Inspired by the classic song, this magical story from the  New York Times  bestselling author of  Always  and  Blackberry Winter tells the tale of  a woman with the unusual gift to see true love —but will she be able to find it for herself before it’s too late? Born during a Christmas blizzard, Jane Williams receives a rare gift: the ability to see true love. In spite of her unique talent, Jane has emerged from an ailing childhood a lonely, hopeless romantic without love on her life. On her twenty-ninth birthday, a mysterious greeting card arrives. The card specifies that Jane must identify the six types of love before the full moon following her thirtieth birthday—or face grave consequences. But when Jane at last falls for a science writer who doesn’t believe in love, she fears that she may never accomplish her task—and that her loveless fate may be sealed... “Jio has become one of the most-read women in America.”— Woman’s World "An engaging story populated by lovable characters. This is a charming journey into the lives of people trying to follow the map of love and finding themselves somewhere totally unexpected at the journey's end."— Booklist Praise for Sarah Jio and her novels:   “Jio has become one of the most-read women in America.”— Woman’s World (on Morning Glory )   “Delightful and uplifting.”— Historical Novel Society (on Goodnight June )   “Linger[s] long after the last page.”— Romantic Times (on The Last Camellia )                                                                                                                                                      “ Eminently readable . . . a tribute to family and forgiveness.”— Booklist (on Goodnight June )   “Terrific … compelling … an intoxicating blend of mystery, history and romance.”— Real Simple (on Blackberry Winter ) Sarah Jio is the #1 international, New York Times, and USA Today bestselling author of eight novels. She is also a longtime journalist who has contributed to Glamour, The New York Times, Redbook, Real Simple, O: The Oprah Magazine, Cooking Light, Woman’s Day, Marie Claire, Self , and many other outlets, including NPR’s Morning Edition, appearing as a commentator. Jio lives in Seattle with her three young boys. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright  © 2014 Sarah Jio Chapter 1 2021 Pike Street, Apartment 602, Seattle December 24, 2012 I steady my golden retriever, Sam, as I slide my key into my mailbox. Bernard, the apartment building doorman, looks away from the packages he’s sorting and kneels down beside Sam to scratch his ears. “Morning, Jane,” he says, looking up at me with a smile. “Did you hear? They say we’re getting snow tonight. Four inches at least.” I sigh. We’ll never get the flower deliveries out on time if the roads are icy. I collect the stack of mail and holiday cards inside the box, then cross the lobby to the front windows, which are lined with multicolored lights. Sam sniffs the Christmas tree in the corner as I peer outside. Pike Place is just waking up. Steam wafts from the awning of Meriwether Bakery, down the block. The fish-mongers are hosing down the cobblestones in front of their stalls. A flock of eager tourists carrying umbrellas (tourists always carry umbrellas) pause for a photo across the street, disturbing a seagull perched on a street sign overhead. He lets out an annoyed cry and flies off in a huff. “Yep, those are snow clouds out there,” Bernard says, nodding toward the window. “How can you tell?” “Come here,” he says, standing and walking through the double doors. I follow him out to the street. “Let me give you a little lesson in clouds.” I feel the bitter cold on my face as I breathe in the frigid air, which smells of coffee grounds and seawater—aromatic and salty at the same time. Seattle. Sam wags his tail expectantly as a passerby reaches out her hand to greet him. Bernard points up to the sky. “See those? They’re cirrostratus clouds.” “Cirro-what?” He grins. “They’re the first cloud formations you’ll see before a snowstorm. Look how they’re thin and rippled, like fallen snow.” I study them with curiosity, as if they might contain a message written in meteorological hieroglyphs. A cloud language that I might be able to decode if I stare long enough. “Now, look farther off over the sound,” he says, pointing out to the distant clouds lurking over Elliott Bay. “Those are the snow clouds moving in. They’re heavier, darker.” He pauses and touches his hand to his ear. “And listen. Do you hear it?” I shake my head. “What?” “The way the air sounds muffled.” He nods. “There’s always an unexplained quiet before a snowstorm.” Sam sits at my feet on the sidewalk. “I think you might be right. There’s something eerily quiet about this morning.” I gaze up at the sky again, but this time I do a double-take. “Do you ever see things in clouds? Pictures? Faces?” He grins. “Indeed I do. But what I see may be different than what y