Eighty-four seconds can change your life. Or destroy it. Josie Nickels is an Emmy-winning news anchor, poised to rise through the ranks of television journalism. But when the overwhelmed journalist spills her family secrets on air, the aftermath costs her much more than a career. It robs her of a beloved son--a preppy, educated millennial trapped in the deadly world of addiction. Desperate for a new start and a way to save her son, Josie packs up her pride, her young daughter, and accepts a new job slinging cosmetics at a department store make-up counter with other disgraced celebs. In the gorgeous mountains of Asheville N.C., known for hippies, healings, and Subarus, Josie is faced with a choice for her son: Take a chance on a bold, out-of-the-ordinary treatment plan, or lose him forever. This heart-wrenching and, at times, hilarious novel, will delight fans of book-club women's fiction and inspire and give hope to those with addicted sons and daughters.

Excerpt

In ten minutes, Josette Nickels would go live with the day’s news, just as she’d done every evening without incident for the past twenty years.

Atlanta loved her, viewers trusted her, and no matter the mayhem churning behind the closed doors of her ridiculous Victorian Gothic, she’d always separated her career from the scandals.

Such was the way of Southern women who’d grown up with duplicitous mothers keen on parceling affection. Hadn’t Josie learned from the best how to live as two? As a woman who was perfect. And another who was not.

She’d not slept well the night before, her room aglow with aggressive moonlight charging through fine cracks in the blackout drapes. She’d watched the clock from the haunting pre-dawn hours, until she’d eventually given up and thrown off the covers.

By the time her dinner break rolled around, a tremor plucked at her fingertips and her silk blouse fluttered against a heart unsure of its next beat. Certainly, a couple of drinks would help, though she’d never—until then—consumed on the job.

A little tequila, two shots tops, was no worse than a pinch of Xanax. What woman wouldn’t in her circumstance?

She could do this, get through tonight, then go home to reassess. That suitcase in her trunk loaded with sundresses and swimsuits meant nothing. All women need a packed bag on standby, one of the many lessons her mother had taught by example.

As she walked into the studio, minutes from going live, her legs gave way as if boneless. She grabbed a desk and fell into the chair.

“Josie?”

“I’m okay,” she lied to her producer. “Should have worn flats.” She slipped on her mic and the in-ear monitoring and cueing system. The room seemed to move, like blacktop wavering under August steam. The walls rolled and the floor pulsed, but Josie managed to reach her anchor desk where she closed her eyes, willing a calm that would not come. When she opened them, she muttered her mantra: flip the switch. Turn on the journalism mode and click off the personal.

One last time, she went over the shot sheet telling her which camera she’d look into for each story.

With three minutes to spare, she practiced the top story from the prompter.

And it was that story that shot a stream of sweat down her spine, pooling at the waistband of her granny-like Fruit of the Looms. Panties for champions. Panties for women who despise tugging out wedgies and who don’t have a significant other in their lives.

“Let’s roll.” Her producer’s deep baritone rang in her ears. “In five, four, three, two, one.”

Josie cleared her throat and faced the lights, the cameras, and tens of thousands of viewers she couldn’t see. But they saw her. On what would become her final evening she’d join them in living rooms and kitchens throughout a sizable chunk of Georgia.

“Good evening.” Both hands trembled on the cold glass desk, mug of water to her left and laptop in the center. “I’m Josie Nickels and tonight we bring you a story of loss and laws never before enacted until now. For the first time in decades, a district attorney’s office has charged a suspected drug dealer with murder following a heroin overdose.” Her voice cracked and her lower belly rippled. Her entire body blazed as if she were melting from inside.

The teleprompter blurred, words fading in and out of focus. She inhaled deeply and faced her viewers. More than ever, she wished her co-anchor were present and not home sick with the flu.

“According to arrest warrants, Adam Lamond Richardson, nineteen, of Courtside Drive in Dekalb County, reportedly killed twenty-year-old Grace Turbyfill with ‘malice’ caused by the unlawful distribution of heroin. Detectives believe Richardson administered the narcotic himself, causing the fatal overdose of the young woman, a sophomore studying psychology at the University of Georgia.”

Her heart flipped and her throat squeezed. She reached for her water, ignoring the alarm written across her producers’ faces.

She panted and sucked at the air, trying to get something into her lungs before she passed out. The station cut to a commercial, and the news crew suggested a reporter take over the anchor spot. “I’m fine,” Josie said. “I just need to breathe through this little panic attack.”

“You’re too close to this story,” one of the female producers said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay. Really.”

“Your son’s still missing. Now this girl, his friend, is dead. Please, let Jessica fill in. Rob is out sick again.”

She thought of her children: her late-in-life daughter, Dottie, just three and born with Down syndrome. And her son, that once-beautiful little boy who’d clutched weedy flowers in his sweaty hands, pressing the blooms against her waist. A child she’d never in her darkest dreams imagined on the run, his monsters following close.

“Trust me. I’m good to go.”

Back on the air, Josie paused and listened to the beeps of technology. She took in the whispers of her colleagues, aware their eyes flashed uncertainty. She exhaled with force and wiped her wet hands across her pink Calvin Klein shift, then over her mouth, smearing her matching lipstick and tasting chemicals beneath the berry flavor. She swallowed hard, the tequila sour and fiery in her chest.

Josie held up a hand and gave the camera a one moment, please. That’s when the seams began ripping like a torn sheet and the padlock twisted and popped. Everything she’d worked for since she was eleven years old turned to shit. Straight-up shit.

That’s also when she should have stepped away from the desk and let Jessica take over, because what she said next, those eighty-four seconds of spewing her business like a Baptist at altar call, went viral. And that virus snuffed out her Emmy-winning ride.

But more importantly on this day, beneath that full thieving moon, her mistake, her giant screwup, robbed her of the only man who’d ever mattered.

Her son, Finley.

And she’d do whatever it took to get him back, if only she could reach him in time.

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Susan Reinhardt is a best-selling author known for her gift of taking serious topics and infusing them with humor and heart. She is especially praised for creating casts of unforgettable, quirky characters who stay in readers’ minds long after the final page. Reinhardt’s books vary from book-club women’s fiction to romantic comedies and romantic suspense for the over-thirty crowd. Her debut novel, “Chimes From a Cracked Southern Belle,” won Best Regional Fiction in the Independent Publishers Book Awards international contest, and was a No. 1 Amazon bestseller. It was a top summer reading pick and a book-club favorite. Susan lives in the gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains near Asheville, NC, and is on her second and final husband. She has two grown children, three steps, a granddaughter, and a rescue cat. Learn more at: https://susanreinhardt.com/

Connect:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SusanReinhardtAuthor/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/SusanGReinhardt

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/susangambrellreinhardt/