Bell Bridge Books

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.