by Dana Roquet
However this trip seemed fated to become much more than just a day at the signing table because on this trip, I was going to be meeting Claire Neumann and I had a feeling going in, that meeting her might just change my life, profoundly and forever.
My publisher had received a letter a few weeks ago from the Illinois Make-A-Wish Foundation and had, in turn, passed it along to Nancy, who’d passed the information on to me. The organization had received a wish from an eighteen-year-old cancer patient who’d been fighting a fearsome opponent for several years now in the form of leukemia which had recently returned for the third time, and this time, it was acute and was viciously and aggressively waging an all-out war against her. Claire’s one wish wasn’t to go to Disneyworld or meet whatever boyband or pop star happens to be the current rage, her one and only wish was to meet me—ME—for crying out loud!
Nancy had arranged for me to go to Claire’s home to meet with her for a short visit if her health would stand it, but as it turned out, Claire was now feeling well enough to come to Barnett-Owen to meet me there instead. I’d felt heartened by this news until Nancy had explained to me that because the chemo therapy was no longer working, Claire had demanded that it be halted permanently and the slight rebound in her constitution was only a short term reprieve and that her decline was eminent and unstoppable. She was feeling well enough to come to the store and be my assistant for a couple of hours though and afterward, if she is feeling up to it, we will possibly grab something to eat together.
***
I’d been at the signing and so busy, that before I’d even realized it, a couple of hours had passed by and I’d begun to anxiously check the clock up on the wall every few minutes as I awaited my special visitor. I’d just taken up a copy of my novel from the hands of a sweet, cherubic looking, apple-cheeked grandmotherly type with purple-gray wisps of feathery curls that added to the overall angelic effect, and had opened the cover to begin a note when around and beyond her plump, squat figure I spied coming through the historical romance section, the most beautiful and most ill-looking young woman I had ever seen in my lifetime and my heart twisted in my chest. She had no hair—even her eyebrows were gone—and she wore a sky-blue beret that set off her large blue eyes perfectly. She was in a wheelchair, and her mother and father were wheeling her slowly toward me. I paused in my signing of the book and rose to come around the table to meet her and noticed at once that she had a copy of my novel Passion’s Fury in her lap, clutched tightly in her small, frail hands.
I reached out to shake her parents’ hands, and then I knelt beside Claire.
“So are you ready to work?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’m so happy to meet you, Miss Mills. You are my all-time favorite author,” she gushed breathlessly.
“Call me Torie, please. We’re on a first-name basis, understand?” I joked with her, frowning mock-serious and she grinned with a nod.
“All-time favorite, huh, well I think that you are destined to become my all-time favorite assistant,” I predicted and gave a very gentle squeeze to her delicate hand.
Nancy came forward and helped Claire’s parents to get her situated behind the signing table and I took my place close by her side while Claire simply beamed. Her parents didn’t want to hang around and interfere with her time spent with me, so they gave her a kiss good-bye and told Nancy that they would be back in three hours but then they continued to linger until the Make-A-Wish Foundation representative Liz, a dedicated and bubbly nineteen-year-old, stepped up and assured them that she would be close by in case Claire needed anything at all and she had their phone numbers in her portfolio if any emergency were to arise, which seemed to put them at ease enough so that they finally did take their leave.
***
Claire’s arrival a couple of hours into the signing event proved to be the perfect timing for our visit. The shoppers with Passion’s Fury in hand were gradually slowing to a trickle and while Claire helpfully handed each of the autographed novels back to the customers, she thanked each one for coming to see us and expressed her hope that they would love the story as much as she did. She was absolutely adorable and I found myself alternating between grinning like a loon as I enjoyed the glimpses of her irrepressible effervescent personality that shone through in spite of her desperately ill state and holding back my tears for the very same reason, as she effortlessly ingratiated herself with all who came in contact with her.
***
About an hour and a half into our time together, we experienced a major lull in the foot traffic coming by our table. Nancy along with Liz excused themselves and headed off to check on the status of some mysterious, top secret surprise that they wouldn’t even give us a tiny hint about in spite of some major whining and pleading on both of our parts. Watching them go, I sighed and lifted and shrugged my shoulders in defeat, looking at Claire.
“Well since we have this opportunity,” she said opening her copy of my book and laying it on the table before me. “Would you please autograph my copy?”
I rolled my eyes at her and gave her a look that said ‘of course silly’ without saying a word and opened the book cover.
“What would you like me to say?” I asked clicking my pen and looking into her lovely bright blue eyes.
“How about ‘Claire, believe in a true love. Your friend, Torie.’”
“I think I can manage that,” I assured her and inscribed it as requested with an ornately scrolling and embellished “Claire” and “Torie.”
“There you go,” I said handing the book back to her and bowing my head toward her slightly and formally.
She smiled and then her smile faded as she looked earnestly up at me.
“Torie,” she started hesitantly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” I assured her. “Just name it.”
“What I want to know is this, is Beau Gardner the man that is in your own life? I mean did you write him from someone special?”
I opened my mouth to reply and she hurried on to say, “I don’t mean to pry, really I don’t but I was just wondering because see I want to be a writer like you—It’s always been my dream, but I’ve never been in love and I think that you have to know something in order to be able to write about it, don’t you?”
“You aren’t prying,” I began. “And as for Beau Gardner, he lives only in my imagination.”
“Really?” she breathed in amazement.
“Really,” I nodded. “And all you need, Claire, is an idea of what you want to create, and then you just make that world come to life. There is nothing like beginning with a blank page of paper and filling it with a world that you’ve created within your own imagination.”
Claire nodded thoughtfully. “When I read the boundless love that Beau feels toward Melody, it made me wish that I might have time to find that in my own life, so that I maybe could write that type of story but…” her words dwindled away.
“But what, Claire?” I asked, urging her to speak her mind freely.
“You see, I’ll likely never have the chance to find that man who I can write romance novels about, that one man who is meant to be my one true love,” she said.
“Oh Claire,” I said hoping to think of some words of wisdom but she wasn’t upset or on the verge of despair but simply resigned.
“I’m getting very afraid that I might really die soon, as hard as that is to truly grasp or imagine but even if it’s so, when I read your first book Eternal Fire and then this one, they made me feel as if maybe I’ve glimpsed what a true love like that might be like to experience.”
I had a lump in my throat and couldn’t speak for a moment. I can still remember very well, being an eighteen-year-old girl and reading my favorite romance books and praying for that day when my Prince Charming would arrive and sweep me off of my feet. My sister Sarah has always said that those books are what ruined us for real men and they were part of the reason that we had so much trouble finding one who was good enough, because no man can
measure up to a romance novel hero.
I looked at Claire who was looking down at the book she held in her hands and I had a thought.
“Claire, do you want to know who my favorite romance author was when I was your age?” I asked confidentially.
“Who?” she asked looking up at me, interested.
“Kathleen E. Woodiwiss. Have you ever read her books?”
“No, are they as good as yours?” she asked seriously.
“Much better, I’m nowhere near her caliber,” I assured her and had to laugh at that naive remark. “But if I buy you one of her books, would you read it and tell me what you think?”
“Sure,” she said, awestruck.
“Are you on Facebook?” I asked, having an idea.
“Duh!” she said and we both snorted a laugh. She because I think that she was shocked that she had just said ‘duh’ to an adult and someone she had placed (however misguidedly) upon a pedestal and me because it was a sign of her feeling comfortable enough with me to totally be herself.
“Then let’s ‘friend’ each other, and we can chat back and forth and talk about our favorite books. I have several that are my favorites currently. We can give each other our recommendations; what do you think?”
“I would love that,” she said and then absently looked down at my novel in her lap again. She smoothed her hand across the shiny cover photo of Beau and Melody, who were locked in a passionate embrace and standing, artfully posed, against a blood-red Louisiana skyline.
“Jimmy Thomas is gorgeous, isn’t he?” she asked seriously.
“Absolutely beautiful,” I agreed. “That’s why I have him on my cover, you know. He’s the best at what he does, don’t you think?”
She nodded in agreement and then opened the book and fanned through the pages until a folded piece of paper fell out onto her lap.
“I wanted to bring this for you, Torie. It isn’t very good, but I wrote it myself and I wanted you to have it.”
She handed me the paper and then smiled shyly as I unfolded it and read it quietly to myself while she looked on.
My love for you is great
Though I know I cannot have you
For like a rainbow
The harder I try to reach you
The further you move away
Now sorrow lays heavy on my heart
Like sturdy bands closing in on it
My heart is like a butterfly
Wanting to break free and fly away
But it is not able
For the bands are made of love
And cannot be broken
“You wrote this, Claire? It’s wonderful! Autograph please,” I demanded, giving it back to her and handing her my pen.
“It needs a title, though,” I said watching her with a smile on my lips as she placed the paper on the table, leaning forward in her wheelchair, her head slanted slightly and pink-tipped tongue just peeking out of her mouth as she concentrated. She signed it for me with a similarly fancy scrolling flourish as I’d used when autographing my book for her.
“So what do you think?” I asked. “What title would fit?”
“Maybe ‘Fly,’” she suggested with an uncertain shrug.
“I like it. In fact, Claire,” I paused, considering. “What would you think about me featuring it in the front of my next novel? I really think that it would be perfect right after the dedication page.”
“What’s the name of the novel? What’s it about?” she asked excitedly.
“Well, I’ve been toying with several titles but tentatively it is called Amanda White of Cedar County Iowa. It’s set in the Civil War time and is a love story, of course, and the hero goes off to war.”
“That sounds interesting,” she said with heartfelt sincerity.
“Our secret though, we need to keep it to ourselves for now. So what do you say? What will you charge me for your work?” I asked very businesslike. “I’ll give you proper credit of course. It will say by Claire Neumann.”
“Seriously—OMG, Torie!” she gushed; then more quietly she continued. “If you really mean it and want to buy my poem, whatever you pay me for it I’ll give to charity—maybe to the Make-A-Wish Foundation so that some other kids can have their wishes come true.”
A couple of customers approached just then and interrupted our discussion and so we spent a few minutes chatting with the two friendly, middle-aged women about Passion’s Fury but as soon as they’d gone, I turned right back to our negotiations.
“Okay, I’ll pay you ten-thousand-dollars for the exclusive use of this poem in my next book, which you can give to the Make-A-Wish Foundation, if that’s what you’d like to do or keep it for yourself—totally your call about that and in addition, one percent of all of the royalties from the sale of the book will go to the charity of your choice, or how about this,” I said having a sudden inspiration. “What if we created a scholarship fund for different causes including aspiring young writers that we could name the Neumann Mills Scholarship or Trust—something like that. It could be huge.”
Claire sucked in a breath of surprise and then laughed excitedly.
“Oh my gosh, Torie. Deal!” she agreed at once, shaking my hand, sealing the deal and placing the autographed poem back into my palm. I hugged her gently, mindful of her delicate condition and jutting knobby bones that seemed as frail as a newborn birds, as I ran my hand lightly over her back.
As the wall clock indicated that our book signing duties had come to an end, we glanced up curiously as Nancy and Liz finally returned and both spoke Claire’s name in unison to get her attention as they approached us. Then I don’t know who screamed louder, Claire or me, for walking between the two petite women was the very real, very muscular and very large life-sized version of my novel’s cover, in the flesh; none other than, Jimmy Thomas himself!
***
With a copy of my own novel bearing the autograph of Jimmy Thomas tucked reverently and carefully into the side pocket of my laptop, it was sadly time to bid Claire good-bye. It had been a huge day for everyone.
I handed Claire the Kindle which I’d purchased for her and her online library was loaded with Shanna by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, Forbidden by another favorite author of mine Jayne Monroe, a classic bodice ripper called Love’s Vengeance by my friend Dana Roquet, and On the Island by Tracey Garvis Graves.
“When you get home, I want you to charge this up right away, and I want you to read On the Island first. I think you’ll love it. The hero is a cancer survivor, just like you and I’ll be waiting for your book review. Shoot me an email. Okay?”
“I will, Torie. Thank you so much for spending this time with me today. If I do get better, I hope to become an author just like you,” she said breathlessly and I could see the fatigue that just this three hour outing had cost her by the smudges of darkening shadows beneath her eyes.
“You will, sweetie. And I’ll give your first finished novel to my publisher,” I promised her, hoping against all hope as I said it that I’d have the chance to keep my word.
We had already exchanged all of our digits and email addresses. I had Claire’s Facebook information and I had provided her parents with Nancy’s contact information in case they needed to get in touch with her regarding the newly coined Neumann Mills 2012 Charity Trust that will be established shortly. Nancy assured them that they could expect a letter within a week from one of the lawyers at her firm in order to get the ball rolling on Claire and my exciting charity collaboration.
We had all taken several PR photos for Liz and the Make-A-Wish Foundation and I had demanded that Nancy take a photo with our cell phones of Claire, Jimmy, and me together and all three of us had made it our phones background photo right then and there or I should say that Claire had. Everyone had had a good laugh over Jimmy and me, both scratching our heads and completely perplexed, until Claire had offered her assistance and had gotten it done.
Jimmy gave a sweet, chaste farewell kiss to Claire upon her pale lips and a kiss o
n the cheek to me and then he made a quick dash for the exit before he succeeded in causing a riot or more likely, had found himself sexually molested right in the middle of the book store, by a growing gaggle of his adoring female fans.
***
Nancy and I hailed a cab and took the short several blocks drive back to our hotel. Our flight will be leaving at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow and I am so ready to get home to Fremont, Iowa and back into the arms of Dave Cameron.
Spending the day with Claire, a young woman who has never known true love and never will, (her parents told me confidentially that she is not expected to live past the end of the year), it made me take stock of my own life and fully appreciate what I have within my grasp, at long last. I was struck hard by the realization that no one is guaranteed anything in this life and so; as I watched the sights and sounds of Chicago flash by, I silently decided that when I get home, as soon as I get home, I’m going to tell Dave that I’m in love with him. He’s my destiny, I feel certain of that and I’m going to make sure that he knows just how much he means to me.
***
As I trudged down the hall toward my room after bidding Nancy good night at her door, still feeling an odd mixture of happiness and melancholy from the wonderful yet heartbreaking time spent with Claire; I turned the corner of the deserted corridor and saw, standing at the end of the hallway in front of my door, Dave, in the flesh. I ran full bore down the hallway like a derailed locomotive, dropped my things on the floor and leapt into his warm embrace.
“What are you doing here?” I squealed.
“I couldn’t take being without you, so I drove up,” he said kissing me briefly.
“Dave, I’m in love with you. I love you,” I blurted without preamble, confessing it right smack dab in the middle of Chicago, Illinois, in a hallway of the Hyatt Regency and in front of room number 1908.
“Torie, sweetheart, I’m in love with you, too. You’re everything to me,” he said, kissing me again before placing me down onto my own two feet.
I picked my purse up off the floor, and then fumbled around in it, searching for the room key and when I finally found it, I slipped it through the slot, the light turned green and I pushed the door open.
