Bell Bridge Books

    ASHEVILLE – THE SETTING OF THE CROSSROADS CAFE NOVELLAS

by: Deborah Smith

My Inspiration . . .

He was a little guy, thin inside baggy thrift-store clothes, grubby-looking, with ear-flaps flapping on his cap as he walk-loped up theAshevillesidewalk toward my husband and me. It was nine a.m. on an autumn Saturday, bright and sunny and blue-skied, and we were headed up and down the hilly city streets toward eggs and soy sausage at Tupelo Honey’s.

We could see his lips moving as he came closer, but we couldn’t hear what he was saying and, even if we could read lips, we couldn’t see his. He held a ratty Teddy Bear in front of his face. A big one. We weren’t sure how he saw around it.

He never paused, never glanced our way, never stopped whispering to his bear. He and his secret friend passed by us and continued up the hill, two pals communing inside the mysteries of their minds.

Just another moment in theNorth Carolinacity where the favorite t-shirt slogans include “Why be normal?” and “It’s not weird, it’sAsheville.”

Of course every city has its share of citizens who live in alternate realities. But here, in this artsy-bohemian  informal capital of westernNorth Carolina(the mountain side of the state) “alternate”   is  square one  on the yellow brick road to everywhere.

“There’s the nun,”  someone says, as a guy in a habit flies by on a tall bicycle, hairy knees pumping as he dodges pedestrians and halloooos at the street performers. The flying bicycle nun can only mean one thing: the purple LaZoom comedy tour bus is coming.  It rolls by, a comedy routine in motion, the passengers wearing bizarre hats.

Hardly anyone gives it an astonished look.

Over inPritchardParkpeople are smoking roll-your-owns and playing chess at the granite chess tables; on Friday evenings dozens of drummers show up with djembes and rattles, bongos and small drums. The drumming is loud and primitive and exciting.  A lot of very bad stomp-dancing commences, mostly by white people, though the crowd is always diverse.   Kids run in circles, laughing.  Young women in peasant skirts roll their waist-bands down and  belly dance.

Hank enjoys that part. Go figure.

On my latest birthday I decided I wanted my ears pierced. Hank and I can’t agree that I should  get a tattoo – I keep working on that plan, but the ear piercings are the first baby steps toward my Wild Cronehood Transition, so far.

I come from the kind of southern family where one hole in each ear was the maximum; and that was only acceptable after about 1975 (among the Methodists;) not until the late 1980’s among the Southern Baptists.  I was raised among a wild branch of semi-Methodists, so Daddy pierced my ears early,in the late 1960’s, using a large sewing needle and a tray of ice cubes to numb the lobes.

It was great family entertainment. Sister, mother, and grandma gathered to watch. No one fainted, and a good time was had by all.

So I came from a streak of rebellion. I got a second set of piercings in my lobes some years ago. Wild stuff. Made family reunions a little tense. Look at her. Four holes!

And now. Well. I was going to hell. I was taking my piercings outside the realm    of all decent folk.

I was going above the lobes.

So Hank and I walked into anAshevilletattoo  parlor (the optimum place to get a professional piercing done, according to the multi-pierced college students at our hometown pub.)

The staff and clientele looked at us as if we might have wandered in by mistake, intending to enter the Oldies But Goodies Vinyl Records Collectibles Shop next door. I explained that I wanted a piercing in each ear.

The young man behind the counter decided to humor me and asked where? I pointed vaguely to my ears. Somewhere in there. And on the edge over there.

This is when he gets out the chart. The ear anatomy chart.

We go over more terms than a high school human physiology class.

Helix, triangular fossa, crus helix, tragus.

Tragus. I ask if that isn’t the time travel thingie in Dr. Who?

Hank sits down in a corner and hides behind his cell phone.

No, the tragus is that thick ridge that guards the entrance to your ear canal.

Okay, that would be a prominent display spot for a glittery semi-precious stud. Very cool.

“I’ve got a pierced tragus. Want to see my tragus?”

I like the sound of that.

On to the other ear. Helix. The outer fold. Soft and fleshy. “That looks like a good spot. Not much cartilage. Won’t hurt, right?”

“Not much,” the child-man behind the counter says.

He said something similar about the tragus.

Actually he said, “Not too bad.”

Next to me, a young child of twenty or so, dotted with a lot of metal already, says, “Hey, you  oughta try this. She points to her ear. Inside, upper half. A stud gleams on a  shallow mound that looks as if it would be very hard to maneuver a needle through. My stomach felt funny. I looked  at the ear chart.

The antihelix.

That sounded . . . anti. Not for me.

I paid, I signed papers, I swore I wasn’t underage, high or drunk, and I showed my driver’s license. I was disappointed when I found out all the pretty studs on display in the jewelry cases were forbidden for a piercing process. I had to go full-titanium pre-sterilized. This was some serious stabby work.

“Come on back here,” said a reincarnation of John Belushi, covered in tattoos and a beard, and wearing inch-wide ear-plugs in his lobes.

This is how men think they’re proving they could give birth if they had to.

John took me into a very doctorly room with sterilizers and cabinets and an exam table with sanitary paper on it. He had nearly twenty years of experience piercing everything that can be pierced on the human body, and when he realized I was happy to hear the gory details, (writers ask questions, and former  newspaper reporters ask a LOT of them) he merrily told me.

I began making a mental list of the anecdotes I would not be sharing with Hank.  A lot of men don’t like hearing stories about needles going through that down there.    

“Ready?” John said, his Latexed fingers holding a needle the size of a toothpick  next to my unsuspecting targus.

“Sure!”

When  your daddy stabbed your earlobes with Mama’s  largest sewing needle while your kid sister went “MAKE IT BLEED,” you’re  confident you can handle a steel toothpick through your targus.

Zap.

I said bad words. My eyes watered. It was over in three seconds. Maybe two. But still. Damn.

“You all right?” John asked.

“Sure!”

I was looking around for something sharp to cut him with if he picked up a second needle. Fortunately, he recognized the reaction. “The other side will be a piece of cake. You’re doing great. Didn’t you say you have a calico cat? Look, here’s a picture of my calico. She sleeps between me and my wife every night.”

He distracted me with photos of his kitty on his cell phone. The dull throbbing in my targus settled down. Okay, it was still attached. I took a deep breath. “Ready.”

“Good girl.”

He moved fast. Ready, set, aim. Ka-zap. My helix lost its virginity. Not so bad. John gave me instructions on saline cleansing. We shook hands. We’d bonded.

I swaggered out like a female pirate. A stud in my targus. A stud in my helix.

“Do I look hot, or what?” I asked Hank.
“Pale, really pale,” he said.
“I need wine. A lot of it.”

He took me by the arm and we wandered out into the sunshine.

Ashevillesurrounded me. I was one with the weirdness. Proudly alternative.

But a little wobbly.

I wanted a Teddy Bear to talk to.

CHECK OUT ALL OF DEBORAH SMITH’S BOOKS ON AMAZON NOW!! 

AND DON’T MISS THE PICKLE QUEEN OUT TODAY!!!!

JUST CLICK THE PICTURES!!

WHAT IF

by Susan Kearney

Where Do You Get Your Ideas? Is the question I’m asked most frequently.

OK, I’m going to admit a secret. I don’t think of myself as a writer.  Writing was that hard boring stuff with commas and grammar that I was supposed to learn in school. But story telling?  Ah, that’s where the fun is.

My process for creating a story always seems to start with a “What if.”  For example, when I read the headline in my newspaper, Woman To Direct Secret Service, I started playing What if?  What if a woman took a bullet to save the President?

What if aliens saved the secret service agent?

And what if the alien who saved her was a sexy warrior from another world?  Now ever since I first saw Star Trek  I’ve always had a thing for sexy men in sleek space ships.  So I thought what if the man had to train the woman for an alien challenge?

OK.  So my imagination tends to go where others may not have gone before.  However, once I put my hero and heroines in space, I get to create entire new worlds.  But as a lazy writer, I tend to avoid the parts I don’t enjoy—like describing clothing. Hence, I made suits for my characters to wear that they can alter with a mere thought.

See, all this is fun.  And think about all the things one can do if the suits nullify gravity.  TheKamaSutra would need re-writing.  At least need more pictures, right?

That’s kind of how my mind works, one idea leads to another

Okay, so now I have built a world from playing What If.  What if the alien and the earthling fall in love?  Conflict is good, without it life is boring.  So mix in a common enemy—just to complicate my characters lives.  And then what if my hero can either save his home world or the woman he loves?

So my process to write a story is to play “What if.”  I don’t censor my thoughts.  I don’t say -–oh that’s too strange—-I leave that to reviewers. J

And I adore readers who leave reviews of my books all over the Internet. It’s especially fun to hear how excited readers are about the re-release of The Rystani Warrior series in e-books and print.

Coming late June 2013

THE CHALLENGE is out now. THE DARE, THE ULTIMATUM and THE QUEST will be out soon.  These stories can each stand alone, but I think they are best when read from first to last. Yes, the stories are hot and sexy.  Yes, there are moral and ethical dilemmas.  But the stories are about how my characters react to all the problems I throw at them. It just comes down to telling a story. And the first person I have to entertain is myself.

All right.  You get the idea.  It would be even better if you get the books.

Susan Kearney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of The Rystani Warrior Series. Get THE CHALLENGE (Book 1) today at Amazon Kindle for ONLY $4.79! Look for THE DARE in late June 2013. THE ULTIMATUM and THE QUEST (Books 3 and 4) to follow.

TODAY ONLY! LIA ROMEO’S DATING THE DEVIL IS ONLY $1.99 AT AMAZON KINDLE!

WHY I LOVE CHICK LIT

BY LIA ROMEO

I love chick lit.  I’m a smart girl – I’ve got my degree in comparative lit from Princeton and I’ve read my Derrida – but I’ll take Jennifer Weiner (also a Princeton alum!) any day.  Here’s why:

1.  It’s relevant.

I’m a young woman living in and writing about the 21^st century.  As such, while I absolutely think it’s important to use fiction to experience the lives and concerns of people who are completely different from me, I’m also going to devote a portion of my (all too limited) reading time to reading about people who are in a similar position, and thinking about the ways that their experience of the world might inform my own – and my writing.

2.It’s escapist.

Sometimes we just need to read something fun – and for me, it’s chick lit.  In chick lit novels, bad dates aren’t a pointless waste of time, they’re a way for the heroine to realize what she really wants.  Jobs aren’t tedious and boring, they’re full of fun anecdotes and entertaining coworkers.  And everything usually turns out okay in the end.  When I first decided to write a novel, I’d just gone through a bad breakup and moved out of the place I’d shared with my boyfriend, and I was living in a dirty apartment with two strangers, one of whom turned out to (literally) be a psychopath.  I needed a way to “get away,” and writing chick lit turned out to be perfect.

3.It’s conventional.

Okay, so this sounds more like it ought to be a criticism … but I find that working within conventions – or reading something that does – can actually spark creativity instead of stifling it.  I’ve always been fascinated by variations on a theme – it’s why I love the architecture of churches – they’re all created for the same basic purpose, and have certain similarities, but each one also executes that purpose in such a unique way.  I feel the same way about books within a particular genre – like chick lit.  When they’re badly done, it can feel like they’re just telling the same old tired stories over and over, but when they’re well done, I love seeing the unique spin that different authors put on the same conventions.  When I decided to try writing a chick lit novel, the first thing I thought about was how I could take the conventions of the genre and work with them in an original way.

Writing as a Mom

by Katherine Scott Crawford 

This month, everything is starting to bloom in my tiny town in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Heck, the trees began budding in February—early for us—and the daffodils are just beginning to show their sunny heads. Even the chickens in my neighbor’s chicken coop seem to be clucking more frequently, and with a bit of sass.

Yep, everything is blooming. Including my belly.

Well, that’s putting it kindly. I’m in my third trimester of pregnancy, and I currently resemble your basic ocean liner. From the front, from far away, if I’m wearing all black and you squint when you look at me, I still appear pretty normal. But then I turn sideways—slowly, very slowly—and the fog horns blow. I need one of those beepers moving vans have, to warn folks when I’m backing up. 

When I was pregnant with my first child, now three and a half years old, I couldn’t count the number of people who told me, “Oh, you’ll be so inspired by pregnancy and motherhood. Think of all you’ll have to write about!”

And while I’m certain this will, at some point, be the case, for the most part it’s been hogwash.

For some reason, when I’m “with child,” my body blooms and my brain power wilts. That baby just sucks up all my creative juices (and my reason) like one of those expensive and super-powered Dyson vacuum cleaners. You know, the kind that can take down dog hair. 

I’m quickly discovering why many of my favorite writers, especially women, published their first novels in their mid-forties and beyond: their kids were grown.

Just as no one really tells you when you become pregnant about how your backside will start to look like—as Olympia Dukakis so eloquently put it in Steel Magnolias—“two pigs fightin’ under a blanket,” no one tells you that pregnancy and new motherhood can zap your creative juices. That you’ll be so exhausted you’ll fall asleep by 9 p.m.

That when you’re sitting in the rocking chair in your child’s bedroom, and you bend over to pick up a book off the floor, you’ll topple over like a felled tree. Oh, wait. Maybe that’s just me.

They joys of motherhood, and yes—even sometimes pregnancy—are at times too many to count. My lips are beautifully full these days. If the rest of me didn’t look like a beach ball, they’d be pretty hot. And that baby movement across the belly, the roll and tumble of a sweet new life, is beyond cool.

As for my writing mojo? That powerful magic that appears when all my creative cylinders are firing? Well, heck. It’s taking a 9 month siesta. And if this new baby is anything like my first child, that siesta might stretch into a whole year. But I’m okay with this. Or at least I’m learning to deal with it.

Why? Because I know the mojo will be back, and will appear at the oddest of times. Kind of like all those lovely blooms popping up in my town … evidence of an early Spring.  

Keowee Valley is $1.99 today at Amazon and Apple.

Katherine Scott Crawford was born and raised in the blue hills of the South Carolina Upcountry, the history and setting of which inspired Keowee Valley. Winner of a North Carolina Arts Award, she is a former newspaper reporter and outdoor educator, a college English teacher, and an avid hiker. She lives with her family in the mountains of Western North Carolina, where she tries to resist the siren call of her passport as she works on her next novel. Visit her at: www.katherinescottcrawford.com.

Marrying James Bond

By Hope Clark

Lowcountry Bribe, the first in The Carolina Slade Mystery Series, opens with the protagonist being offered a bribe from a client she least suspects—a hog farmer. She calls the Inspector General’s office, and within 48 hours, they have a federal agent on the ground checking the situation. The investigation goes awry, trust is lost on so many levels, and lives are threatened.

At conferences and readings, I love talking about the opening chapter to that book . . . because it comes so close to reality. I was once a federal employee who was offered a bribe. And my husband was the agent who showed up on the case. We rigged hidden recorders and pin-hole cameras, rehearsed a script to pull off the “sting,” and dealt with threats against me. We didn’t catch the culprit, but we married 18 months later.

At that point in the presentation, the room goes abuzz. Many people then ask me how much of the book is fact and which part fiction. It’s fun, because that means the story reads that realistically. And while I have to tell them the rest of the story is fiction, I can’t help but put myself in those fictional scenes.

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself where reality stopped and fantasy started. And when I do take that pause, I smile. Because I can get lost in my head with my characters and have a grand time, especially knowing that I get to actually sleep with the good guy. In this case, fantasizing in bed about a character is a very good thing, because I’m married to him.

I’ve actually pondered what would happen if, God forbid, I developed dementia in my older years, and fact gradually muddied into my fiction, blending Slade and Wayne into my own history until I could not remember the difference. After all, writers get very close to their stories and the players that make those tales come to life. I did minor investigations in my prior career with the federal government, and my husband was indeed an agent with many war stories under his belt. As I juggle the possibility of make-believe and my past entangling in my gray-headed mind downstream, I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad predicament.

To make matters worse, my husband is my sounding board for subsequent stories. He keeps my technical details accurate, my gun references true, and laughs at the predicaments Slade gets into, chuckling that he’d never let that happen on his watch. At my speaking engagements, he’s often asked if he was my model for Wayne, and he answers, “Nah, Wayne’s a wuss.” Everybody laughs, and I crack a smile. I know he’s serious.

What better life can I ask for than to secretly write about my husband, pretending I’m the girl in the story, carousing through escapades, playing dare-devil, and solving crime.

We may not look like Daniel Craig and his charming Bond-girl with our middle-aged appearances, but we love to think like we are . . . because one time we did some of that, and now we live happily ever after.

BIO

C. Hope Clark lives on the banks of Lake Murray, South Carolina, writing her mysteries, and often reading aloud to her federal agent with his lit cigar, neat bourbon, and deep opinions about how Wayne still isn’t close to the “real deal.” Tidewater Murder, the second in the Carolina Slade Mystery Series, arrives on book shelves in April 2013. www.chopeclark.com

IT’S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS

by Elizabeth Sinclair

When we were first married, by no stretch of the imagination could my husband be described as a romantic. Please don’t misunderstand.  He loved me, and I knew it.  He was a big hand-holder, hugger and kisser. He just fell short in the gift-giving department.  For years, being very practical, his idea of a good gift was a blender, a vacuum, a breadmaker, or (are you ready?) a sponge mop with a special scrubber strip.  To his benefit, it did have a pink bow on the handle. He told me it was a joke, but, given his track record, I had serious doubts.

Getting the idea?

When one of our two daughters got old enough, she became very big on remembering special occasions and would give him a gentle reminder.  “Daddy, it’s Mom’s birthday.  Did you get her a present?  A real present?”   She knew early on that a kitchen appliance did not qualify as a REAL present. When that didn’t seem to sink in, she began giving him suggestions. And I have to say that after she started helping out, the gifts did improve . . . until that fateful Valentine’s Day.

One this Valentine’s Day, she’d been involved in some school events and didn’t remind him until quite late that day that he should get me flowers or candy. Since we owned a luncheonette at the time and right across the street was a florist, the solution to a gift for his wife at 8PM on Valentine’s Day Eve was simple.  He’d opt for flowers.
On Valentine’s Day morning, I was awakened with a kiss and told there was a gift on the dining room table.  I hurried downstairs and found a terracotta pot sitting in the middle of the table.  Laying around the base of the pot were a pile of red petals and protruding from the pot were a dozen stems, a few leaves, and the remains of what once were tulips.By the time I’d stopped laughing, my husband had appeared. I kissed him and thanked him.  After all, it was the thought that counted, and it wasn’t a sponge mop.

I’m happy to report that he has improved 100% and now gives me such gifts as perfume, lingerie, jewelry and clothes and often makes me a lovely romantic dinner for my birthday.  And all that only took 51 years of marriage.

So, what’s the strangest gift you’ve ever gotten from your spouse?

ROMANCE FOR THE LONG HAUL

Kathleen Eagle

I didn’t see myself as a serious romantic until I wrote my first book and started looking for an agent.  Of the half dozen or so query letters I sent out, half generated positive responses.  I weighed the pros and cons and chose the one who had a secretary.  Sure sign of success, right?  I wasn’t sure about his comment that I would be entering the market at the perfect time because “Romance is becoming very popular.”

Romance?  I wrote a story about a woman who took an east-west journey similar to mine, and I set it a hundred years ago.  It was a cross-cultural story set in Indian Country, but there were no captives, certainly no savages. Wasn’t that what they were selling in the grocery stores these days?  I’m an English teacher, a Lit major, a fairly down-to-earth kind of woman.  Sure, I’m optimistic.  I see the glass half full—accentuate the positive half of the agents’ responses and the uplifting nature of my story.  But I’m not really a romantic.  Not seriously.  I’m very serious.  I have Scandinavian ancestry.  Serious, practical people.  How did I come up with a Romance?

Okay, so I fell in love with a cowboy who’s also American Indian.  He’s two Romance heroes in one.  The first time I saw him, he was taming a horse.  I was mesmerized.  Practically, seriously, positively captivated.  He smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.  He spoke poetry.  He took me for a ride on his horse, and that was the beginning of all she wrote.

Three kids, three grandkids, two different careers, nearly fifty books and almost as many years later, I can say without reservation…um, I mean, without hesitation…that I’m a romantic.  The glass is always measured in terms of its fullness.  Half-full, brimming, running over, life is the glass we fill for ourselves and those we love. What we fill it with is up to us.  I choose to flavor mine with Romance.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Kathleen Eagle’s latest Bell Bridge Books publication is THIS TIME FOREVER 

The Last Good Man is $1.99 at the Kindle Store (Amazon) and the Nook Store (Barnes & Noble).

This Time Forever is $1.99 at the Nook Store (Barnes & Noble).

You Never Can Tell is $1.99 at Kobo Books .

MAGIC IN EXCESS

by Danielle Childers

I’m from Texas. It’s important for you to recognize the Lone Star State in order to understand why I tease my hair. Everything’s bigger in Texas.

Less is not more. Less is less. Especially when it comes to love. In honor of Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share some things that I have BIG love for.

Danielle’s Favorite Things:

1. Jesus. (I was raised in a very traditional, Southern home, and my mother, who is probably reading this, would die if I didn’t put Jesus first.)

2. The doctor (my husband).

3. Books. (Anything by Deborah Smith, Sarah Addison Allen . . . there’s really too many to list. Follow me on Goodreads.)

4. Cats. (I have 2 and would add more if the doctor would allow it. He puts his foot down, but I know he secretly tries to coax stray kittens into his truck to bring home.)

5. Book clubs that make recipes from the month’s reading and pair it with a movie. Example: Make pumpkin pie. Read The River Witch by Kimberly Brock, and watch Batman: The Dark Knight Rises, because a broken woman attempting to redeem herself and the crumbling spirit of a lonely girl is very much like a conflicted superhero trying to save the world. Both will have you on the edge of your seat until the alligators or the mercenaries are conquered.

These things I love are magic. Combine them with blueberry tea on a Sunday afternoon, and you’ll never go searching for a charm or enchantment again. Only, you can’t have the doctor. He’s mine. I won him fair and square.

You see, unlike my best friend Brittany, I started abandoning romance novels a few years ago. I’m sure the books miss me terribly, and there are days when I miss them, but I’m more of a magical-realism-kind-of-girl. I want a peaceful life with miraculous happenings. When I envision romance, I see myself as a librarian, which I once upon a time was, with woodland creatures scurrying from opened books and high tea manifesting itself with teacups and luxury linens any time the moon shines just right through an open window. When Prince Charming shows up, he’s a little nerdy and a whole lot of magic.

In real life, I married at 19 years of age after 2 months of dating and a 4 month engagement. Yes, 6 months from “Can I date your daughter?” which my husband asked my dad down by the casket at a funeral, to “I do,” which we said on a Sunday morning in between the altar call and the Hallalujah! 

My husband was applying for medical school after completing his degree in biochemistry, and all of our parents supported us. This was, perhaps, the magic in my realisim.

This doctor of mine is hot stuff. At the time, he was surrounded by many, many marriage-minded women. I, like any true Southern lady would, decided to teach them the difference between fishing and hunting. I put on the lowest cut dress I owned, baked his initials onto pancakes, and spread the word that I’d seen the doctor with the church harlot, and I was SURE a disease was brewing. It was a shameless attempt to send his swooning fanclub packing.

It worked.

He’s fantastic. He winks at me when I catch his eye. Is there anything more magical than being the only girl in the room? When I cry, he pats my back and asks if I need to buy a book. If that’s not love . . .

To quell the suspicions that our teeny-tiny, incredibly short courtship fueled, I feel the need to announce: I was not pregnant. I was a v-i-r-g-i-n when I married. Put your eyebrows down! When was I supposed to do “the dance with no pants?” In high school? No, thank you.

I have no problem discussing this because my husband, much like country music, prefers his women a little (barely) on the trashy side. It’s why I pay for some of the blonde in my hair, paint my nails Thrill of Brazil red, and sing “Queen of My Double-Wide Trailer,” even though we live in a perfectly suburban home with guest towels and every kitchen gadget sold at the Williams Sonoma outlet store.

I know it’s all a bit dramatic.

Another example of the magic in books spilling over into my life.

I take things to excess. It’s why, when I found out that New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith was writing a book called The Biscuit Witch, I proceeded to bring batches of biscuits into work to find the perfect recipe. When I read The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, I dressed in black and white with red accents for weeks. With Sarah Addison Allen’s The Girl who Chased the Moon, I bought mismatched vintage china plates and strung fairy lights across my backyard.

I know the stories in the books aren’t real, but the magic is. I found it 6 years ago, walking down an aisle in a white dress and veil. And the magic, along with the man of my dreams, has been my constant companion ever since.

Happy reading.

Happy loving.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

If My Life were a Romance Novel

By Brittany Shirley

I am constantly reading, editing, and rereading romance novels. I love them, every part. The hero. The heroine. The mushiness. The difficulties. That bewitching moment when he looks at her and finally realizes this is love. They are amazing. Some are set in the past, the future, a different dimension. They all have those wonderful sections that make me keep reading. I am fortunate enough to be able to get paid to read them. While editing is one of the smaller portions of my job, it is also one of the most enjoyable. I was chatting with the lovely Deb Smith the other day. I told her something that I heard from others: “Oh, Brittany! The right guy is out there for you.” That was unsolicited consoling. I did not say “Oh, I am so lonely.” Or “Wow, I wish I had a boyfriend.” None of those words came out of my mouth. I made a joke about my  “future husband.” Apparently that got people thinking I was lonely right now. The truth is at the ripe age of _____ (because I am not going to tell you my real age), I have plenty of time to get married. But, as I am telling this to Deb, I have a thought: what if my life were a romance novel, and this is just the opening scene. Now, I am a huge fan of all books, but I love a good romantic tale. It’s what I read, and it’s what I edit.

So in my dream world, my life is a romance novel (how exciting is that?). I have a weird childhood. I go to college and graduate on time. I am the Type A student. I have tons of friends, good friends. I date some good guys. There are relationships that just don’t quite work but end on good terms. I date some bad guys that break my heart (so far, Check!). All in all, I am that average girl. I make mistakes, but my life is ordinary. Until one day!

One day, I am at the grocery store. I see a cute boy. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. He is chuckling because I am stretching but I still can’t reach the ketchup. Why do they have to put it on the top shelf anyway? He walks over, grabs the bottle of ketchup, and hands it to me. WOW, ketchup guy is really gorgeous. I say thank you, but it is probably barely audible. He smiles, says you’re welcome, and walks away. I am standing there in awe of what just happened. I snap back to reality and continue to grocery shop.

A month later, my best friend, Danielle, sets me up on a blind date. The guy is super nice and a doctor. We will call him, Bob. What he lacks in communication (so not a talker), Bob makes up in his choice of venue for the evening. We go to a cooking class. I love to cook. LOVE to cook. This is a perfect place for a date: we can talk, but silences won’t be awkward because we will be cooking. There will be wine. Yay, finally a man with taste! I start to question whether Danielle put him up to this or if he is just that awesome. We are partnered with another couple. The man is out of the room when we begin. We make small talk with the girl. She is a little older than I am, but she is one of those natural beauties that doesn’t need make up. She also has the flirty, shy quality that I will never have. I am loud and opinionated, and shy isn’t exactly an adjective that could describe me. EVER. I try not to hate her as I crush the garlic for the risotto. That is when I notice that my doctor date is staring at her. Not just a slight glance to check her out. He is full-on, jaw-dropped staring. Now, I do hate her. I can’t wait for her date to get back so mine will stop. While this is not number one on my list of worst dates, it certainly is not my best. Her date finally comes back after everyone has already started sautéing the garlic. She gives him a glare that could melt the ice in the Arctic. Even I feel bad for him. Then I see his face. I can’t breathe. It is him. It’s the guy from the grocery store.
“You’re the ketchup guy!” I blurt out. Bob looks at me like I am crazy. But I am not crazy. I didn’t ruin our date, he did. So ketchup guy chuckles and his eyes squint. “Yeah, that would be me. I rescue ladies from top-shelf ketchup disasters.” I giggle. Which, if you know me at all, is NOT something I do. Girly girls giggle. I laugh, guffaw, and snort while doing so. I don’t giggle. Maybe it’s the wine. Bob has stopped looking at anyone and is concentrated on the food.

All of the sudden, ketchup guy starts sneezing and coughing. His face is beginning to swell. To me, it looks like an allergic reaction, but I am no doctor. Bob looks at him and tells the instructor to call 911. No one has an Epi Pen. Then I remember I have Benadryl, the byproduct of my reaction to perfumes of any kind. I dig in my purse find the bottle, and shove a few at him. He has to swallow them with wine. Eventually, before the paramedics show up, he turns a normal shade of pink as his face is no longer swollen.

The paramedics arrive and look him over. They deem him well enough to forgo the ER. I turn back toward my date who has been chatting with super flirty, shy girl. I roll my eyes and hope there is a twenty in my purse for a cab. It looks like Bob and Sarah (I heard him call her that) have other plans. Yay, me! I can save a life and lose a date all in the matter of three hours.

    Ketchup guy walks over to me while I am drinking my fourth glass of wine. I am getting a cab anyway, I might as well enjoy myself.

“Hi, my name is (insert future my husband’s name here). I wanted to say thank you for saving me an embarrassing trip to the ER. For that, I am eternally grateful.”

“You’re welcome. My name is Brittany.” I say in what I hope sounds like a sexy voice.

I can totally tell he is laying it on thick, but I let it slide. He almost died for goodness sake. Well, had to go to the ER. Then, I find myself flirting. I have not done that in a while. Bob barely spoke on the ride here, except to introduce himself. Ketchup boy tells Bob he will take me home, and that Bob should probably take Sarah home soon. The kitchen is closing. He winks at Bob and walks back over to me. I didn’t even know people my age did that. It is pretty attractive.

I don’t exactly argue, but I do ask, “Why do you assume I will just let you take me home? I don’t know you. The only thing I know is that you have an allergy and you can reach ketchup.”

But I do let him take me home. He asks me for my number. I give him every number except for the last. I write down a math equation. If he can figure that out, he is definitely a keeper. And he does.

We date, fall in love, and are genuinely happy. There are arguments. We fight. There is tension.

One weekend, he surprises me completely and takes me to an Opening Day game.  He proposes to me at a Busch Stadium in St. Louis (The Cardinals are my favorite baseball team). We get married in a sweet, Southern ceremony. And every year, on my anniversary, I call Danielle to thank her for setting me up with Bob. Because without Bob, I would have never met my future husband. Bob married Sarah, so all in all. Everything worked out for the best.

While I lucked out with a gorgeous guy (in this romance novel), that is not even close to how I admire men (I mean YES, I love the way they look). But, hey, I was attracted to Bob ( which is all I need). He was cute. But Bob blew the date, and I landed my ketchup guy. J There is something magical about how people fall in love. About how they find themselves complimented by another. About how they spend the rest of their lives in love. Yes, love means fighting, tension, anger, and threats of poisoning their favorite food. But the story and the look in a person’s eye is so enchanting. This is what my life would be like if I got to pick how I would meet my future husband. But I don’t think I can write a story as captivating as real life and true love.

Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all!

MY VERY FAVORITE VALENTINE

By Trish Jensen

I have an admission to make. I’ve never had a really cool Valentine with any boyfriends or even my husband of ten years. Same old, same old flowers and dinners out and yada, yada. Nice, but just not all that creative or new. I appreciated but kept thinking, “This is what you came up with? Did I really believe you were special?”

I spent every year thinking up treasure hunts or whatever to make them fun.  And every year I’d get roses and cards. Actually, one year I received a new furnace. I almost fainted with the romance of it all.

Eventually, the truth finally sunk in. Men just didn’t get it. Valentine’s Day was something they had to do because it was expected. There wasn’t a romantic bone in any of their bodies.

So, okay, men were dolts. A fact of life. Live with it.

But then on Valentine’s Day, after my marriage kind of crumbled and I was looking at a pretty bleak day, my doorbell rang. It was a delivery guy, holding a box and a balloon. He sang “I’ll always love you,” then handed over the box and the balloon. The balloon said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, my sweetheart.” In the box were two things: One was a beautiful necklace and the other a note. “You’ll always be my baby.”

It was from my dad.

And that was my best Valentine’s Day ever.

It doesn’t matter who the love comes from, it matters what it means. And that meant the world to me.

I wish you all a happy Valentine’s Day! And no furnaces as gifts! J

For A Good Time Call is $1.99 at the Kindle Store.

Stuck With You is $1.99 at Kobo.