The Greatest Love Story Ever Written - Part 2

Taking over from Amity Grays is author DeeDee Lane

            A flash of white suede, blonde hair, and pink zipped across his line of vision. Ha! There she was Clarisse Heartfelt, successful romance author, conference speaker, and his quarry. He wasn’t doing anything creepy he just wanted to talk to her for a few minutes. Her theme of infusing passion in characters had really resonated…he had to get more information.

Nick Valentini squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Nick, big fan and fellow romance writer.” He was talking to the air. Ms. Heartfelt waltzed right past him and headed out the revolving door.

“Wait!” He pasted a large grin on his face, and thought happy not-a-stalker thoughts.

If she looked behind and saw him following he’d be sunk. At six foot three inches he towered over the petite writer. His large or what he liked to call his awesomely stately nose proclaimed his Italian heritage along with his longish black hair. Broad shoulders made people think he was former football player but could also mark him as someone to avoid on the street corner.

            He watched her stumble, pause. She’d heard him! Clambering in the revolving door he followed as it swooped her out and him in. She took a step then just as he exited swayed once, twice, and plummeted to the ground.

He caught her one second too late. The cradle of his arms managed to keep most of her head off the ground. Oh mio Dio. Her skin was pale as a ghost, waxy to the touch, nothing like the vibrant woman he’d seen lecture just moments before. He set her on the ground. She was still, suddenly lifeless.

“Call 911.” He bellowed to the sidewalk gawkers.

Fumbling for her pulse he pushed aside a soft pink scarf. Nothing. He didn’t exactly work in the medical field but as a technical writer he’d written enough training CPR webinars to know the rules. Nick grasped her shoulders to give a firm shake, “Clarisse wake up!” With the “Shake and Shout” step completed there was still no sign of life. He slipped out of his suitcoat, folded it and tucked it to cushion her head.

 “What’s wrong with her? Is she drunk?”

“Excuse me, fella, get outta the wa—oh sorry.”

“911 operator wants to know if she’s breathing.”

Nick filtered out the comments of the New York commuters and focused on Clarisse. Bits of concrete dug into his knees as he bent over to listen.

“Not breathing.” He called out to the woman on the cell phone. “I’m starting CPR.” He loosened Clarisse’s coat, pulled the neckline open as much as he dared. Finding his rhythm with the chest compressions he counted to thirty followed by two rescue breaths. 

Instructions from his last webinar project “How to Perform CPR,” flitted in and out of his mind....

Compressing the chest rapidly up and down moves blood through the brain, keeping it alive until the heart can get started again.

Arms aching he kept counting, and breathing. “C’mon Clarisse…get your heart going.” An acid taste of panic watered his mouth, he swallowed it down, had to keep going.  

“Darling…my heart is on fire, your touch is magic.”

Nick looked over his shoulder, what the hell? Even for New Yorkers this was a weird comment.

The husky voice murmured. “I may be dead but I’m not done, it’s you and me big guy”

He gazed wildly around. Three feet away, sitting on the edge of a nearby fountain lounged Clarisse Heartfelt. He blinked. Yep…still there. She crooked her finger. Her gaze smoldered with intensity and…life?

“I’m talking to you writer boy, you’re my ride back to the top.” The ghost Clarisse practically purred. “Think of me as your guardian angel.”

Small freckled hands moved his aside, a soft voice spoke in his ear. “Great job mister, we’ll take it from here.”

EMT’s had arrived. Stumbling back his butt hit hard on the pavement. He shifted aside so the efficient tech could do her job. She and the male tech hooked Clarisse up to oxygen and readied her to be moved.

The metal stretcher banged down with a clatter. A large hairy hand clapped him on the back, pulled him to standing.

“Yo Nico! What chu doin’ uptown?”

He stifled a groan, of all the luck. The male EMT was his second cousin Ricky. He imagined telling his burly cousin the truth.

“Yo Ricky, I have a secret and so far unsuccessful life as a romance writer. I came to hear a famous author speak about infusing passion in my stories.”

Ricky would call him pazzo, punch him in the arm and be on the phone to his mother, four sisters, and two brothers in the time it took to load Clarisse on the ambulance. By the time he got off the subway his mother would be crying at his kitchen table saying, “You’ll neva find a nice girl with such a sissy job.”

Instead he answered something Italian men of all ages would understand. “Yo Ricky, got a place around the corner, has good deli meat.”

“Ah ta ta.” Came a sing song admonishment from the second Clarisse. “You’re lying.” She stood and opened her arms wide, embracing the world, embracing him. A pink glow shimmered and quaked between them. “C’mon Nick Valentini, it’s your first test…shout it. I am a romance writer.”

He looked at Ricky, the female EMT, the ogling bystanders; none of them showed signs they saw or heard Clarisse.

“How do you know my name?”

Ricky guffawed, “Ah, dude, I gave ya wedgies every day when we was in kindergarten.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Den who was ya talkin’ to?”

 

All right Readers – YOU DECIDE is it?

Choice A: Nick confesses he’s seeing the Ghost of Clarisse and is taken to the hospital to have his head examined.

OR

Choice B: Nick vows to undertake Clarisse’s first test, and shouts, “I am a romance writer.”