In 1985, I met Nancy Richards-Akers. It was "friendship at first sight" for both of us. Though Nancy was from an upper-class New England background, and I hailed from a blue-collar Baltimore family, we soon discovered we had many things in common; for starters, we were born in the same year, we'd both gone to private women's colleges, and we were interested in "the big picture" of how the world worked, so much so that Nancy majored in international studies and I majored in American studies. We also discovered we both had spent many years learning ways of expressing our creativity other than writing; Nancy had studied ballet, while I'd studied piano. Most of all, though, we found that we loved the way our minds worked together. It was just plain fun applying our brains to a topic—and almost any one would do; we never ran out of ideas to explore.

Although Nancy had no real interest in writing contemporary romances, she thought it would be fun to work together. I was resistant. I'm very perfectionistic about my writing; I obsess over every word, and I don't want anyone else telling me what to write or how to write it. On the other hand, I really hate plotting by myself and find that talking through a story idea with someone is almost mandatory. I also don't like doing research—and Nancy's idea of a good time was spending the day in the Library of Congress reading about the various kinds of soup tureens used in 1820. So . . . what the heck, I decided, maybe it would be fun to write together.

Thus, Mary Alice Kirk was born. "She" published two books: In Your Wildest Dreams and Promises. In both cases, Nancy and I took an existing idea for a book that I had written in synopsis form, then spent a couple of days together plotting the story from beginning to end (I've still got one tape we made of a plotting session for Promises). Then I went off and started writing the first draft. Meanwhile, Nancy did whatever research was going to be necessary. When I needed information her research was uncovering in order to continue writing, we'd chat until I was able to fill in the necessary plot holes. Then I went back to writing. When I finished the draft, Nancy read it, made comments, and filled in whatever blanks I'd left for the remaining technical information from her research. Finally, I edited the ms. into final form, incorporating Nancy's comments and research, as well as polishing my writing.

I've never regretted my brief collaboration with Nancy. I got to write my own words without someone telling me what to write and how to write it, and at the same time, I had someone to help me think about the plot and to talk to when I hit sticking points or just felt uninspired. I'm confident that Nancy would say that she, too, benefited from the collaboration—although I can't say that with absolute assurance. Nor can I ask Nancy to confirm the statement. Because Nancy is dead.

It was on the first Saturday in June of 1999 that Nancy was shot and killed by her estranged husband, who then shot himself. I can still vividly recall the blood—chilling, stomach—knotting shock that rolled through me when Nancy's and my mutual friend Kathleen Gilles Seidel called to tell me what had happened.

In the days that followed, I was bombarded with phone calls from reporters for The Washington Post, People Magazine, "20-20," U.S. News and World Report, and half a dozen other media sources. They all wanted to know whatever I could tell them about who Nancy was and how such a tragic thing could have happened—and happened not just to anyone but to, of all people, a romance writer. The irony seemed, to them, inescapable. Not to me. Nancy was a brilliant, multi-talented woman who happened to write romances. The fact that she wrote them didn't make her any less likely to be murdered by her husband. Indeed, her chosen profession had no more to do with her husband shooting her than the next woman's career as a lawyer or secretary has to do with her husband murdering her. No woman—not one of us—is immune to abuse and violence.

In all the months that have passed since Nancy's murder, not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of her. I still haven't fully accepted that she's gone . . . that I can't pick up the phone and call her . . . that we'll never again talk about our kids and being moms . . . that I'll never again hear her giggle or tell a riotously funny story. I miss her. I always will.