Jerusalem Stone

by Susan Sofayov

  On September 15, 2008, Julie Wasserman’s life collapsed. In the morning, she lost her job at Lehman Brothers. That afternoon, she lost her twin brother, Jack, in a car crash. A year and a half later, she returns home to Pittsburgh to start a new job and live up to a pledge to visit her brother’s grave every day. With six weeks to wait before the start of the new job, she steps out of character and purchases a plane ticket to Thailand, the one place her brother dreamed of visiting. She arrives in Thailand, focused on trying to figure out how she is going to live in the world without her twin brother and best friend. But an interruption in the form of a sexy Israeli, Avi, distracts her from this goal. As he tries to make her see that their meeting was bashert, meant to be, she insists that she must return home to live up to her promise to Jack. Feeling responsible for Jack’s death, Julie believes that he wouldn’t want her to be happy, but would expect her to mourn for the rest of her life. Can Avi find a way to convince her they are bashert and Jack wouldn’t want her to stop living, or is Julie doomed to a life of guilt and unhappiness unless a higher power steps in?

  KUDOS FOR JERUSALEM STONE

  In Jerusalem Stone by Susan Sofayov, Julie Wasserman loses her twin brother in a car accident. Consumed with grief, she takes a trip from her home in Pittsburgh to Thailand, the one place her brother always wanted to go. Her gut-wrenching mourning is interrupted, however, when she’s distracted by a sexy Israeli man she meets on the beach. Although she thinks he’s a beach bum, she enjoys his company immensely, and she doesn’t object when he wants to see her again. But as the days go by, Julie realizes that she is falling in love with him and she’s happy--something that will never do. Blaming herself for her brother’s accident, she believes she is betraying him by finding happiness and love when he has neither. She thinks she deserves to mourn forever, visit her brother’s grave every day, and be miserable in order to atone for her part in his death. When her new lover convinces her to return with him to his home in Israel, she reluctantly agrees as she can’t bear to be parted from him. But she knows the day is fast approaching when she must return home to Pittsburgh and the new job that is waiting for her so she can keep her promise to visit her brother’s grave every day. But she is about to discover that sometimes prayers are answered in ways that we least expect, and things are not always what they seem. Written in Sofayov’s unique and refreshing voice, the story is both heartbreaking and heartwarming. I wept and smiled in equal measure. A truly marvelous read. ~ Taylor Jones, The Review Team of Taylor Jones & Regan Murphy

  Jerusalem Stone by Susan Sofayov is the story of twenty-three-year-old Julie Wasserman, whose best friend is her twin brother Jack. When Jack is killed in a car accident the same day that Julie loses her job, she is devastated. She believes that if she had not called Jack in a panic, crying, the morning that she lost her job, then he would not have changed his flight to rush home and comfort her and would not have been killed. Thus, she blames herself for his death. In order to cope with the crushing guilt and grief, she pledges to mourn him forever and visit his grave in Pittsburgh every day. With six weeks before the start of a new job, some eighteen months after Jack’s death, Julie decides to go to Thailand since Jack always wanted to go there. She hopes that, by doing so, she will share something special with Jack and somehow learn to live without him. She hasn’t been there long when she meets Avi, an Israeli who introduces himself on the beach and invites her to dinner. Thinking he’ll be a fun beach-side fling, Julie spends most of her time in Thailand with him, quickly falling in love. As her time to leave Thailand draws near, Avi convinces her to come to Israel with him, and she agrees, even though she feels guilty for being happy when Jack has no life at all. Julie assumes that she and Avi will simply continue their fling in Israeli, and then she will leave him and return home to Pittsburgh, where she will live her life in misery, visiting Jack’s grave and mourning him, with only Avi’s memory to keep her company. But Israel comes as a surprise in more ways than one, and Julie is not prepared for what she finds. Jerusalem Stone is the story of faith, love, and courage in the face of supreme challenges that test even the strongest heart. A deeply poignant story, it will make you laugh, make you cry, and remind you that God truly does work in mysterious ways. It’s certainly not one that you will soon forget. ~ Regan Murphy, The Review Team of Taylor Jones & Regan Murphy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I’d like to thank Lauri at Black Opal Books for your willingness to continue publishing my work. Thank you to Faith for all the time and work you put into Jerusalem Stone. I hope you’re enjoying the crash course on Jewish culture. Thank you to Jack and Arwen, you are always a pleasure to work with.

  Thank you to the entire crew of the Pennwriters North Hills Critique Group for your support, ideas, critiques, and monthly camaraderie. You all make the second Thursday of the month my favorite day.

  I am extremely grateful to Nonna Neft, Ruth Oshlag, and Suzanne Mattaboni for your insight, support and most of all, your belief in this story. Thank you to my beta readers, Cantor Rena Shapiro, Emily Sofayov, and Elaine Bergstrom.

  To Elaine Bergstrom I don’t even know how to begin to thank you for creating a book a cover that expresses the heart and soul of Jerusalem Stone so beautifully. Witnessing your talent and ability to translate my words into an image has been a wonderful experience. Thank you.

  I would be remiss if I did not thank the organization that inspired this story. In 2016, my husband I travelled to Thailand and had the opportunity to visit the Chabad Houses in Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Koh Sumui, and Phuket. Chabad Houses around the world provide a home away from home for all Jews. Inside the welcoming doors of Chabad of Thailand are kosher restaurants, holiday and Shabbat Services, and many other forms of assistance. For my husband and I, the most moving part of our trip was seeing the young Jewish faces entering the building and enjoying a Shabbat dinner with hundreds of Jews from all over the world. To support the important work Chabad does in Thailand, ten percent of all profits from this book will be donated to Chabad of Thailand. More information on this great organization can be found at http://www.jewishthailand.com/.

  Finally, thank you to my husband, Pinchas, for his wavering support of my writing habit. You remain and will always be my favorite noodnik.

  Jerusalem Stone

  Susan Sofayov

  A Black Opal Books Publication

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2018 by Susan Sofayov

  Cover Design by Elaine Bergstrom

  All cover art copyright © 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626948-54-9

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  EXCERPT

  I felt used and humiliated--he’d lied to me, and I was stupid enough to believe him...

  Waiters at the next hotel bustled around in the sand, setting up tables where guests would dine along the ocean. They plunged iron poles into the ground and draped diaphanous curtains, creating huts over tables set for two. I pulled back the curtain on one and peeked inside. Tea light candles rested on a glass mirror in the center of the white-linen-covered table. A vision of Avi, sitting in the linen-covered chair, the warm glow of the candles reflecting off his face, was obliterated by a pang of jealousy aimed toward the couple who would be enjoying a romantic seaside dinner. I shut the curtains and continued walking barefoot in the soft sand, ignoring a m
outhwatering scent wafting from the hotel kitchen.

  Farther along, two waiters argued over some construction problem with the second hut they were in the process of building. Waiter number one stomped off toward the hotel and left waiter number two standing alone with an armful of gauzy curtains. I approached him and asked if I could sit in one of the few remaining lounge chairs near the surf. He gave me a distracted, “Yes.”

  The beach faced east, so there was no sunset to enjoy, but within a half hour, a full moon lit the coastline. I swallowed a chunk of guava and wondered if this was how it felt to be kissed by one of the Dementors, in the Harry Potter books--overwhelming sadness, cloaking a hollow void where my heart once rested. If someone thumped my belly, like the Tinman’s, it would echo.

  There were no more tears left to cry for Jack or Avi. More than anything, I wanted to go home.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated, with love,

  to the gift my brother left me,

  my sister-in-law, Kerry Dobransky.

  Chapter 1

  Patong Beach, on the western side of the island of Phuket, blistered in the tropical sun. People wallowed in the warm ocean waters like hippos desperate for relief. European tourists filled the two-mile stretch of silky white sand, basting their bodies with coconut oil, aiming for skin the color of mocha. But I suspected many of these sun gods and goddesses only created more business for the local hospital’s emergency department burn unit. Something I refused to do.

  To avoid the direct sunlight, I staked out a semi-shady spot under one of the coconut trees lining the edge of the beach. Under a neighboring tree, a little boy and a little girl giggled as they attempted to bury their long-legged father in the sand, using dollar store plastic shovels.

  The obviously pregnant mother sat on a king size blanket, laughing and snapping pictures. The children’s antics made me smile and wonder if they were twins, like me and my brother, Jack.

  The mother’s demeanor radiated love. Occasionally, she set down the camera and grabbed one of the toddlers and planted a kiss on his or her cheek. It reminded me of our childhood family beach trips, except we only traveled as far as the Jersey Shore.

  The little boy plopped down and began rolling in the sand, squealing in delight that moments later transformed into a loud screech. He crushed his little fists against his eyes until his mother gently peeled back his hands. Using a small white T-shirt, she whisked away the sand clinging to his eyelashes and eyelids.

  I’d always dreamed of having children. As a five-year-old, I informed Jack that someday he and I would marry a set of twins just like us, a brother and a sister, and buy side-by-side houses so our children could play together every day. The crushing sensation that accosted my ribcage every time I thought about Jack returned with a vengeance. I pulled my book from my bag, rolled onto my stomach, and started reading.

  “Do you know that over two hundred and fifty people each year are killed by falling coconuts?” a male voice announced.

  Based on the volume, the voice sounded close. I closed my book and rolled over.

  He smiled, and his white teeth shone against his tan skin. “That may be an urban legend, but why take the risk?”

  I looked up at a bunch of coconuts, dangling high above my head, appearing hard and loose on the branch. “You may be right. Those do look rather ripe.”

  “Yep,” he said, inviting himself to sit down on my mat. “I’m Avi Gold.”

  He looked like a career backpacker, tan skin, but not the worked-on tan tourist guys sported. His looked native, as if he’d spent the last six months surfing under the tropical sun. But his most striking feature was brown dreadlocks, bleached by the sun and sea salt, falling a few inches lower than his shoulders. “Now,” he said. “This is the point in the conversation you’re supposed to tell me your name.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, common introductory courtesy dictates that I tell you my name, and you respond in kind. So, your name is?”

  I shifted to a sitting position and couldn’t help but notice that he smelled delicious, a sweet scent mixed with an Earthy musk. “Excuse me.” I reached behind him, grabbed my cover up, and pulled it over my head.

  “You do have a name, right?”

  “Julie.” I shifted on the mat to see his face without the sun blinding me. His eyes were blue, not the blue-green of the Andaman Sea in front of us, but the blue of the Caribbean, pure and bright.

  “Nice, but surprising, I pegged you as an Emily or Jessica. What’s your Hebrew name?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your Hebrew name. All American Jews have one. You should know your own Hebrew name.” His gaze remained fixed on my face, which caused a tingling sensation to zap through me.

  This guy was presumptuous, but instead of feeling insulted, I struggled against an urge to run my hand along the day-old stubble on his cheek. “What makes you think I’m Jewish?”

  “Well, for starters, the gold Star of David hanging around your neck.”

  I reached for my neck and felt the small star. Damn. I’d forgotten I was wearing it.

  “Second, I saw you last night at the Chabad House, eating dinner all by yourself.”

  His smile lit his face, and his eyes twinkled. It appeared this Avi guy was proud of himself--gloating over some imaginary victory.

  “Really? I don’t recall seeing you there, and the place wasn’t crowded last night.”

  He leaned back on his elbows, stretched his long, lean-muscled legs, and shook the sand off his feet.

  Why did I buy a two-person mat? Who in the hell does this guy think he is? “Please, make yourself comfortable,” I said, hoping he’d catch the sarcasm in my voice.

  “Thanks. I’ve been combing this strip of beach since noon, looking for you. I was a few minutes away from giving up. The sand fried my feet. I don’t know how these pasty tourists stand it. Maybe it’s like that tribe in Africa that can only see green and red because those are the dominant colors of the jungle. Maybe all these Scandinavians can’t feel the heat because it’s so damn cold in their country.”

  What the hell was this guy talking about--hot sand, Scandinavians, and looking for me? “Huh?”

  “What don’t you get?” he asked, rolling onto his side and propping his head on his hand. “The Africans that can’t see colors or the hardy-footed Swedes?”

  “Neither! Why were you looking for me?”

  “Every Monday and Wednesday night, I study Talmud with the rabbi and a few backpackers. Last night, when I walked into the building, you were sitting alone at a table by the wall, reading your book, and eating what appeared to be schnitzel.”

  “So, you decided to stalk me, because of my taste in food?” At this point, I didn’t understand why, instead of being creeped out, I was mentally wrestling against an urge to run my finger down his stomach muscles, which rolled like moguls down a ski slope.

  “Stalk, no. Find, yes.” He sat silent, scanning me from hair to feet, leaving me with the feeling he was confirming that I was, in fact, the same woman he saw eating at the Chabad House. It appeared as if his assessment was complete when his beautiful features settled into a position of contentment.

  “Well, you found me,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

  “Excellent. Let’s hang here for a while, and then we can grab some dinner at Chabad. It’s a good day for swimming. The beach isn’t crowded.”

  I’d met many types of people in my life, but never, ever, did I encounter someone this presumptuous. “What makes you think that I want to ‘hang here’ with you and eat dinner with you?”

  He gazed into my eyes for a moment, and I suddenly felt hot--very, very hot.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  His eyes never flinched, gripping mine in a way that made my stomach flutter. I’d always been attracted to guys who wore suits to work, polo shirts on weekends, and exuded an air of responsibility and ambition. This Avi person appeared to be none of
these things, just a beach bum with no ambition and from the look of his ripped cargo shorts, no steady income. But he was sexy beyond words.

  “No. You can stay,” I said, not believing the words came from my mouth. “For a while.”

  “Excellent,” he said, lying flat on his back. “I wasn’t joking about the coconuts. Maybe we should relocate this mat.”

  We moved my bag and mat to a shady spot under the sprawling branches of a heliotrope tree. Avi wanted to swim, so I followed him to the water and stepped into the surf. The sea was calm, clear, and clean. Three years ago, the pharmaceutical company Jack worked for named him top salesman of the quarter and with that honor came a week-long trip to Puerto Rico for two. The girl he loved was busy serving in the Israeli Army, so he dragged me along.

  I loved the azure color of the Caribbean Sea, but it was too warm to swim for extended periods, like a hot tub, I had to jump out every twenty minutes. Jack, on the other hand, adored the warmth and spent hours just floating around and snorkeling. The water of the Andaman Sea was just the right temperature.

  It didn’t take long to figure out that Avi loved two things, swimming and talking, which was fine by me, talking was never my strong suit. My mom always said that Jack was the talker and I was the stalker. No matter where Jack was in the house, you could hear him, talking to his toys, the television, and quite often, himself. Mom said that I moved through the house so quietly that many times she would turn around, startled to find me standing behind her.