Bookworm Press

The other day, a friend of mine sent me an article he wrote and a video about an elderly couple in Clovis, California. The husband, who loved to ride bikes but didn’t want to do it alone, came up with a wonderful idea. He built a special bicycle so that both he and his wife could ride side by side together. Here is the link to the article by Shawn Gadberry as well as the video. Have fun with the senior couple on their ride “into their sunset years.”

http://clovisindependent.com/2012/10/12/a-bicycle-re-built-for-two/

To say that the book is entertaining is an understatement. It is a real page-turner, devilishly funny, engaging, and sensitive. It deals in an insightful way with problems of love, friendships, and relationships we all struggle with sometimes. And it gives us a fascinating, tongue-in-cheek picture of the world of journalism and the media.

Molly for all her blunders is someone you just have to like. All the characters are well-developed, vivid, and genuine. I particularly enjoyed the exchange between Molly and her best buddy, Randy. What a riot!

Another successful story by a very talented author!                  

I have been talking to my friends from all walks of life and reading other author’s blogs and the one question that keeps coming up in various forms can perhaps be summarized as follows: “Am I on the right path? Should I turn left or right? What if I find out after several years that I took the wrong turn, that I should’ve done this or done that instead of wasting my time on this or that?”

“I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.”

Have a wonderful day!

 Path of Fire

hissing and spitting
and turned into a steady glow.

We roasted shriveled
winter apples,
peeled the scorched
skin with a knife.
Busy eating, I let the deer
graze safely in the
echo of my young girl’s voice.

The photo with the guilded edges
shows him behind a mug
overflowing with beer.

He faded in steps,
fingers trembling
as he tried to light his cigar,
hiking boots shined and unused,
dreams about death,
coffin,
urn.

He left me his watch,
his rebellious mind, his
love of wine, of the
fire I now build on my own,

always trying to remember
to light it in the middle,
spread the embers evenly
and let it burn
slow, hot and steady.

The German translation of The Skull Ring by Scott Nicholson – Der Schädelring – is now available at Amazon for the Kindle (click on the image on the left) and at Barnes & Noble for the Nook. It is also available in various ebook versions at Smashwords.

Die deutsche Übersetzung des Romans The Skull Ring von Scott Nicholson – Der Schädelring – ist nun für den Kindle eReader bei Amazon (durch Klicken auf das Buch links) und für den Nook bei Barnes & Noble erhältlich. Es ist zudem in verschiedenen eBuch-Versionen bei Smaswords verfügbar.

Kurzbeschreibung:
Julia Stone wird sich erinnern, selbst wenn es sie umbringt.

Mithilfe einer Therapeutin versucht Julia, Kindheitserinnerungen aus der Nacht, in der ihr Vater verschwand, zu einem Bild zusammenzufügen. Wenn sie einen Silberring findet, auf dem der Name „Judas Stone“ eingraviert ist, schleicht sich die Vergangenheit bedrohlich an sie heran. Jemand hinterlässt eigenartige Nachrichten in ihrem Haus, obschon die Tür verriegelt ist. Der örtliche Handwerker bietet seine Hilfe an, aber auch über seiner Vergangenheit liegt ein Schatten. Und der Polizist, der das Verschwinden ihres Vaters untersuchte, folgt ihr nach Elkwood, einem Dorf in den Appalachen Bergen von North Carolina.

Nun ist Julias Kopf voller Erinnerungen, doch sie weiß nicht, welche echt sind. Julias Therapeutin scheint ihr Spiel mit ihr zu treiben. Der Handwerker versucht sie zu auf mehr als eine Weise „zu retten“. Zudem lauert ihr ein unheimlicher Kult auf, der nach ihrem Körper und ihrer Seele trachtet . . . .

A gentle romance with a twist

One of the reasons I got interested in this book is its location. It takes place in a beautiful town along the southern Californian coast I know well. The other reason was that the author asked me if I would consider writing a review. I normally don’t write reviews on demand because I decided to only review books I liked. The blurb, however, sounded interesting and I loved the cover (you know a picture says more than a thousand words). Anyway, I read it and loved it.

When the sophisticated and successful Logan Richards meets Amber, a beautiful waitress of modest means, in a restaurant in Dana Point, California, it was “love at first sight” for him–make that “love at second or third sight,” since he had met her many times before, only she didn’t know it. Amber, however, enjoys his kind, sophisticated, and generous demeanor. After a flirtatious beginning, an almost picture-perfect relationship begins to develop. However, what is “too good to be true” does not exist in real life or in a well-written novel. There is a secret in Logan’s life, which throws a shadow over the sunny southern Californian romance.

Reading this novel, I laughed and cried. This is a beautifully written, emotional story about the power of love and compassion. And although Logan is an almost too perfect man, you can’t help but fall in love with him and Amber. Lively description of scenery and strong images and just enough tension to keep you turning the page.

Blurb and Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3


     Karla pulled on a pair of shorts and a work shirt, tied her long black hair into a pony tail, and stepped outside. A thin veil of early-morning mist hovered over the fields and the part of the river Maggia she could see from her house. The pines were a rich green and the leaves of the birches along the river quivered and sparkled in the sun. The colors seemed particularly vivid this morning.
     Aside from the mild climate, it was above all the quality of the light and the colors which drew Karla to the south of Switzerland. Each season had its own special coloration, ranging from the diffuse tones of winter with its elongated shadows to the lively hues of spring, the fiery reds and purples of a summer sunset and, finally, the shades of mist and the mellow light of fall.
     Karla sat down in front of her easel and squeezed globs of oil paints onto the palette. This was one of those moments when it became clear to her once again why she painted. The empty canvas, when everything was possible and nothing was decided yet. The excitement in the beginning, when her hand first felt the texture of the canvas or paper, the smells, the colors, the sensation of the brush gliding through the paint on the palette. Then the first creative impulse when the brush touched the canvas, the initial few brush strokes, perhaps hesitant at first, then more and more determined, taking control, then letting the painting guide her, taking control again, until she was so absorbed that she forgot time. When the doorbell or the phone rang, she looked up briefly, shook her head, and went right back to painting, ignoring the disturbance.
     At noon, Karla took a break. She showered and dressed and got ready to drive to Bellinzona to do some shopping. Bellinzona, the capital of the canton Ticino and a city with an interesting past dating back to Roman times, was about a thirty-minute drive from the Maggia Valley. Its three castles on the hill above the town dominated its skyline and gave the city a distinct medieval flavor.
     For Karla, the castles had a more personal significance. They reminded her of a happy time during her childhood, when her mother and grandmother were still alive and took her on outings to the castles. She had been fascinated by the thick stone walls, the narrow windows, the steep stairways. Her mother had told her stories of knights and damsels in distress, of ghosts haunting the castles, and Karla had spent hours drawing and painting those scenes. Now, she looked at the castles with a feeling of nostalgia.
     Just as she got ready to drive home, she remembered that Andreas’s studio was in Bellinzona. At the opening, he had told her he would call her to show her some of his sculptures and other stonework. Karla pulled out his business card. His workshop was in a former factory building in the industrial area of Bellinzona. On an impulse, she took the freeway exit toward the south of the city. It didn’t take her long to find the place. She parked the car nearby and walked toward the square, yellowish brick house. The door to Andreas’s part of the building was open and she heard the grinding sound of a machine. There was a sign above the door: Andreas O’Reilly – Scultura. A few stone and metal sculptures in different stages of completion stood outside.
     Karla stopped at the corner, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. She didn’t want to give Andreas the impression she was so eager to see him that she couldn’t wait for his phone call. She decided to just take a peek to find out what his workshop looked like. He probably wouldn’t even hear or see her with the machine running. She advanced to the open door and carefully looked inside. A light smell of stone dust and a whiff of exhaust drifted her way.
     Andreas was sitting on a low stool with his back toward her. He was wearing goggles and a mask and was holding some kind of power tool with which he polished the surface of a piece of rock in front of him. He was dressed in blue workpants and a yellow undershirt. Karla watched him for a while and couldn’t help but admire the play of muscles on his tanned arms and shoulders as he held on to the grinder which slightly vibrated in his hands. Suddenly, Andreas turned off the machine, removed his mask and goggles, and wiped his forehead. As Karla stepped back, she realized that she cast a shadow next to his chair.
     Andreas wheeled around on his stool and looked at her puzzled. “Hello. What a surprise. What are you doing here?” He got up and wiped his hands on a towel and dried his face. There were goggle marks around his eyes.
     “I . . . I was in the neighborhood and remembered your workshop, so I thought I just drop by.” Karla, caught in the act of snooping on him, felt the heat rise to her face. “And I wanted to thank you for buying a painting,” she quickly added.
     He gave her a wide smile. “Welcome. You’re actually the second woman who dropped by today. I didn’t know I was that popular with the ladies.”
     “Oh? Who else dropped by?” Gee, this isn’t really any of my business.
     “Your friend. The one who got tanked at your exhibition.”
     “Sarah?”
     “Yeah, that’s her.”
     Karla was stunned. “Really? That’s odd. What did she want?”
     “She was probably just overwhelmed with me and couldn’t keep away.” He grinned. “Just kidding. She apologized for being a mess the other day. She said she wanted to see my workshop and invited me to check out her art work.”
     “Are you going to?” It was out before Karla could stop herself.
     “Don’t you want me to?” His grin widened. He obviously enjoyed her discomfort.
     “I don’t care.” Karla was getting irritated, not just because she was making a fool of herself but because she suspected that there were other reasons behind Sarah’s visit than a casual meeting between artists. It wouldn’t be the first time that Sarah stole one of my boyfriends. But he isn’t my boyfriend. So, why should I care?
     “You look upset. What’s the matter?” He peered at her with a serious face.
     “Nothing.” She tried to sound casual. “I guess I better go.”
     “You just got here. Come on, I’ll show you the studio. Want some coffee?”
     Karla nodded and forced a smile. “Coffee sounds great.”
     While Andreas washed two cups and turned on the small espresso machine next to his desk, Karla looked around. Along the walls were shelves with stone samples of different types of granite, gneiss, marble, serpentine, verrucano, and many more, in shades ranging from black to blue-gray, sea-green, orange, red, terra-cotta, and a muted gold. On the other side of the room was a shelf with all kinds of stone cutting tools as well as goggles and masks to protect from the dust and stone splinters. Another machine stood in the corner next to a half-finished tombstone.
     Karla touched some of the rocks, feeling their different textures, the smoothness of a piece of green alabaster, the rough surface of granite. “I didn’t even know there were that many kinds of stones. Where did you get them all?”
     “This is just a minute collection of what’s out there. Some of them I bought, some of the smaller ones I collected while hiking.” He picked up a piece of blue speckled marble and caressed it with his hand, then gave it to Karla to hold. It was polished and smooth on one side and left raw on the other.
     “How beautiful. I always thought of marble as being smooth. But it’s actually quite rough,” Karla said, brushing her hand over the unpolished side.
     “Yes, in its natural state. It takes some work to make it smooth and polished. Just like with us humans, huh?” He put the stone back on the shelf.
     “I think I like the unpolished side better,” Karla said.
     “Stones or humans?” Andreas winked at her, then walked over to the coffee machine.
     Karla shrugged her shoulder. “Both, I guess.”
     “Good, that gives me some encouragement. Not much polishing here.” He handed her a cup of espresso. “It’s quite strong, you might want some sugar.”
     “No, I like it strong, thanks.”
     “Well, that’s me. Strong and unpolished.” Andreas grinned.
     Karla laughed and felt herself blush. She took a sip of coffee and pointed at a group of small stone fountains, some plain, others with elaborate carvings. “These seem to be very popular these days.”
     “Yeah. That’s the kind of stuff that sells. Just like gnomes or frogs, which I refuse to make. Too kitschy.” Andreas lifted one of the heavy fountains seemingly without effort and moved it out of the way. “But let me show you some of my other stuff.” He led Karla into the second room which contained several stone and metal sculptures. There were a few stone mandalas of grey-black or greenish granite with fine carvings, green and purplish stone figurines, a rounded shape made of bronze, and several other delicate metal sculptures as well as a combination of wood and metal. Each work was unique. Form and material of the sculptures fit together perfectly. There was no doubt, Andreas was extremely talented.
     Karla walked around for a while looking at the different works of art. She gently touched one of the small stone mandalas. “How beautiful. . . . So delicate and yet so powerful.”
     Andreas smiled. “Thanks.”
     “Do you ever show your work?”
     “I’ve been in a couple of group shows. I’m going to be in one in August. It’s an exhibition in Ascona of students from the Scuola di Sculptura di Peccia.
     “You studied at the sculpture school in Peccia? That must be an excellent school. I heard they attract students from all over the world.”
     “Yeah, I took a few workshops there as well as in Carrera, Italy.”
     Something tickled Karla’s nose and she sneezed.
     “Bless you; it’s the stone dust,” Andreas said. “There’s always some around, after I use the grinding or polishing machine.”
     They stepped outside, where the late afternoon sun was just about to disappear behind the tall building on the other side of the street. The last sunrays bounced off the metal roof.
     Karla touched one of the granite slabs sitting next to the door outside, which felt warm, having absorbed the heat of the day. She looked at her watch. “I guess, I should get going, otherwise I’ll hit rush hour traffic.” She turned to face him. “Thanks for showing me your work. That was a real treat. I’d like to see more.”
     “Glad you liked it. Most of my work is in someone’s garden or in a park. I can give you a guided tour of O’Reilly’s art work, if you’re interested.” Andreas laughed his typical throaty laugh. “How about next Saturday?”
     Karla nodded. “Yes, that would work.”
     Andreas gave her a warm smile. “How about if I pick you up?”
     Karla handed him one of her business cards. “Okay, here is my address. I live just up the hill from Lena’s place. It’s called Casa di tre Angeli. You can’t miss it.”
     “Tre angeli? Three angels, huh. Any connection to you?” The humorous glint in his eyes was back.
     “None at all . . . though I could use one once in a while.” Karla smiled wistfully.
     Andreas followed her to the car. “Karla.” She turned around. He pulled her close and kissed her. His breath smelled of coffee, smoky and slightly bitter. “See you Saturday.”
     Before Karla could do or say anything, he turned and walked back to his workshop in his leisurely wide-legged swagger. Karla opened the door and got into the car. She waited for a while before starting the engine, then slapped the steering wheel.
     “Damn. I don’t want to fall in love.”

Chapter 3 of my novel Love of a Stonemason. It is available both as Kindle ebook and trade paperback at Amazon and in different ebook formats at Smashwords. Average customer reviews: 5 stars.

Blurb and Chapter 1
Chapter 2

“How do you feel seeing all these people admire your work?” Silvia handed Karla a glass of white wine.
     “It’s exciting. A little scary . . . It makes me feel exposed.” Karla looked around the gallery where friends and strangers had gathered. Some of them were examining her paintings, others stood around and chatted, sipping their drinks and picking at the appetizers. A couple of Karla’s artist friends talked animatedly. A girl dressed in black, wearing high dress boots, with strands of purple in her short hair, waved at Karla, who went to join her.
     “Hey, great stuff.” The girl with purple hair, pierced nose and eyebrows motioned at the paintings. “How did you manage this? I mean getting this venue? I’m looking for a place for my own work.”
     “Geez, Sarah, don’t waste any time congratulating Karla on her success. Be your usual pushy self and only think about Number One.” A gangly young man with a pony tail shook his head and sneered.
     “Oh, Jason, don’t be such an ass. Karla knows I’m happy for her.” The girl gave Karla a hug. “I didn’t know you did that kind of thing.” She pointed at Karla’s more experimental paintings. “That’s cool. I love that one with the PC sticking out of the flower. I’ll get us some wine. Don’t go anywhere; I need to talk to you.” Sarah pointed her finger at Karla, then marched over to the table with the snacks.
     Karla wondered how Sarah managed to walk in her tight mini-skirt and the high-heeled boots. At that moment, she spotted Andreas, who was looking at her paintings. He must have come in as she was talking to her friends. At first, she barely recognized him. He was wearing slacks and a jacket and had evidently made an attempt to comb his unruly hair. “Listen, guys. I’m sorry but I have to say hello to someone.” Karla waved Sarah off, who returned with two glasses of wine. “Later, Sarah.”
     “You look distinguished tonight.” Karla said as she walked up to Andreas.
   Andreas appeared to feel uncomfortable dressed up. The outfit had seen its best days. The jacket seemed too tight for his muscular body, the sleeves were a little short, and the slacks bulged slightly at the knees. He gave the impression of a caged tiger.
     “I don’t feel distinguished at all. In fact, I feel rather foolish in this monkey suit, but I thought I couldn’t very well attend an opening in my torn jeans.” He grinned and pulled at his poorly knotted tie.
     “Oh, it suits you very well,” Karla tried to reassure him.
     “I love your art.” Andreas squinted his eyes as he studied one of Karla’s oil paintings. “The luminosity in this picture . . . . It reminds me of an exhibition I saw not long ago, of paintings by Giovanni Segantini and others.”
     “Yeah,” Karla said, excited. “He is one of my favorite painters of that era. I love the Swiss and Italian divisionists. The way they created the illusion of light emanating from the canvas. They didn’t mix the paints but applied threads or dots or flecks of pure complementary colors next to each other. I kind of play with their technique sometimes.”
     Andreas motioned at Karla’s scrap metal landscapes. “Interesting. Very different from your other work.”
     “I’m still experimenting. I’m not sure yet where I’m going with those.”
     “What’s wrong with that? Why limit yourself? That would be boring.” Andreas peered at her. “I like painters or artists in general who have the guts to experiment. Art is a constant search for new ways of expressing yourself, isn’t it?”
     “I guess, you’re right.” Karla nodded.
     “Hey, Karla, aren’t you going to introduce me?” Sarah, who had come up behind Karla, poked her lightly in the back and gave Andreas a flirtatious look.
     Karla was getting annoyed at her friend. Sarah could be irritating sometimes, but today, she was outright obnoxious. Not wanting to create a scene, she introduced Andreas.
     “So what do you do, sexy?” Sarah winked at him.
     Andreas kept a straight face, folded his arms in front of his chest. “What do I do? That should be obvious. I’m here to look at Karla’s art.”
     Sarah gave a toss of the head. “I don’t mean that. What do you do for a living? Are you an artist or something?”
     “If you want to interview me, you have to make an appointment. But I warn you, I charge a lot.” Andreas still kept a straight face, but there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
     “Okay, you want to be that way. Knock yourself out.” Sarah turned around on her heel and marched to the other side of the gallery.
     “Your friend obviously doesn’t appreciate my kind of humor, either.” Andreas gave a quick throaty laugh.
     “I guess not.” Karla smiled.
     They walked over to where Karla’s watercolors hung. Andreas studied them quietly for a long time. “You really caught the effect of the light. They’re fascinating.”
     “Thanks.” Their eyes met and Karla felt a tingling sensation somewhere between her throat and stomach. I guess he can be sensitive.
     “That mountain.” He pointed at a painting of Monte Sosto, a mountain in the Blenio Valley, a side valley of the Leventina just south of Saint Gotthard. Karla had forced herself to get up early one morning so she could catch the special quality of the sunlight piercing through the mist at dawn. It was one of her favorite aquarelles.
     “I used to live in Olivone and looked at Monte Sosto almost every day,” Andreas continued. “I got so used to it that I didn’t even see it anymore. This painting brings out the mystical quality I noticed when I first saw it. I believe that art makes us see things we normally merely look at.”
     “Monte Sosto has always fascinated me, because the minute I saw it, it reminded me of Machu Picchu in Peru,” Karla said.
     “Really? You know, I think you have a point. I’ve seen pictures of Machu Picchu. Yes, there is a certain similarity. So, you’ve been to Peru? Fascinating. I’d love to go to Peru. They’re famous for their ruins and stonework—Uh-oh, here is your friend again. I think she’s in trouble.” Andreas motioned at someone behind Karla.
     When Karla turned around, Sarah was walking unsteadily toward them followed by Jason, who tried to hold her back. “I’m sorry guys, I’m plastered.” She stumbled and fell against Andreas, who caught her. Sarah threw her arms around him and started to cry. “My life is a mess. It’s going nowhere. Nobody loves my art. I’m going to kill myself.”
     Andreas tried to hold her away from him. “No, you’re not. It’d be a real pity if you did.”
     “Do you really . . . think so?” Sarah’s face was a mess. Her black eye-liner was running down her cheeks.
     Andreas, still holding her at a little distance, spoke vehemently. “Yes, you’re a very pretty woman, once you wash that stuff off your face. And don’t let anybody make you doubt your art work.”
     “Oh, you’re such a sweetheart.” Sarah tried to embrace Andreas again.
     Leave it up to Sarah to create a scene and steal the show. Karla was peeved.
     Jason pulled Sarah back. “We’re going home. Sorry, guys, this is really embarrassing.” He shook his head. “She’s had a rough time.”
     “I’m so sorry.” Sarah began to weep again and hugged Karla. The mixture of alcohol and a sweet-smelling perfume was overpowering.
     Karla patted her back, trying not to inhale. “It’s all right, Sarah. I understand. Let’s talk when you feel better.”
     Sarah nodded. She was still crying when Jason led her away. People were staring at them.
     “Poor girl. What’s her problem, anyway?” Andreas asked.
     Karla shrugged her shoulders. “She’s had all kinds of problems, mainly with money and trying to promote her art. She’s actually an interesting artist. She makes these huge paper mache sculptures, but so far she hasn’t been able to find anybody who would give her a chance to exhibit them.” Karla watched as Sarah stumbled outside with Jason holding her up.
     “Is Jason her boyfriend?” Andreas asked.
     “No.” Karla shook her head. “Jason is gay, but he’s Sarah’s closest friend. I’ll talk to Silvia. Perhaps she’ll be able to help. Silvia is the owner of the gallery,” Karla explained. “Just makes me realize how lucky I’ve been.”
     Andreas, who watched as Sarah left, shook his head. “It’s not just luck. It’s also hard work, talent, insistence, and patience and yes, I guess, lots of luck.” He motioned with his head toward Sarah. “She’s quite young and if she’s already that disillusioned, she is in the wrong field. Art is a tough business. And if she keeps drinking like this, she’ll end up ruining her life or killing herself.”
     “That sounds pretty negative,” Karla said.
     “It’s not negative, just realistic.” Andreas narrowed his eyes. “Believe me, I know what alcohol can do to a person.” He paused. “My father was an alcoholic.”
     “Was?”
     “He doesn’t live with us anymore. I don’t know where he is or if he’s still alive. I have no contact with him.”
     “Sorry.”
     “It’s all right. Let’s not talk about it.”
     Karla remembered Lena mentioning something about problems in his family.
     “Sorry, Karla, I’ve come to kidnap you. The press is here.” Karla smelled Silvia’s patchouli perfume before she felt her arm around her. “A man from the local newspaper wants to talk to you.”
     “Oh, no,” Karla said. “What am I supposed to say?”
     “Come on, Karla. You better get used to this.” Silvia chuckled. “You’re on your way to fame and glory.”

Here is the last of the sample chapters of my new novel (work in progress). Now, all the three major characters are introduced. I hope this is enough to stir your curiosity.

Blurb and Chapter 1
Chapter 2

As mentioned, this is an as yet unedited work in progress. So any feeback is appreciated!
Have fun!

Jonas Bergman hugged the grocery bags to his chest, as the old elevator slowly lumbered up to the top of the four-story building. The elevator cabin was open, walled in only by a crisscross of iron bars. He lived in one of the heavy medieval stone houses in the old part of Zurich, called the Niederdorf or Low Village at the east side of the Limmat River.
     Upstairs, the old elevator stopped with a rattling sound and Jonas stepped out. One day, I’m going to be stuck in here, he thought, giving the old but so far reliable cabin a suspicious glance. He only used the elevator when he had heavy stuff to carry. Clutching the bags to his chest with one arm, he reached into his coat pocket with the other hand, searching for his keys. “Damn it,” he muttered as he dropped them. They made a metallic crunching sound on the hardwood floor.
     “Let me help you, Mr. Bergman.”
     Jonas turned around. A stout elderly lady with curly grey hair came out of the apartment next to his. She bent down and picked up the keys.
     “Oh, Mrs. Schatz, don’t bother. Well, thanks anyway and excuse my language.” Jonas watched as the woman was sliding his apartment key into the keyhole.
     “That’s okay, I’ve heard worse.” Mrs. Schatz chuckled.
     “Thanks again. What would I do without you?” Jonas winked at her.
     “Come on, Mr. Bergman. What you need is a woman of your own. I’ve told you many times.”
     Jonas shook his head and gave a slight grin. His neighbor had been trying to fix him up with someone for about a year without any success. Mrs. Schatz was married and believed that a single man, particularly a widower of Jonas’s age, was doomed.
     One day, when Mrs. Schatz was in Jonas’s kitchen, lending him a certain spice he didn’t have handy, she gave him a lecture on the very topic. “Men don’t feed themselves properly; they don’t keep their home clean. They need a woman to take care of them. Now, women, mind you,” Mrs. Schatz continued, raising a finger to emphasize her point. “Women do quite well on their own. They are much more independent. But men,” she shook her head, “they get lonely, they begin to drink.” She nodded in the direction of the whiskey bottle on Jonas’s kitchen table.
     Jonas tried to explain that he only had one drink a day and he used the whiskey mainly for cooking. She just gave him one of her “yeah, right”-looks.
     Mrs. Schatz would invite him for tea when a few of her widowed or divorced women friends were present. However, her matchmaking failed miserably with Jonas. He was friendly and attentive but that was all. None of Mrs. Schatz’s subtle or not so subtle hints made Jonas take the next step and invite any of the available ladies to dinner or even show them his paintings.
     “I’m sorry, Mrs. Schatz, these are very charming women, but I’m just not ready,” Jonas tried to explain. Mrs. Schatz rolled her eyes and, as Jonas suspected, began to think of the next batch of women friends she could introduce to the “lonely bachelor next door.”
     Jonas sighed with a smile and unpacked the groceries. He had gone shopping at the open air market at the Bürkliplatz, a large park at the end of the lake, where merchants and farmers from the surrounding villages sold their fresh produce every Friday. He put the lettuce, zucchini squash, tomatoes, basil, and a piece of mountain cheese into the refrigerator. He inhaled the sweet smell of an apricot before he bit into it, then stepped into the living room.
     As usual, when he came back from an errant or a trip, he stood a while in front the photo of his wife, Eva, on the bookshelf. A beautiful face with wavy shoulder-length blond hair, shiny blue eyes, and the touch of a cute snub-nose smiled at him. He smiled back and sighed. “Hi there,” he whispered.
     His neighbor wasn’t the only person who tried to nudge him toward female companionship. His son in Denmark and his daughter, who spent a year in the United States, brought the topic up occasionally. “Dad, remember what Mom said before she died? You shouldn’t pine for her, you should live and have another woman in your life.”
     There is no other woman. Only you. He gently touched the frame of the photo, then stepped to the floor-length window and looked outside.
     Jonas’s apartment was on the top floor. It was light and airy and overlooked the rooftops, the river, and a small section of the lake. Across the river stood the Fraumünster Cathedral with its five stain glass windows designed by Marc Chagall. If the weather was good, Jonas could see the mountains in the distance.
     The apartment was tastefully furnished. His Danish background was visible in the uncluttered simple elegance, the light colors of the sofa, drapes, and the rustic but simple light-wood furniture. A few of Jonas’s and his students’ were hanging on the wall.
     Jonas poured himself a shot of whiskey, then went into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and dropped a few ice cubes into the glass. He shook the glass a little and watched the golden liquid swoosh around.
     When Eva was still healthy, they would have a drink in the evenings before dinner. Jonas had a whiskey on the rocks and Eva a glass of white wine. It was a ritual they both enjoyed and it gave them time to talk over the day’s events. Eva would give him the latest gossip from the theater rehearsals. She had been an actress at the Schauspielhaus, the main theater in Zurich. Jonas would tell her of an incident with one of his students or about a new painting he was working on.
     After Eva had died, Jonas kept up their ritual but the “happy hour” became an hour of grief. He slowly upped his alcohol intake from one glass to two and eventually to three or four. He hardly ate afterwards, being too full from the drinks. He went to bed, too numb to feel the pain of loneliness. The following morning, he would wake up with a hangover.
     One night, he dreamt of Eva. She was sitting on his bed, looking ill, the way she looked during her last struggle with cancer. Her large blue eyes in her now haggard face gleamed with tears. “Don’t, Jonas. Please, don’t.”
     The voice woke him. He sat up in bed, catching his breath. His head was throbbing. According to the illuminated face of the alarm clock, it was shortly after midnight. Jonas moaned and turned around but he was unable to fall back to sleep. He finally got up, put on his robe, and sat in a chair next to the window, staring into the night. In the distance, city lights refracted from the lake. The dream was still vivid and the message clear.
     The following evening, Jonas forced himself to prepare a decent meal. While the lamb stew was simmering, he poured himself half a shot of whiskey, plopped a few ice cubes in it, and put the bottle back into the liquor cabinet. He raised the glass to Eva’s photo, then stepped in front of the window and took a few sips. Joy and sadness overwhelmed him in equal measure. He grieved for Eva but he also had a new idea for a painting, something that hadn’t happened in a long time. He walked into the kitchen and filled the empty glass with Perrier, then stirred the stew. For the first time in quite a while, he enjoyed the smells of a good meal.

     The sun was setting behind the buildings, surrounding them with halos of gold. The strip of the lake Jonas could see from his apartment sparkled in the last light of the evening. Jonas was thinking of the little girl and her aunt. He sighed, remembering the look on the child’s face when he lifted her up. How well he could relate to that feeling of sadness and despair.
     Jonas loved children and now that his own kids were grown and his grandchildren lived in Denmark, he made due with the kids he taught privately. He enjoyed teaching children. It made him feel needed and their company helped him push away the loneliness for a few hours.
     The thought of working with Karla, however, filled him with excitement for another reason. In the two pictures he had seen of hers, he detected an unusual talent. Her drawings were still rough and unpolished, of course. But skill and craft could be taught. What was more important was the degree of passion and the level of personal expression, which was rare in a child so young.
     What Karla needed now was the willingness to learn and to practice, which Jonas believed she had. He had seen it in her eyes when she asked him if he would teach her. How long her endurance would last, that was another question. Children changed as they grew up, they developed other interests, they got bored. He had seen it happen many times. He remembered his own children, the years of paying for piano and violin lessons and just when they were getting good at it, they became interested in video games and dating.
     Jonas picked up his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. He struck a match and lit the pipe, closing his eyes and enjoying the earthy taste. He had stopped smoking cigarettes years before, but he treated himself to an occasional pipe. He opened the balcony door and stepped outside, watching the last golden and orange hues of the setting sun fade into the approaching dark.
     “Well, Karla, what do you say? I think it’s worth a try.”

Here is chapter 2 of my work progress, which introduces the second of the three main characters in “An Uncommon Family.” Comments and feedback appreciated!

It was quiet now, except for the chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of the night owl in the forest near Anna’s home. It was still warm after the hot summer day. Anna had opened all the windows, hoping for a cooling breeze. It had been an unusually hot summer in a country, which wasn’t exactly known for its heat waves. The strong pungent scent of basil in between the tomatoe plants reminded Anna of her gardening chores she kept putting off because of the heat.
     After her turbulent day in the city, Karla had finally fallen asleep. Anna left the bedroom door open, in case the child had another one her nightmares.
     It was always the same: screaming for her mother, followed by desperate crying. When Anna woke her up, Karla was distraught. She mentioned fire, flames, red paint, which Anna assumed was blood. She asked for her mother, then remembered that she was gone. She cried herself to sleep in Anna’s arms. Long after Karla had fallen back to sleep, Anna sat in the living-room, weeping quietly into the night, mourning her dead mother and sister, grieving for Karla, whose happiness had been shattered within a few seconds.
     In the morning, Karla didn’t remember the nightmare. When Anna asked her about it, she just shook her head. She also couldn’t remember the actual accident.
     The day Anna received the ominous phone call was still etched into her mind. The solemn voice of the police officer telling her that her mother and sister had been killed during a frontal collision with a drunk driver. “A child was in the back-seat in her booster. She had a shock but she’s okay. We found your address in one of the women’s purses. We are so sorry but we need someone to identify them.”
     For days and nights afterwards, Anna saw the mangled bodies lying on the gurney and the pale face of her little niece, whose normally vivid large dark eyes now stared at her with an empty look.
     At first, Karla didn’t cry and refused to talk. Anna worried herself sick, thinking the accident had caused the child to become mute. After about a week, Karla woke up at night, screaming and calling for her mother for the first time. It was as if a glacier of frozen grief had thawed and a river of tears was flooding her. She cried for a long time. All Anna could do was hold her and let her empty herself. She was relieved though. The tears were a welcome change from the stoic, frozen silence.

     It was raining during the funeral. Anna’s sister and mother had lived in the Italian part of Switzerland and were buried in a small cemetery at the beginning of the Maggia Valley. Piles of dark clouds covered the tops of the mountains. Gusts of wind blew through the trees scattering the yellow leaves and hurling them across the street. It smelled of wet grass, of chrysanthemums, the sweet-rotten aroma of fall.
     Anna was shaking hands with the people attending the funeral, who murmured their condolences. A group of them had gathered in front of the church where the memorial service took place.
     Before the ceremony, Anna and Karla went inside the small chapel where the bodies were lying. They were standing in front of the open caskets paying their last respects. Anna’s mother and sister looked rosy and peaceful in the suffused light of the candles which were placed around the coffins. Nobody would have been able to tell that they had been injured. It was silent in the small cool room. The flames of the candles flickered in the occasional draft blowing in from the outside, creating an otherworldly feeling. A faint whiff of incense hovered in the room. Anna held Karla’s small trembling hand. Don’t leave me, the child’s eyes begged. Anna, flooded by love and pity, pressed Karla against her.
     “Don’t they look peaceful,” Anna whispered.
     Karla nodded.
     Like porcelain dolls or empty shells, Anna thought.
     During the service, Anna, Karla, and Lena, a close friend of Karla’s mother, sat in the front row in the small local church. Flowers and candles on the altar gave the place an almost festive feeling. The minister, a young woman who had been a friend of the family, delivered a very personal sermon.
     After the ceremony, friends and the few relatives met at a restaurant nearby for lunch. The rain had stopped and the sun was penetrating the receding clouds. The ground was strewn with yellow and red leaves.
     “It’s definitely fall,” Anna said. “Look at the colorful leaves.”
     Karla nodded. “I wish Mama could see them.” Her eyes welled up.
     “Oh, Karla, I know. She’d love the colors.”
     “Once, Mama is in Heaven, do you think she can see us?”
     “I bet she can.” Anna didn’t have the heart to disappoint Karla. “But, let’s go inside. The others are waiting. I bet you’re hungry.” Karla sighed and nodded.
     The mood in the restaurant was somber at first, but after a while, the food and wine began to warm the hearts of the grieving people. Stories about the past circulated. Friends offered their help. “Give us a call if you need anything.”
     “Thank you, I’ll be alright,” Anna kept assuring them, not knowing if that was true or not. She was grateful for their concern but was getting tired and longed to be alone.
     “I need to leave. I have a three-hour drive to Zurich ahead of me.”
     She said goodbye to Karla, who was going to stay with Lena for a few days, so Anna had time to prepare before Karla moved in with her. Lena, who had babysat Karla many times and had taken care of her right after the accident, had offered to keep Karla for a while longer. When Anna bent down to kiss Karla goodbye, she saw fear in her eyes.
     Lena took the child into her arms. “Don’t worry. Anna will be back soon. You have to finish kindergarten together with your friends. And Susie is waiting for you.” Lena was referring to her cat.
     “Can I take Susie with me?” Karla brushed a tear away.
     “Tell you what,” Lena said. “The next time Susie has kittens, you can have one . . . if Anna agrees. Sorry, Anna, I guess I should’ve asked you first.”
     “Yes, of course you can have a kitty.” Anna was relieved to see Karla’s face light up again.

     Driving back to Zurich, Anna was thinking of Karla, wondering if she should have taken her with her right away. She had thought that Karla would feel more comfortable with Lena in the familiar environment for a while longer. But that was only half the truth. Leaving her with Lena gave Anna a few days reprieve to get her strength back before she took on the responsibility of being Karla’s guardian.
     She was tired and had a hard time keeping her eyes open and her focus on the road. In Fluelen, a small town at the north end of St. Gotthard, she decided that it was too dangerous to keep on driving. She parked the car and got out. After getting a cup of coffee at the nearby restaurant, she crossed the street and walked the few steps to the lake.
     The surface of Lake Vierwaldstättersee shimmered in the late afternoon sun. A ship was gliding by. On the horizon, the mountains began to emerge from the receding dark clouds. Anna recognized the shape of Mount Urirotstock across the lake. During summer, Fluelen was normally full of tourists stopping for coffee or lunch on their way to the south of Switzerland and Italy. Now, however, the town felt abandoned and empty. Only a few seagulls landed on the boardwalk, then took off again. One of the birds stayed behind. It was sitting on the railing along the lake. Anna suddenly felt that the bird was watching her.
     “You have it easy,” she said. “You can just fly away.”
     As if in reaction to her words, the seagull opened its wings and flew off. Anna, alone again, was gazing at the lake in front of her. Whether it was because of the oppressive closeness of the mountains or just simply the pain of the past few weeks, a feeling of fear and loneliness threatened to overwhelm her. She was afraid of the future, of the enormity of the tasks awaiting her. Now that all the activities of the past weeks and the funeral were over, now, in the silence of the gloomy late afternoon, she realized, perhaps for the first time, that she was the head of a family. So far, she had only been responsible for herself.
     As a young woman, Anna had always wanted to have children, but her marriage to her former husband had remained childless. Now, from one day to the next, she was the guardian of a little girl. She still shied away from the term “mother.”
     With the death of Anna’s mother and sister, she had lost the last members of her immediate family. Her father, who had moved back to the United States after Anna’s parents divorced, had passed away and her grandparents had been dead a long time. She had many close friends who had given her a lot of support. There were a couple of aunts and one uncle, a brother of her father’s. He was a kind man and had offered to help Anna financially, should she need it.
     Anna was the head of the library in her home town and owner of the only independent bookstore. The bookstore wasn’t a big money-making enterprise, but together with her salary and her freelance writing, she would be able to support herself and Karla. Fortunately, the home she had inherited from her mother was paid off. No, it wasn’t the money she worried about. It was the responsibility. Her heart ached with the loss of her mother and sister.
     “Why? Why did you leave me like this? Don’t you realize how much I still need you?” Anna whispered, tears streaming down her face.