I like to give my sisters forbidden loves. It’s what I do—after all, forbidden love is everywhere—just ride trax, walk down main street, or make eye-contact with someone at a red light. Not everyone can spot their forbidden love, which is why I must point them out and explain their history. Only now I have ONE unmarried sister left, and now the poor thing is smothered with love/ hate relationships bestowed by little ol’ me.

Forbidden Love #1: The Devil-May-Care playboy with millions at his disposal. We were walking to a movie when we passed the Marriott…where he was staying. As soon as the playboy saw my sister, he pretended to be a valet…I knew the truth as soon as they met eyes and he gave her a cocky grin… Of course, the fake valet tricked her into parking cars with him all night. She was furious and refused to give him the time of day after she figured out his deceit…my sister claims this never happened, but…the unabashed millionaire was secretly intrigued by her because no one has ever put him in his place before.

Forbidden Love #2: The dark and forbidding heir of the Hilton Hotel (a distant and haughtier relation to Paris). Once when my sister and I were walking home from work and…he mistook her for an actress at the Capital theatre. She didn’t appreciate it (actresses are of very low repute), and she let him have a piece of her mind; the only problem is that she’s a maid at his hotel and now has to hide whenever he storms through the lobby.  Ah, he’s so tortured with love…and it makes my sister so mad when she hears that story. She really does hate him.

Forbidden Love #3:  Our stuffy grandfather’s ward. Yes, yes, our grandfather has no idea he’s our grandfather (and you have to say “Grandfather!”-like Heidi says it). Poor, grumpy old man… Never mind that he waves quite kindly to us every time we walk by on State Street. He lives in a huge mansion with vast cultivated gardens just past our apartment…His ward is a rascal with a patch over his eye and dark hair that curls in a disheveled, romantic way… It was a dark evening in December when my sister and I were forced to walk home from the Avenues (we were checking one of the mansions for a film location and we missed the bus). The snow sunk deep into our bones, and the wind howled cold and bitter…and we were forced to speak in Irish accents. We wrapped our scarves around our heads, not able to feel our toes (well, I could, but my sister for some reason wore flats and no socks). The pain was almost unbearable and at the moment when my sister felt she could take no more…she quite suddenly slipped on the ice and sprained her ankle just outside our grandfather’s home. I pounded on the forbidding door and our grandfather threatened to throw the dirty Irish back into the snow, but his rakish ward wouldn’t allow it. In a rare rush of sympathy, the rascal gathered my sister in his arms (she of course weighed no more than a doll) and set her in my grandfather’s favorite chair. He then gave her some hot chocolate and teased her back into good spirits (though she matched his witty repertoire word for word)—

—That’s when we pushed our way into our apartment and ran for the bathtub to throw in my sister’s numb feet. I took off my scarf…and it took at least a few minutes after that to lose my Irish accent. You see, I told you there was love everywhere! You just have to look really hard to find it.