Bell Bridge Books

We are in love. Our days are shaped by when we can be alone. I wake up an hour earlier every morning, so I can go with him to the on-site bakery where he picks up the daily delivery of rolls and breads. I wait in the car, and he brings me a warm roll. We spend every moment we’re not working together. Sometimes in the morning or after work, he drags me around the track.  He teases me that I’m too broad in some places though he hands never seem to object to my body’s fullness. There is not an ounce of fat on him anywhere. Even the line of his jaw is hard, angular. Sometimes when he kisses me, I feel its sharpness with a small thrill. Everything about him excites me, even our endless quarrels. I know he’s unused to a girl like me.

He tells me that I’m impossible, that I’m too eager to invite controversy. One night when he discovers that I’ve decided to go skinny-dipping in the lake against his fervent pleas not to, he comes to rescue me from eyes that are not his. Wrapping a towel around me, he lifts my wet hair up and begins to rub me dry.

“How could someone who looks like such an angel be such a pain in the ass?”  he says.

I’m silent, shivering, and grateful to be saved from my impulsiveness though I would never admit this, not to anyone.

“Still cold?” he says.

I nod, suddenly shy. He senses this and wraps the towel tighter around me, pulls me close.

“How come you never listen?” he says. “I just want to take care of you.”

I think how easy it would be to yield to his wishes, to be compliant, but I can’t. I have to obey my parents, my traditions, and my responsibilities. Nowhere does it say that I have to listen to a boy. I know he’s used to girls who listen. I saw the shiksa babysitter with him that night. She was a listener. I saw how she hung on every word he said. I know she thought Frankie would be hers for the summer. She’s a Jersey girl. The girls from Frankie’s hometown have eyes thick with mascara and paint their lips whatever color is the fashion of the moment. I smear a dab of Vaseline on my lips to make them shine. I wonder why Frankie chose me over her. My idea of dressing up is a Mexican peasant blouse and clean jeans. I don’t own a pair of heels. And I’m too outspoken, too nervy for a boy like him. He says I read too much; I say he doesn’t read at all.  But, still, we find it hard to be apart for very long.

Frankie releases his hold on me and picks up my clothes.  I take them and dart t behind a tree, pulling on my underwear and then my shorts and tee shirt even though I’m still wet.

“No shoes?” he says.

When I shake my head, he offers to carry me back. I laugh, but I know he would do it.  I want to tell him that the babysitter shoots darts at me with her eyes whenever our paths cross. I want to see his jaw tighten and the flame in his eyes at the thought that anyone might harm me. But I don’t tell him because I don’t have to.

“Let’s go,” I say.

“Bossy, too,” he says.

I know he isn’t mad, I don’t think he’s ever been really mad at me.

We have the luxury of privacy that none of our peers can enjoy. His room is a sanctuary, and we spend hours there, often arguing because I won’t surrender my virginity to him. He finds this especially hard to understand because it’s so evident that I want to. I know he thinks it’s because he isn’t Jewish, but that isn’t the reason. I’m just not ready.

Still, I love nothing more than to stretch out alongside him and run my hands along his strong, hairless forearms while we talk about everything. He calls me “my girl,” and whispers “Baby” into my hair. I let him kiss my neck for too long even though I anticipate the consequences. But somewhere inside myself I sense that he is marking me, making me his the only way he can. I let him because I already know that we will never be possible. Everything about him is foreign to me except the ease with which I love him.

AN ANNIVERSARY TO REMEMBER

Elizabeth Sinclair

            On our twentieth anniversary, my husband and I decided to take our houseboat up the Hudson River to one of our favorite anchoring spots—a river inlet near a waterfall and shaded by large oak trees—for a cozy, romantic dinner.  Mother Nature cooperated by giving us a balmy June night, with a big yellow full moon and a sky fully of sparkling stars. The river was calm and shone like glass in the moonlight.

Since it was a milestone in our marriage, we wanted to make it special, so I had bought lobster tails and shrimp for cocktails, and we had a bottle of our favorite wine chilling. While I prepared our feast, my husband set a table on the bow of the boat, complete with candles and a single long-stemmed red rose.

The waterfall, which was usually loud and raucous, was muffled this night, as if someone had turned down the volume just for us. The entire setting was magical, like a setting I’d have conjured up for one of my books. Could it get any better?

When the food was ready, I brought it out to the bow, and we settled in to eat. Not long after we began our meal, music drifted to us across the water.  Puzzled as to the source, we both went to the stern to see where it was coming from.

Across the river from where we’d anchored, was an old barge someone had pulled into a small jut in the river and made into a house.  Sitting on the front of the barge was man playing a cello. He serenaded us throughout our entire meal.

It became a very special evening and due in part to a total stranger who had no idea he had helped make it an anniversary that would stay with us forever.

Hop On The Bus

By Trish Jensen

Although I’ve never written a Valentine  book, per se, it feels like every book I’ve ever written is a Valentine. They are homages to love, laughter, happiness in relationships that should never have had a chance. In other words, I love to make people laugh at love, because, seriously, it’s the most hilarious emotion humans endure.

Think about it! What makes men and women more stupid than love? Or the fear of love. Or the search for love. Or, most frightening of all, finding themselves in love? Inevitably, they do dumb things. They try so hard to do things right, and manage to screw it all up. It will always be the one emotion that scrambles brains.

Which is why I love writing about all the facets of the romance journey. What is more fun than to read about two people who just cannot figure out how to get it right? Or how to run away? Or grab the first taxi and zoom right back, just so you can get in that person’s face and say, “Tell me what you’re feeling for me or I’m heading straight to Twitter and the entire world is going to know that you’re a Mickey Mouse boxers guy.”

I love reading mystery/suspense, history, biographies, young adult, Dr. Seuss, just about anything. But when it comes down to dragging myself out of bed (okay, in the interest of honesty, when my dog drags me out of bed) in the morning, I’m looking forward to getting back to my couple, who are trying so hard not to be in love, but just can’t seem to stop that bus.

So Valentine lovers everywhere, just face it, jump on the bus and hang on for the ride.

Trish Jensen: www.trishjensen.com

Stuck With You (on sale now in e-book)

The Harder They Fall (on sale, April, 2012)

By the time I arrive at the party, it’s well under way. I’m still enjoying the effects of Julian’s words. Graduation was a bore. He misses me. He loves me.

“Hello.”

It’s him, the boy from the ladder. I look around for Nancy and Heddy.

“Frankie,” he says.

He waits for me to introduce myself, but I don’t answer. He’s even handsomer up close.

“And you?” Frankie says. “Do you have a name?”

“Sonya,” I say.

“Nice to meet you, Sonya.”

He puts out his hand for me to shake it, but I don’t. Instead, I smile and excuse myself, telling him I have to find my girlfriends. I see a flicker of something cross his eyes, but I can’t tell if he’s amused or angry. When I turn back to look at him, he’s already talking to another girl, a staff babysitter. She’s practically shoving her chest in his face. Her brassy blonde hair is teased into a bouffant that my friends and I will giggle over later. Frankie has his hand on her waist, but he looks over at me and inclines his head just enough to suggest that he’s killing time until I come to my senses.  I make that-will-never-happen-eyes at him and walk away. They belong together, I tell myself. Those two. They’re the same kind.  A shaygetz and a shiksa.

Frankie is persistent. Every day, he waits for me to enter the kitchen. He’s always in a good mood, always has something unexpected to say.

“Hey,” he says. “You eat peanut butter?” He holds up a tin bucket of peanut butter. “We got a lot of it.”

“Only in camp,” I say. It’s so hot that the backs of my knees are damp with sweat. “My mother never buys it.”

“My mother doesn’t know what it is,” Frankie says.

“Neither does mine,” I say.

“You Italian?”

“Maybe.”

Frankie laughs as if he’s surprised that I’m funny. He looks at me in a way that makes me feel shy.

“I have to set up my station,” I say.

We sit at the same table for meals. He calls white bread “American bread,” but he is always quietly respectful during prayers. I try not to stare at the gold crucifix he wears on a short chain around his neck. I notice that he makes the waiters uncomfortable and the waitresses slightly giggly. Before long, Frankie and I are always looking for each other, exchanging smiles, sharing a few quiet moments on the back porch of the dining room, laughing, and finding an excuse to let out hands graze or our arms brush, skin-to-skin in our sleeveless tees. It’s a slow, excruciatingly delicious dance that keeps me wanting more.

Julian calls. He’ll be stopping by on Saturday, just for a few hours on his way up to Kingston. I tell him I’m excited, but I’m not. At night, in the dorm, I tell Nancy and Heddy that Julian is coming. They ply me with millions of questions; first about Julian, and then about Frankie. After awhile, I pretend to be asleep.

I don’t tell Frankie about Julian. I’m hopeful that the visit will come and go without notice. Julian arrives with a bunch of wildflowers. His father tells us to go take some time together while he waits in the dining room. I suggest a bench down by the lake. I don’t want to have to go into the dining room with Julian. I’m relieved when Mr. Klein takes my suggestion.

“Let’s go,” Julian says.

His palm feels sweaty when he grabs my hand. As soon we are out of Mr. Klein’s range of vision, Julian pulls me close and kisses me.

“Not here,” I say.  I look around. “Let’s go back to my room.”

I know all the girls will be out in the middle of the day. Julian and I run down the path towards my dorm. Moist curls cling to his forehead, and his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. He looks flustered. Frankie always looks so sure of himself.  It’s cool inside my room. I point to my bed. Julian immediately pulls me down and gets on top of me, grinding himself into me.

“I missed you,” he says into my neck. His hands cup my breasts. “I don’t think I can make it through the summer without you.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to cry. He’s kneading my flesh, worrying my mouth with his, and gently parting my lips with his tongue.

“I can’t breathe,” I say, flattening my palms against his chest and pushing him. “Can you get off me for a minute?” My face is flushed. “The girls will be back soon. We’re not supposed to have boys in the dorm.”

He looks so hurt that I’m immediately sorry. Julian who knows the best cheap ethnic restaurants in the city, who shares my love of books, who plays the saxophone for me in the park, and who takes me to every play and movie with social significance. Julian, who is also Jewish, even though the son of American Jews, but still Jewish. I kiss him, and he’s happy again. But his lips feel too soft and the hands that have touched me so many times in every place suddenly feel intrusive. I watch as he draws a small heart on the wall closest to my bed and puts our initials inside: SA and JK 4 Ever. I walk him back to his father’s car. I wave until I can’t see the car anymore. Then, I run back to my room and tack a postcard from my parents that says Greetings from Amish Country right over the heart.

After work that night Frankie asks me if I’ll wait for him while he finishes up. As the kitchen steward, he has a lot of responsibilities. I wait in the empty dining room, but from where I sit, I can still see him. I like the way he has his pack of Kool rolled up in is shirtsleeve. I like his muscled arms even better. Soon, he comes out, puts out his hand and asks me if I’d like to go for a walk. In answer, I take his hand. It’s almost dark, but I’m not afraid. I’m never afraid when I’m with him. Not of anything.

Hand-in-hand we walk the periphery of the campgrounds. His palm is slightly callused, but his skin is cool. We talk easily and about everything. I relax against his arm as we walk. It’s Friday night, and I’m missing the Sabbath service. I hear the familiar strains of song and prayer from the makeshift synagogue down near the lake. Lechah dodi, likrat kalah penei shabat nekabelah… Frankie squeezes my hand.

“You understand that stuff?” he says.

“It’s a song to welcome the Sabbath,” I say. “The Sabbath is like a bride, and she’s greeted like a lover.”

His ears immediately perk up at the word “lover,” and I blush.

“My mother lights the Sabbath candles every Friday night,” I say. “We have chicken soup, and roast chicken and challah—“

 “Challah?” he says.

“That soft bread you seem to like.”

“Easter bread.” He stops and turns me toward him, pulling me against his lean body. “Tell me about the lover part again.”

I’m prepared for his kiss, but first he places his hand around my throat, lightly, but with conviction. He brushes his lips against mine even as I open my mouth, ready to welcome him. His tongue is not questioning the way Julian’s always seems to be. Frankie’s tongue is insistent, purposeful. My arms hang loosely at me sides until he takes them and wraps them around his waist.

“Better,” he says and then kisses me again.

Hitna’ari me’afar kumi lib’shi big’dei tif’artech ami al yad ben Yishai beit halach’mi kar’vah el nafshi ge’a lah… Lechah dodi…. Get up from the ash and shake it off yourself…wear your glorious cloths, my nation next to King David…my soul will be saved… Come my lover.

I haven’t told Frankie about the ashes that identify my family history. The Holocaust is another history lesson for him, something remote and impersonal. I’m certain he barely knows any Jews in his hometown of Bayonne, New Jersey.  If he does, they never inhabit the same space.

I do not object when his hands outline my body with an urgency that leaves me breathless. And when he asks me if I’d like to go back to his room under the dining room, I say yes. I close my eyes against the image of the piles of ashes that seem to call out to me. My soul is already in trouble.

Spontaneous Love
By Bo Sebastian

You’ve heard of spontaneous healing. I want to introduce a new term: Spontaneous Love. It simply means that if you introduce love into your body instead of any negative alternative (hate, anxiety, jealousy, hurt, pain, unforgiveness), then your body will react with the energy of spontaneous healing.

Science has proven time and time again that people who are at peace and in a loving place, heal almost twice as fast as people who are struggling. Love and Joy bolster the immune system in many ways that science can’t explain. But as spiritual believers, we know that the main consequence of loving is healing. So, take out your prescription for all that ails you today and start some spontaneous loving.

I’m going to guarantee change in yourself, change in the people around you, and change in your work environment. The vibrations around respond to your love and all who come into your space will be changed by it, including all of your own bodily cells. So, don’t spend another minute today worrying yourself into sickness.

Today’s prayer: “Loving Spirit, you know the ways that the world and my job and my brain get in the way of my peace. Help me put aside the past and live in the perfect present, where I find all that I need to be happy and at peace. I know today I am provided for. You said that you have every feather on each bird accounted for. I know you have weighed my needs and provided for me from the riches of your storehouse in heaven. And as a good steward of my life, I’ll do what I can to walk in the knowledge of your truth.”

My dearest friend Judy, who had two “real sisters,” adopted me as one when I was little and filled with longing for my natural sibling, a child I’d never known.  She died when I was two. So the gift of Judy was something I’d longed for.Just last year she found an “adoption” contract we’d made with singed edges made to look old and a fake lawyer’s name scrawled by us – two nearsighted, gap-toothed ten year olds. 

We named the lawyer Penny, after my beloved, stinky dog.  Here is a birthday poem I wrote for Judy just the other day.

Sister Walk

So says one sister to another

A heart long-stitched to another

Through so many summers and back

In and out of mother’s kitchens: fragrant with breads in boxes, cinnamon dust and a bird hopping on your hand.

 One sister says the snow is over your shoes, and I want you to be warm forever. If the boy makes you cry, I will fix him good. I will fix them all.

For now, is the sister walk, the sister time. For now and forever I say to you.

My Shaygetz
By Phyllis Schieber 

My parents agree to let me work as a waitress for the summer in a Jewish sleep away camp in the Berkshires. I’ll have to haul trays of food, bus my area, and set up my tables, all for one hundred dollars for the entire summer, no tipping allowed. I don’t care though. Two of my best girlfriends, Nancy and Heddy, are also planning to go. I can’t wait to leave. The only bad part is that I’ll miss my boyfriend’s high school graduation because I have to go up to camp a few days early for staff orientation.

“I feel so bad,” I tell Julian.

We are in his room, stretched out on his unmade bed. He murmurs something understanding, but he’s preoccupied with my trying to undo my pants with one hand and my bra with the other. I’m a junior, and we’ve been dating since the beginning of my sophomore year.

“Julian?” I say. “Are you listening?”

“Not really, “ he says.

He has successfully unhooked my bra and expertly worked his hand around to my breasts. I laugh and return his kisses. He smells like sandalwood. I love the skin on his neck; it’s so smooth. When we kiss, I always think of butter.  We spend our weekends at museums, galleries, and art film movie houses. We explore the shelves at the Strand for hours, buy secondhand copies of poetry books and read aloud to each other over dim sum in Chinatown.

“Will you miss me?” I say as I run my hand through his dark curls. “We’ve never been apart for more than a few days.”

Instead of answering, Julian works my jeans over my hips, stopping to lick my belly. I hold his head, wondering how I will live without his buttery tongue.

The last week of school, Julian and I cut classes and take the subway to Greenwich Village to see A Man and a Woman. When we come out of the theater, it’s raining very lightly, and we look at each other and smile. We are in our own French movie. Holding hands, we make a dash for a coffee shop where we stand under the awning and kiss deeply.

“I’ll write you every day, “I say.

“And I’ll write back.” Julian promises. He holds me close. “Every day,” he says. “And I’ll visit you on the way up to camp. My dad said we could stop.”

“Really?” I tilt my face up for another kiss. Julian smoothes my hair, winds some stray pieces around my ears and kisses my nose. “I love you,” I say.

Julian nods, pushes his glasses up with his index finger and pulls a sealed envelope from his back pocket. He writes me poetry that makes me cry.

“Read this on the bus up to camp,” he says.

He’s the perfect boyfriend—intellectual, handsome, and Jewish. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I couldn’t have it any other way.

The buses pull off the main road and slowly move down the winding, dirt path that leads into the camp. Our trunks, which were picked up weeks ago, are waiting for us in our dorms. But we have duffel bags that we drag across the field to our assigned quarters. Nancy, Heddy, and I will share a room with three other girls. The bathrooms and showers are in the hall. There are twenty-five girls in our dorm. We settle in, introduce ourselves, and unpack as much as we can before we have to run to the dining hall for our first meeting. I miss Julian already.

The next morning, the waiters and waitresses meet with the meshgiach. He supervises the kitchen to make sure we observe the laws of kashrut. My mother keeps a kosher home, so I know the rules. Dairy and meat must be kept separate—dishes and silverware must never mingle. The meshgiach, an imposing man with a thunderous voice, tells us that he will be vigilant at all times. “Any infraction of the rules will be reported,” he says. We all rise to begin our tour of the kitchen. I’ll be working breakfast because I’ve been assigned the staff tables. The campers are not due to arrive for another two days. I’ve pulled my hair back in a regulation ponytail. I’m ready to begin work. The kitchen is steaming, but I’m wearing shorts and a tank top that is, from the sidelong glance I get from the meshgiach, possibly too tight. I kneel and slide the heavy tray, loaded with dishes, silverware and glasses, onto my shoulder and slowly rise. After I set my tables, I return for the bread, plates of cut fruit, and three pots of coffee when a whistle makes me turn my head.  The boy who whistled is on a ladder, arranging boxes in a storage area.  He is wearing skintight black jeans and a tee shirt I know is called a “wife-beater.” His black hair is styled in a way that only the tough boys in school sport—a stiff pompadour juts out from his forehead. He winks at me before I turn away. Still, his tanned, muscled arms and his heart-stopping green eyes have not escaped my notice.

Nancy and Heddy are incredulous when I tell them about the boy in the kitchen. Nancy will wait on campers’ tables, so the next two days are hers. Heddy is working the switchboard in the air-conditioned main office. I envy them both. I’m already exhausted. We’re sitting under a tree, smoking cigarettes and trying to catch the breeze.

“What did you do?” Heddy says.

“Do? “ I say. “There’s nothing to do. I gave him a dirty look.”

“I wonder if he’ll be at the staff party tonight,” Nancy says.

I don’t have an answer to that either. I’m going to wait by the phones at eight o’clock for Julian to call.

Corrugated Love

by Bo Sebastian

Everyone has their ideal for love. We tend to move toward it as in a dream, never looking back. The little girl folds pictures of her wedding day into an album. A young man neatly tucks away images of baby and momma in his heart like nesting file folders on a laptop. Partners think of the day they’ll have that home together tucked away in the woods with the 1.5 animals.

We are humans meant to come together. No matter how calloused we become about relationships, there is a part of our souls that long for the happy ending, to be swept away by love in its greatest form.

Is it wrong? I’m asked, time and time again, to feel this way. Absolutely not. My question, though, is have you allowed your vision of love to be corrugated (contracted into wrinkles and folds)? Is it time to bring the old vision out and take a good look at it in the realistic light of today.

Is your dream a possibility for you now? Are your fantasies about love realistic? I those are fair questions to ask yourself.

Most of us haven’t seen a model relationship in our lives that mirrors the “Leave it to Beaver” relationship of the Cleavers, yet somewhere in our subconsciouses, we think it exists. Is it fair to allow the illusions of television and movies to obstruct the vision or our lives?

I have lived in relationship where we never fought. Then one day the relationship just ended. I’ve had relationships where we fought a lot and the relationship still ended. But I’m not ready to stop dreaming that a partnership exists in between– where there is a perfect balance of love and respect, truth and communication.

The most important aspect though of this ironed out, uncorrugated dream is that two people have to be on the same path together, perhaps a spiritual path, that meets in the middle, ready to move ahead even if there is a bump or two in the road. When that exists, a real relationship will occur. I’m assured of that.

Our Affirmation: “Spirit God, allow my heart to be open to love today, of all forms. Let me dream again. Let me take out that old fantasy, dust it off, and rewrite it with confidence that you will bring about the perfect person for me. I know you are the giver of all gifts. You said, “Ask and you shall receive.” Together, everyone who is reading this and who is asking, we are all doing so with one voice. And so it is!”

When We Least Expect It

Lindi here.

I’m a huge fan of encouragement. I believe that a kind, uplifting word can do wonders for the soul. Can brighten a bad day. Can make the impossible seem possible.

Sometimes, when we least expect it, someone comes along with words or acts of kindness that leave us smiling. Don’t you love it when that happens?

Have you ever gone about your day looking for ways to be an encourager? Have you seen someone having a rough time of it and offered a helping hand? A few dollars? An invitation to lunch?

A couple of weeks ago I was at a drive-through. I was probably five cars back, nothing unusual—except the wait was unusually long. We didn’t move for fifteen minutes. When we finally inched up a little, the wait continued to be long. I’m normally not an impatient person, but I will admit to looking for a way out of the line. If my car would have jumped the curb we would have been out of there.

Then I got to the window and the cashier told me the guy in front of me paid for my meal.

What?

Seriously?

I said okay and drove forward. My long wait at the drive through suddenly took a turn in a better direction. Only when I got to the window and received my food did I realize that maybe I should have paid for the guy behind me.
I told my daughter the story and she said it was called Pay-It-Forward and she thinks it started at a Chick-Fil-A. I wouldn’t be surprised.

Then I started feeling guilty about not buying the meal for the guy behind me. Doesn’t it always work like that? Something good happens then we, as humans, try to find a way to mess it up. I quit feeling guilty and enjoyed my double cheeseburger, fries and coke. And the next time I’m in a line that moves slowly, I’m buying a meal for the person behind me.

Or I may not wait. There probably doesn’t have to be a horrible drive-through experience happening to brighten someone’s day.

Have you experienced the Pay-It-Forward drive through experience  either giving or receiving?

Lindi Peterson—Happy Endings Are Just The Beginning