Every Valentine's Day is a giftA day to celebrate your love--and the hope, the belief, that it will be everlasting.In Valentine's Daughters by Tara Taylor Quinn, it's a day to remember old promises...and make new ones. In Our Day by Jean Brashear, it's when love gets a second chance.In The Hand That Gives the Rose by Linda Cardillo, it's the day love finally bridges two separate worlds.

February 13, 2008"MS. SLATER, THIS IS THE New Hope Fertility Cliniccalling to confirm your appointment for in vitro fertilization tomorrow afternoon at two...."Shivering as she brushed snow off the sleeve of her cashmere coat, Monica Slater, newly separated from her husband, half listened as the young receptionist read a list of procedures over the answering machine before clicking off.There were two other messages. They could wait.Monica turned her attention from calls she didn't want to the mail she'd brought in from the box at the end of her drive, sure she didn't want it, either. Not even the bulky, eight-and-a-half-inch manila envelope.The truth of the matter was, nothing sounded good at the moment. Not a hot-fudge sundae, a sinfully delicious steak or French fries. Not a chat with her best friend from college--or a vacation to Italy or the Caribbean. Not even a hot bath. Or a new car.She was in a funk. Plain and simple.The electric bill was paid. She'd done it online that morning. One envelope tossed. She didn't want a subscription to a new just-for-women magazine--even at the introductory price. Who cared if her favorite dress shop was having a fifty percent off sale to valued customers that weekend?Or that she'd just closed the deal of her life that morning?What did any of it matter? She was thirty years old. An investment broker at the top of her field--at least in Chicago's financial district--she owned a beautiful townhome in an elite gated community. Had more social invitations than she knew what to do with. Drove the car of her dreams--a Ford Expedition, Eddie Bauer luxury model--and was in perfect health.And what did it all mean when the only voice that greeted her every night was a recording telling her how many messages she had?At least the manila envelope distracted her for long enough to give her a five-second break from the relentless self-pity she'd been indulging in for most of the afternoon.It was 4:00 p.m. on February 13th. Less than twelve hours until the first Valentine's Day she'd spent by herself since she'd met Shane ten years before.Damn it.A tear dripped onto the back of the envelope, turning the slightly gold color a deeper brown.Flipping it over, Monica glanced at the return address.Margaret Grace Warren. Her sixty-year-old paternal aunt. The woman who'd alternately blessed Monica's life--and driven her crazy. Monica had been sixteen when Aunt Margaret moved in with them, taking over the household duties, and leaning on Monica's dad--her older brother--more and more for emotional and financial support. But, until five years ago, she'd been the only mother figure Monica had ever known. She was still living in their family house in Tennessee--five years after Monica's unmarried father, Chris Warren, had passed away.Almost thirty years after the death of Carol Bailey--Monica's mother.Monica had talked to Aunt Margaret the previous week.CURIOSITY DISPELLING self-pity for a second, Monica slid open the envelope. A small, light-brown leather book, wrapped and tied with a thin leather strap, fell out--smelling of age and...something else.Running her fingers over the softness of its cover, Monica slowly untied the book's strap, careful when it started to fray. Obviously this was something of her father's. But what?And why hadn't Aunt Margaret called before sending it?The pages in the small bound book cracked as they pulled away from their binding. The ink was faded.And the writing definitely wasn't her father's. It was smaller, rounder. A woman's handwriting. Or a child's.With a gentle flip through the pages, Monica noticed the dates first. One at the top of each page. Starting with the year before she was born.Then she saw the words my baby and sank to the floor.January 25, 1977Dear Diary,I talk