NovelConcepts

Taking over from DeeDee Lane is author Sandra Tilley.

The Emergency Room swarmed like a war zone. 

Nick trailed in the wake of his cousin Ricky through the melee of bandages and broken bones and the roar of humanity seeking relief. Ricky was at home here, but the sounds and smells of a hospital made Nick want to hurl. Why'd he agree to come here? Because he'd made the mistake of telling his cousin he saw Clarisse Hearfelt's ghost.

They slowed before reaching three cubicles marked ADMISSIONS. Ricky angled his head toward the clerk on the right. "Remember Suzanne Cataldo?" Ricky scrubbed his hands down his olive cheeks and over his substantial stubble. "Don't tell her about…you know." He waggled his eyes skyward.

"But I saw her. Clarisse Heartfelt spoke to me–"

Ricky stopped. "Save it for the shrink. I want no part of this." He pointed a finger in Nick's face. "I walk out of here, and it never happened. Got it?" 

Nick choked back his argument. 

Ricky propped his hands on Suzanne's desk and gave her a smile and a head-bob. "Hey, Suze. Know you're busy, but remember my cousin Nick? He needs–"

Suzanne Cataldo turned her attention to Nick and Ricky. She brushed a mass of loose, jet-black curls away from her face, and there was no hint of color or amusement on her wide, full lips.  "He better be bleeding out."

Nick crowded in. "Hi, Suzanne. I'm fine. Really."

Ricky grunted and smacked Nick's chest. Hard. "Ignore this yo-yo. He just needs… to talk to someone."

"Talk? Seriously? Look around." Suzanne spread her hands wide.  "Blood and vomit everywhere and he needs to… talk?"

"It's personal, Suze." Ricky leaned in close. "Please, Suzy. I'll owe you. And you know I pay my debts." 

Nick shoved Rick. "Sorry we bothered you."

"Hold on." She yelled at a young woman straightening a pile of magazines. "Hey, you, new girl. Got you a patient." Suzanne grinned at Nick and aimed a long red-lacquered nail at a young woman racing their way. "Take it easy on her, Nick. She's our brand-new clinical social worker."

"Thanks, Suze. You're the best." Rick dusted his hands. "I'm outta here, Nick." Ricky disappeared into the mass of humanity still waiting their turn.

A smiling young woman extended her hand to Nick. "Hello, I'm Veronica Baker. My friends call me Ronnie." 

Nick took her hand. "I'm Nick Valentini, and I'm a romance writer." Why'd he tell her–a total stranger? Crazy, but it felt like she gave him… permission.  

"Oh, cool. I read romance all the time." She corralled her long brown hair in both hands and twisted. "Of course not all the time. I have a life."

Sporting a long white coat and a pink cashmere scarf, Clarisse Heartfelt hovered over Veronica. "Cute. And she loves romance. Ask her if I'm her favorite author." 

Nick threw up his arms. "Really, Clarisse?"

Veronica draped her hair to one side. "Clarisse Heartfelt?" Her face shifted from pretty to pretty sad. "Guess you've heard the news. What a loss. She's my fave. Since you're a romance writer, she has to be yours, too." Another shift from pretty sad to pretty professional. "Sorry. Let's focus on how I can help you. If you'll follow me, please."

Clarisse slung her giant pink handbag over her shoulder. "Come on, Nicky. Keep up. She might help with that passion problem of yours."

"Don't call me Nicky. Only my mother calls me Nicky. And how'd you know about my problem? You psychic now?"

Veronica patted Nick's arm. "Mr. Valentini, I wouldn't dare call you Nicky. And I'm not psychic. I just figured anyone who comes to the emergency room has a problem. Sadly, our romance world now has a big problem, mourning Clarisse Heartfelt." Her face wilted. 

He wondered if she knew how the blue sparkle of her eyes dimmed when she frowned.

"I like this girl." Clarisse pulled a compact from her bag and air-kissed her reflection. 

Veronica led him to her office where the lingering smell of sour mops and cleaning supplies, masked by a lemony air freshener, suggested the recent transformation of janitor's closet to office. There was only room for a small desk, two chairs, and two live bodies. 

Clarisse filled the space overhead. "Nicky, I wouldn't share our little secret with Ronnie."

Nick looked up. "So what do I do?"

Veronica motioned to a chair for Nick and squeezed past him to sit behind her desk. "Step one is to share your problem."  Her words flowed across the uncluttered expanse of polished walnut.

He took her hands in his. "I went to the conference to hear Clarisse Heartfelt, and I followed her outside. When she crumpled on the sidewalk, I administered CPR. Step-by-step. Over and over and over." A sadness washed over him. His muscles had burned and ached, but he'd kept pumping. Begging her to breathe. She died in his hands. He released Veronica's hands and sat back in his chair. "I failed." He tried to summon a smile, but his lips wouldn't budge. 

Veronica's eyes shone, and tears gathered on her lower lashes. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

How could she feel such passion for a person she'd never met? Nick cradled her cheek in his palm and collected her tear on his thumb. Clarisse's skin had felt warm, too. But he'd felt it cool as her life ebbed away. How could this woman, this stranger, understand the helplessness, the weakness, the sadness he felt? 

Clarisse sniffed. "Told you I liked this girl."

Veronica swiped at her eyes and straightened in her chair. "Sorry. I'm not being very professional."

Nick looked past Veronica's shoulder. On the wall hung a framed picture of an angel. The caption underneath: I believe. "Maybe I don't need a professional. Maybe I need a friend."

She looked down at her hands. "You can call me. When you need to talk about…things."

"I'd like that." 

Clarisse swung her purse at his head. "Ask her for her business card."

"You have a business card?"

"Not yet. Wait." She tore off the end of a form and scribbled her digits. "Call me anytime." Her cheeks flushed pink as Clarisse's cashmere scarf.

Clarisse snapped her fingers. "Come, Nicky. We have work to do."

Grudgingly, Nick stood. "Thank you, Veronica. You've been more than kind."

She touched his arm. "Please call me Ronnie."

Her warm touch lingered, following him through the simmering crowd. He glanced back. Her face was the last thing he saw before sliding through the double-glass doors–back into the sights and sounds of the city.

Clarisse glided above him. "Now, Nicky, tell me what kind of burning questions made you stalk me."

Nick trailed his vision in white leather, hustling to keep up. "I wasn't stalking you. Not in a bad way. I gave you CPR."

"That didn't work out too well, did it?" 

"Can we take a break?" He stopped to catch his breath.

Clarisse moved in close. Nose to nose close. "What do you want to know about passion?" 

Nick looked around before speaking. "I've been writing for several years. Even joined writer's groups. Online of course. Been studying the craft and getting the words on the page. And the words are okay. It's the scenes…well, they're…cold. No passion." 

"Oh, Nicky, Nicky, Nicky. To infuse your writing with passion, you must feel the passion."

"You mean sex? I have no problems in that area. No siree–"

"You, men. Passion is so much more than sex. Passion is the catalyst that lets you experience life."

He thought of Ronnie. "Or makes you cry when another human being is hurting." 

"You think Ronnie's tears were for you or me?" She clutched her purse. "No matter." Clarisse tried to flag a cabbie. "Oops. Forgot. Get us a cab to your place. Today begins the journey of Nick Valentini–best-selling author."

"My place? But I live with my mother."

Nick Valentini must make a decision:

A. Tell his mother he's a romance writer

B. Tell his mother their new house guest is Clarisse Heartfelt, his guardian angel

YOU HAVE UNTIL TUESDAY EVENING, 11 PM EST TO VOTE.