone likes it. A familiar hand reaching for yours during bad news. A private joke that remains funny after decades. Remembering an appointment, warming up the car, saving the last piece of cake, or simply asking, Did you get home safely?

These gestures may appear insignificant from the outside. Yet over time, they become the language of devotion. Perhaps true intimacy is not only being loved at our most impressive. It is being known completely—in our impatience, our fears, our strange habits, and our less-than-graceful moments—and still being treated with tenderness.

There is something profoundly romantic about being known that well and not having to pretend.

Love Needs Forgiveness

No two people can share a lifetime without occasionally hurting, disappointing, or misunderstanding each other. Even the strongest relationships contain imperfect moments because they are made by imperfect human beings. Forgiveness does not mean ignoring serious wounds or accepting behavior that should never be accepted. It means recognizing that in a healthy, loving relationship, mistakes will happen. Words may be spoken badly. Needs may be overlooked. One person may fail to understand what the other is trying to say.

Lasting love requires the humility to say, I was wrong.

It also requires the generosity to hear those words and allow healing to begin. A lifetime together cannot be built by keeping score. It is built by remembering that the relationship is more important than winning every argument.

Growing Together Takes Courage

We sometimes imagine that compatible people simply move through life in perfect harmony. But growing together does not mean always agreeing or wanting exactly the same things. It means remaining curious about one another. Who are you becoming? What matters to you now? What are you afraid of? What do you still hope to do? Even after many years, there should be room to ask those questions.

The person beside us is never a finished story. There are always new pages being written, new worries left unspoken, and new dreams waiting to be discovered.

Long-lasting love does not assume, I already know everything about you. It says, I still want to know you.

Staying Through the Changing Seasons

Every long relationship moves through seasons. There are times of joy and ease, when love seems effortless. There are also seasons of exhaustion, grief, uncertainty, or change, when romance may be temporarily hidden beneath the demands of simply getting through the day.

During those times, love may not look like flowers or candlelight. It may look like patience. It may sound like reassurance. It may mean carrying more of the weight when the other person cannot.

There is a special kind of devotion in saying, You do not have to face this alone.

That promise may be one of the truest expressions of love we ever offer.

The Quiet Miracle

Perhaps what makes love last is not one secret, one perfect match, or one unforgettable moment. Perhaps it is the accumulation of thousands of quiet choices. To speak gently. To forgive. To laugh. To remain interested. To offer comfort. To protect what has been built together. To remember why you chose each other—and to keep finding new reasons.

The most enduring love stories are rarely perfect. They are filled with challenges, compromises, mistakes, and unexpected turns. But they are also filled with shared memories, private laughter, and the comfort of knowing that someone has witnessed your life from close beside you.

Falling in love may happen in a moment. But lasting love is created across a lifetime—one ordinary, faithful, beautiful choice at a time.

When readers remember a beloved story, they do not always remember only the people. They remember the house at the end of the road. The garden where a secret was revealed. The room in which someone waited. The street a character walked while deciding whether to leave—or turn back.

Some settings remain quietly in the background, providing the necessary walls, weather, and furniture. Others refuse to remain scenery. They collect memories, conceal secrets, influence decisions, and change alongside the people who inhabit them.

Eventually, they begin to feel like characters themselves. They may not speak, but they have voices. They may not move, but they shape every person who enters them. And sometimes, long after I have forgotten exactly what a character was wearing, I can still see the place where everything happened.

A Place Must Have a Soul

A fictional setting does not become memorable because it is described in perfect architectural detail. Readers do not need to know the measurements of every room—although Nika Morris would probably disagree.

A place becomes real through feeling. What happened there before the story began? Who loved within its walls? Who left? What promises were made there, and which ones were broken? Does the place welcome its visitors, observe them cautiously, or seem to warn them away?

The most powerful settings carry traces of the people who came before. An old house remembers footsteps. A garden remembers whispered conversations. A city street remembers every generation that believed the future belonged to them.

As a writer, I often feel that I am not inventing these places. I am arriving after their lives have already begun and trying to discover what they know.

The Coleman House: Keeper of Time

Of all the places in my books, the Coleman House may have the strongest claim to being a character.

It is more than the setting of the Upon A Time series. It is the heart of its mystery.

The house exists in more than one era, yet it never feels exactly the same. Its rooms hold different voices, its porches overlook a changing world, and its walls contain memories the people living inside them do not always understand. To one character, it is home. To another, it is history. To someone else, it is the place where an impossible journey begins.

When Nika first encounters the Coleman House, she sees it partly through the eyes of a contractor. She notices its structure, its damage, and what must be repaired. But the house is not merely a project waiting to be restored. It is waiting for her. That distinction changes everything.

The house becomes a bridge between lives that should never have touched. It shelters love, grief, family, and secrets across generations. It witnesses arrivals no one could explain and departures no one could prevent.

And at its center stands the grandfather clock.

The clock is an object, of course—but it also feels like the pulse of the house. Its chimes divide one moment from the next while reminding us that time may not be as orderly as we imagine. It marks the hours, guards the portal, and seems to know far more than it is willing to reveal.

If the Coleman House could speak, I am not certain it would explain itself.

Some characters prefer to preserve their mystery.

Amelia Island: Where the Past Never Entirely Leaves

The Coleman House could not exist just anywhere.

Amelia Island and Fernandina Beach provide the perfect world around it—a place where history does not feel safely confined to museums or books. It lingers in old buildings, quiet streets, magnificent trees, and the atmosphere of a town that has belonged to many different eras. There is something especially powerful about placing a time-travel story near the ocean. The sea is always moving, yet it also feels eternal. The waves reaching the shore today are not the waves that arrived a century ago, but the rhythm remains unchanged.

That is time travel of another kind.

My characters may cross years in impossible ways, but the ocean connects their worlds without needing a key or an equation. It exists in every era. It watches fashions, buildings, and generations change while continuing its ancient conversation with the shore. Amelia Island brings softness and beauty to the stories, but it also adds a sense of impermanence. Tides erase footprints. Storms alter coastlines. Houses weather, families change, and people disappear.

Yet something always remains.

Perhaps that is why it feels like the natural home of the Upon A Time series. It holds the past close without refusing the future.

The Rostoff Estate: Beauty with Secrets

The Rostoff estate Zolotoe Selo in San Francisco has an entirely different personality.

Where the Coleman House feels mysterious and watchful, the Rostoff home carries grandeur, discipline, and the complicated weight of family. Its beauty is undeniable. The winding paths, rose gardens, magnificent trees, secluded corners, and elegant rooms speak of history, privilege, and permanence.

But beautiful homes are not necessarily peaceful ones.

The estate has witnessed generations of love and conflict. It has sheltered celebrations, arguments, reconciliations, and truths that family members were not yet ready to face. Its polished surfaces cannot conceal every fracture beneath them. That is what makes the estate interesting to me. It represents both security and pressure. It is a place of belonging, but belonging to a powerful family comes with expectations. The estate offers protection while also reminding the Rostoffs of who they are supposed to be.

And then there is Natasha’s Gazebo. Hidden beneath the protective canopies of old trees, near the quiet movement of the brook, the gazebo feels separate from the rest of the estate. It is delicate, almost ethereal, yet secluded enough to become a refuge. Characters go there when they need distance from the house—and sometimes from one another. The gazebo sees them without the masks they wear in brighter rooms. It holds private thoughts, difficult conversations, and moments when a carefully controlled life begins to change.

Every grand house needs one place where the truth can hide.

At the Rostoff estate, that place may be the gazebo.

St. Augustine: A City of Echoes

In Rhapsody in Dreams, St. Augustine is not simply a romantic background. It is a city where the boundary between memory and imagination already feels thin.

Old streets, balconies, courtyards, stone walls, and centuries of history create the sense that other lives remain close. The past does not appear dead there. It feels layered beneath the present, waiting for the right sound, scent, or dream to bring it forward.

For Kira, who remembers loving the same man across seven lifetimes, this atmosphere matters. A modern city of glass and steel might have made those memories feel like intrusions. In St. Augustine, they feel almost natural. The city seems willing to believe her before anyone else does. Music also belongs beautifully within that setting.

A melody can return us to a moment we thought we had forgotten. It can awaken emotion without explaining where it came from. For Kira and Al, music becomes another kind of architecture—a place built from sound rather than stone, where recognition can survive from one lifetime to another.

St. Augustine does not solve the mystery of their connection.

It simply makes room for it.

SoHo in 1962: A City in Motion

The SoHo and New York of A Twirl in Time could never remain quietly in the background.

In 1962, the city stands between eras. Old expectations remain powerful, but change is already gathering momentum. Music, fashion, art, dance, and ambition create a world alive with possibility.

For Verochka, SoHo offers something both exhilarating and frightening: the chance to become someone beyond the identity others might have chosen for her. The city does not promise safety.

It promises movement.

That makes it the perfect setting for a dancer’s story. Like choreography, New York demands timing, balance, courage, and the willingness to continue even when the next step is uncertain. Its streets can make a person feel gloriously free one moment and completely alone the next. It offers anonymity, opportunity, temptation, and reinvention—sometimes within the same block.

SoHo does not rescue Verochka. It challenges her to choose her own direction. And, true to form, she does not merely walk toward her future.

She twirls into it.

The Places We Carry Away

We may close a book, but part of us remains inside the house, on the street, beside the piano, or beneath the trees. Years later, we can still imagine walking through those rooms.

Perhaps that is why fictional places sometimes feel more familiar than places we have actually visited. We did not merely see them. We experienced something there.

Every Place Has a Story

A memorable setting does more than hold the events of a story. It changes how those events feel. A confession whispered in a garden is different from one spoken in a crowded station. A goodbye at the ocean carries a different ache from a goodbye in an empty room. A reunion beneath the chimes of an old clock belongs to a different emotional world than one beneath fluorescent office lights. Place gives emotion a physical shape. It also gives readers somewhere to return.

Real places affect us in much the same way. A childhood home may seem smaller when we return to it, yet still contain an entire world of memory. A particular scent can carry us back to a grandmother’s kitchen. A hotel lobby, train platform, beach, or quiet park bench can remain forever connected to one person or one decision. We leave places, but they do not always leave us. They become part of our private geography—the invisible map of where we have loved, grieved, hoped, changed, and begun again.

When I create settings for my novels, I want them to hold that same emotional power. I want the reader to feel that the story could not have happened in quite the same way anywhere else.

The Coleman House must guard its impossible clock.

The Rostoff estate must preserve its beauty and its secrets.

St. Augustine must allow old lives to echo through the present.

And New York must keep moving, daring anyone brave enough to move with it.

These places do not simply surround my characters. They test them. Shelter them. Remember them. And occasionally, they know what the story is about long before I do.

Is there a fictional house, city, garden, or other place that has remained with you long after you finished the book? What made it feel real?

Every writer knows that characters have opinions. They object to carefully constructed plans. They refuse to deliver the dialogue written for them. They fall in love with the wrong person, reveal secrets too early, and occasionally take an entire novel in a direction the author never intended.

But I have often wondered what would happen if my characters could read their own stories. Would they understand why I made certain choices? Would they forgive me for the heartbreak, danger, misunderstandings, and impossible journeys? Or would they appear at my door carrying highlighted copies, color-coded complaints, and a list of grievances several chapters long?

I suspect the last possibility is the most likely.

Nika Would Begin with Corrections

Nika Morris would not quietly sit down and read ’Til Time Do Us Part from beginning to end.

She would examine it the way she approaches a renovation project: searching immediately for structural weaknesses. By Chapter Two, she would have a pencil in one hand, a measuring tape in the other, and several strong opinions about the Coleman House. “That porch would never have survived this long without additional reinforcement,” she would announce.

I would remind her that this is a romance novel. She would remind me that building codes do not become optional simply because the hero has beautiful pale-gray eyes. Nika would approve of her own courage, although she might object to some of her more impulsive decisions. She would become impatient whenever the other characters underestimated her, cheer when she proved them wrong, and mutter darkly whenever Eli attempted to tell her what she could or could not do.

Then she would reach the romantic scenes. She would read several pages in complete silence, close the book, and declare that certain matters should have remained private.

But she would secretly be pleased.

Eli Would Be Offended by the Entire Concept

Elijah Coleman would approach his story with deep suspicion.

The idea that strangers in another century knew the intimate details of his life would horrify him. He would regard the book as an unforgivable violation of privacy—and then proceed to read every word. His first complaint would concern the title.

“Until time do us part?” he would ask. “What manner of pessimistic promise is that?”

His second complaint would concern Nika’s clothing. His third would concern her language. His fourth would concern every occasion on which she ignored his perfectly reasonable instructions. By then, Nika would be standing behind him with her arms folded.

“Perfectly reasonable according to whom?”

Eli would turn several pages very quickly. Despite all his objections, I think reading his story would move him deeply. He would finally see the parts of Nika’s journey that he could not witness. He would understand the fear she concealed behind her confidence and the sacrifices she made to remain beside him.

He might even realize that her refusal to obey him was not a character defect. I said might.

Some miracles are beyond even a time-travel novelist.

Abby Would Notice What Wasn’t Written

As an artist, Abby would not focus only on the events described on the page.

She would notice the spaces between them. She would pay attention to the silences, the expressions, and the emotions hidden beneath ordinary words. She would understand exactly why a character looked away, changed the subject, or remained quiet when speaking would have revealed too much. She would also be deeply uncomfortable reading about her own pain. There are experiences we can survive but do not necessarily wish to revisit. Seeing them transformed into sentences might feel like standing before a portrait painted by someone else—recognizable, intimate, and slightly unsettling.

Yet I believe Abby would eventually see something valuable in those pages. She would see that pain was not the entirety of her story. She would see the woman she became because she continued creating, loving, and hoping even when hope seemed unreasonable. She would discover that vulnerability did not make her weak. It made her human.

Then she would take out her paints and create a new cover because, naturally, the current one would not capture the light correctly.

Alex Would Skip Ahead

Alex would insist that he had no interest in reading the book.

Then he would wait until everyone left the room, pick it up, and search immediately for his own name. He would skip descriptions, scan conversations, and check whether he had been portrayed as intelligent, capable, and irresistible. If he found a passage in which someone questioned his judgment, he would reread it three times and prepare a detailed defense. If he found a romantic scene, he would look pleased with himself.

If he found a scene in which Abby suffered because of him, the humor would disappear.

Alex might be the character most surprised by his own story. We rarely understand the full consequences of our actions while we are living through them. A book allows us to step outside ourselves and see the moments when pride became cruelty, fear disguised itself as anger, or love remained unspoken for too long. He would never admit that the story taught him anything.

But he would be much quieter after finishing it.

Verochka Would Demand Better Lighting

Verochka would adore the idea of reading her own story.

She would settle into a beautiful chair, pour herself something elegant, and begin with the confidence of a woman who already knows she is unforgettable. She would approve of the dancing. She would approve of the clothes.

She would have several concerns about the lighting.

“No woman should be introduced beneath fluorescent lights,” she would explain. “It is hostile to romance and unforgiving to the complexion.”

As she read, however, her amusement would gradually soften. Verochka knows that choosing one life often means surrendering another. Beneath her elegance, confidence, and marvelous ability to make an entrance is a woman who understands the cost of following her heart.

She would laugh at her younger self, forgive her for several mistakes, and perhaps envy her just a little. Then she would close the book and say, “I was magnificent.”

And honestly, I would not argue.

Natasha Would Read with Her Heart

Natasha Rostoff would experience every page intensely.

She would laugh, cry, become furious, forgive someone, and then become furious with them again before reaching the end of the chapter. She would object whenever her family’s private troubles appeared on the page.

“People do not need to know everything,” she would say.

Dmitriy would raise an eyebrow. Natasha would continue reading.

Her story spans love, betrayal, family, separation, and the complicated consequences of choices made when emotions are stronger than reason. She might wish to rewrite certain chapters. She might long to warn her younger self, prevent a misunderstanding, or stop one painful decision before it changed everything.

But I think she would also recognize the woman emerging from those pages. Not a flawless woman. Not a woman who always knew what to do. But one who survived, grew, loved fiercely, and kept choosing her family even when loving them was difficult. By the final page, Natasha would be crying.

She would deny it, of course. She would blame the dust.

Kira Would Remember More Than I Wrote

Kira’s reaction would be different from everyone else’s.

She has already carried seven lifetimes of memories. For her, the past is not a story safely contained between two covers. It is a collection of lives that remain vivid inside her.

As she read Rhapsody in Dreams, she would notice everything I had left out.

“You forgot the sound of the rain that night.”

“That room smelled of roses.”

“He said something else before he left.”

I would try to explain that a novelist cannot include every detail. Kira would look at me with the quiet patience of a woman who has waited across centuries for the man she loves.

Perhaps she would understand better than anyone why stories matter. Memory is fragile, even when it survives beyond a single lifetime. A story gives it shape. It preserves a glance, a promise, or a love that might otherwise vanish with time.

Kira might not agree with every choice I made. But I think she would be grateful that someone believed her impossible memories were real.

Andrew Would Check the Mathematics

Andrew Morris would begin reading A Timeless Equation with a pen and a notebook beside him.

Unlike Alex, he would not search first for his own name.

He would search for the equation. He would verify every calculation, examine every theory, and place small marks in the margins whenever my explanations became suspiciously poetic.

“Time does not respond to longing,” he would tell me.

“Perhaps not,” I would reply. “But readers do.”

Andrew’s greatest objection would not concern the mathematics. It would concern everything I allowed to happen to his sister, Nika. His entire quest begins with his refusal to accept that she simply disappeared. Reading her story would finally reveal where she went, what she endured, and why she could not return in the way he expected.

For a man who trusts logic, those pages would ask him to accept the impossible. I imagine him reaching the end, closing the book, and remaining silent for a very long time. Then he would begin the calculations again.

Because Andrew Morris does not stop searching merely because the answer appears impossible.

Scarlett Would Examine the Evidence

Scarlett Fitzpatrick would read like a curator examining a mysterious artifact.

She would not accept the story simply because it was printed and bound. She would evaluate the details, question the timeline, compare the evidence, and search for the hidden history beneath the obvious one.

She would be fascinated by the Coleman House. She would want to inspect Abby’s paintings personally. And she would be extremely interested in every secret Andrew attempted to keep from her.

Scarlett would probably recognize the truth before he did—not only about the mystery, but about his feelings. She would turn to him and say, “You do realize everyone reading this knew several chapters before you?”

Andrew would return to his calculations. Scarlett would smile.

Would They Forgive the Author?

This is the dangerous question.

My characters might forgive me for sending them across time. They might understand the mysteries, accidents, separations, and impossible choices.

But would they forgive me for breaking their hearts?

Writers sometimes appear cruel. We give our characters happiness and then place something directly in its path. We allow them to misunderstand one another. We take away what they treasure, expose their deepest fears, and force them to choose when every possible answer carries a price.

We do not do it because we dislike them. Quite the opposite. We challenge them because we know what they can become. Courage means little without fear. Forgiveness means little without hurt. A reunion cannot move us unless we have felt the separation. And love becomes unforgettable when it survives something that should have destroyed it.

If my characters read their own stories, perhaps they would finally understand that I was never punishing them.

I was revealing them.

The Conversation I Would Rather Avoid

Of course, understanding does not guarantee cooperation. I can imagine all of them arriving together for a discussion.

Nika would bring her list of structural corrections. Eli would demand to know why private marital matters had been published. Abby would present a newly painted cover. Alex would object to several unflattering descriptions. Verochka would request better lighting. Natasha would want certain family arguments removed. Kira would supply details from six additional lifetimes. Andrew would challenge the mathematics. And Scarlett would quietly place all the evidence in chronological order.

They would talk over one another until someone finally asked the most dangerous question of all:

“What are you planning to do to us in the next book?”

That is when I would smile, close my notebook, and remind them that writers must be allowed to keep a few secrets. After all, my characters may refuse to follow my plans. They may argue, rebel, fall in love unexpectedly, and take possession of stories that were supposed to belong to someone else. But I still control the final page.

At least, that is what I like to tell myself.

If your favorite fictional character could read their own story, what do you think they would say to the author? Would they offer thanks, demand an apology—or insist on a complete rewrite?