His Second Chance

By Emily Josephine

The perfect romance novel for health nuts and health nut wannabes: He's one of the head cheeses for the regional headquarters of a food conglomerate. She's a single mom on a mission, trying to figure out what in the school food has made her daughter, along with many other students, desperately ill...

The last thing any parent wants to receive is a phone call telling them that their child has fallen seriously ill from an unknown cause. When the child is an only child and ends up in a coma, matters grow even more serious.

This is exactly the situation Cynthia Redman faces with her daughter. And while Melissa recovers, other students in the St. Peter district aren’t so lucky. Cynthia determines to get to the bottom of the outbreak of sickness that suddenly begins to occur after children consume school lunches.

She soon finds an ally in Preston Brenner, a handsome businessman who encourages her to fight for what she believes. But when their relationship goes beyond friendship, Preston must make a choice: to reveal to Cynthia exactly which business he is in, or leave his successful career to please the woman he is falling for. Because she is now anti-processed food, and has every reason to believe that he may have been wooing her for all the wrong reasons.

In the meantime, schoolchildren continue to fall sick and Cynthia and her new friends begin to suspect foul play. Preston hopes to use his position of power to solve the mystery, but is rendered helpless when he discovers that he, too, is being targeted by a malefactor.

Both their worlds are falling apart. Only by forgiving and reuniting will they be able to uncover the truth....

“His Second Chance” is the first of four full-length inspirational romance novels in Emily Josephine’s series “Choices and Chances.” Download your copy today, and be entertained with romantic suspense...and encouraged toward positive change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Josephine
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311525307

Emily Josephine

A former sugar addict, Emily is now a fervent health nut. A former schoolteacher, she is now an avid advocate of homeschooling. A former too-much-stuff-city-dweller, she is now living her dream as a semi-minimalist rural homesteader.In between planting seeds, reading to her son, and making videos of her homestead, Emily writes both non-fiction related to health and simple living, as well as inspirational novels with characters who are often as radically anti-mainstream as she is!

Book preview

His Second Chance

Book One in the Choices and Chances series

An inspirational romance novel

by

Emily Josephine

Copyright 2014 by Emily Josephine.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Except for one character who strongly represents the author. This character will be revealed at the end of Emily Josephine’s next book in this series.

Furthermore, certain parts of this novel imply that illnesses and diseases can be prevented or even cured by a drastic change of diet and/or natural methods. The opinions of the characters are to be taken with a grain of salt. If you have any condition of ill health, we recommend that you seek the advice of a trained healthcare practitioner before you make any major changes in your lifestyle.

License Note

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite online e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A Special Note – Please Read!

An important note about this novel: when I originally wrote the first three books in this series, it was out of my passion to teach others to live healthier and more simply. I have since realized that most readers don’t enjoy encountering agendas in their novels – ironically, including me!

Still, I worked hard writing these stories and feel that despite the non-fiction take-aways I push within them, they do have entertainment value. This is why I haven’t just unpublished them. Also, based on the reviews I do have some readers who appreciate the information they glean from these novels.

Therefore, I’m asking you for grace. If you despise novels that carry a strong message (the message in this one is, a whole-foods, nutrient-dense diet is necessary for optimum health), either return it for a refund, or judge the content based on the style of writing and the plot rather than the fact that it has an agenda.

Thank you for your kindness and understanding. :)

Humbly,

Emily Josephine

Chapter One.

Mrs. Redman, I don’t want you to panic, but Melissa collapsed in the cafeteria a few minutes ago. . . .

Cynthia Redman barely heard the rest of the principal’s words. She caught the words ambulance and St. Peter Community before closing her phone, blindly groping for her keys on the dining room table, and racing out of the house.

Her heart pounded beneath her breast as she started the car, and she forced herself to hyperventilate to assuage a wave of nausea. When the view in front of her became blurry, she became irritated with herself.

Stop overreacting. The flu had been going around the last couple of weeks, and Melissa had told her of two classmates who had gone to the hospital for treatment and were out a couple of days later. Cynthia took a deep breath and wiped her eyes, willing herself to calm down. Melissa would be fine. It was just one of those things.

At least St. Peter Community Hospital was seven minutes closer to her home than Benjamin Franklin Elementary, the school her ten-year-old daughter attended. Cynthia could be at the hospital in fifteen minutes if she took the side streets, ten if she got on the freeway. Since rush hour was two hours away, she decided to take the freeway.

Not two minutes after entering I-685, the traffic came to a near standstill. Good grief, now what? She hit the window power button to unroll it, and stuck her head out as a frigid gust smashed against her face. The bumper-to-bumper cars seemed to stretch for miles ahead, with no relief in sight. She’d never get to the hospital. Not that way.

And Melissa needed her.

Robert Wade, the principal, had told her not to panic. Easy for him to say. He was a confirmed bachelor, had never had his one and only child collapse in school. He hadn’t even told her why Melissa had collapsed, had he? She could only recall bits and pieces from the brief phone call, none of them providing any speculation as to what might have caused the collapse. If he had suspected the flu, wouldn’t he have mentioned that?

Then maybe it wasn’t the flu. Maybe it was something worse.

When they were both just twenty years old, Justin Redman asked Cynthia to marry him. A year after the wedding, Melissa arrived, and Cynthia felt that her life was complete. She had a husband who loved her passionately and devotedly, and a beautiful, sweet baby girl. She never imagined that six years later, her life would be shattered when the man of her dreams was killed in a car accident. That was four years ago, and she still wasn’t over the pain. If something were to happen to Melissa as well…

With sweaty palms, Cynthia gripped her steering wheel and flipped her turn signal, twisting her neck to see if someone behind her would let her move into the right lane. If she was going to get to the hospital any time soon, she would have to exit.

Though they were moving at a snail’s pace, the cars to her right would not leave her any room. One crept passed her without stopping, then another, then another. Cynthia’s frustration grew with each agonizing second. When five cars had gone by, she could no longer restrain herself and let out a blood-curdling scream.

The next driver must have noticed her red, anguished face, since he braked abruptly and waved for her to pull in ahead of him. Inching her way into the spare space, she felt little relief. The next exit was still a half mile away—which might as well have been fifty miles at the rate they were moving—and she still didn’t know what was wrong with her baby.

She peered through her windshield at the handful of skyscrapers, ahead and slightly to her right, that marked downtown St. Peter. Somewhere near them was the hospital. Cynthia sighed. So close, yet so far away. With one hand on the steering wheel, she thrust her other hand into her purse and pulled out her phone. She had to call information for the hospital’s phone number, which she immediately dialed.

Hi, my name is Cynthia Redman, and my—no, I do not want to be put on hold. My daughter Melissa Redman— a choice word exploded from her lips as jazz music replaced the receptionist’s voice. Cynthia had to wait a full two minutes before the woman came back on the line.

I need you to check to see if a Melissa Redman has arrived. She’s a fifth-grader at Benjamin Franklin. . .She’d be in the emergency room. . .I already told you I’m her mother.

The jazz music came on again as the receptionist transferred her call and Cynthia finally got to the exit. Because of the long line of cars in front of her, it took another five minutes to get through the stoplight. In the meantime, she was told that a Melissa Redman had been brought in about ten minutes earlier, and that she seemed to be having an allergic reaction.

What do you mean? she demanded, but her phone cut off. She threw it onto the passenger seat, acid bile rising into her throat.

An allergic reaction. How bad? Didn’t some kids die when they had a reaction to food? Cynthia began to reach for the phone to call the hospital back, but changed her mind. She didn’t need the frustration of being put on hold again; besides, she was sure she was just letting her imagination run away. She’d heard once that out of the few kids who do have allergic reactions to food, only something like one in a million actually die.

Melissa will be all right. They’ll just give her some medication and I’ll be able to take her home. Cynthia’s heart beat began to slow as the alarm that had gripped her slid away like raindrops from a weeping willow. Then, her phone began to sing at her. She grabbed at it, swerving dangerously close to the curb. Hello?

Mrs. Redman, this is Mr. Wade. The principal sounded weary. I just need to warn you. Someone who was at the school at the time of Melissa’s collapse called channel 5. There’ll be a hoard of media waiting to greet you outside the emergency room.

The media? What did they care—unless they’d somehow gotten wind that Melissa was in grave danger. Panic gripped her again. Mr. Wade, be straight with me. How is my daughter?

I’m sure everything will be fine. Still calm, cool, and collected. Cynthia wished she could reach through the phone and slap him. You know how the media is. If they don’t have a better story, they have to make a mountain out of a molehill.

Can’t you get rid of them? Call the police or something? All she wanted to do was see her baby, make sure she was all right. She didn’t need to fight off dogs in the process.

Robert sighed. You know, freedom of speech and all that. Listen, I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. I’ll meet you outside the emergency room and escort you in. You won’t have to say a word.

Seven minutes later Cynthia arrived at the hospital. She instantly recognized the vans from the city newspaper and two of the local television stations, and groaned, wondering how many more would show up before this was all over.

Robert broke through the small crowd of media personnel as she approached the entrance, and took her arm in his. They were immediately accosted by journalists and reporters.

Are you Ms. Redman?

Were you aware that your daughter had food allergies?

Any idea what caused the reaction?

Do you know the condition of your daughter?

Do you believe your daughter’s illness is linked to the death of the second-grader last week?

As the doors closed behind them on the last question, Cynthia stopped, squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. She felt like she’d just been wrung dry. Opening her eyes, she turned to Robert. What second-grader?

A forty-something man, Robert Wade’s receding hairline and round, owlish face gave him a bookish, intellectual look that fit his aloof and dry personality. He even wore a pocket protector for which, Melissa reported, some of her peers teased him mercilessly—behind his back, of course. He now raised his brow at her. You didn’t hear about the boy who died mysteriously after eating lunch last week? He attended another elementary school, across town.

Cynthia froze. She hadn’t heard the story. Of course, she made it a point to avoid the news. But even if she didn’t mind the negativity, she was always too busy even to scan the headlines on the Internet. Three days a week, she worked at a neighborhood daycare center. The rest of the days, and many evenings, she worked as a freelance web designer. And she always made sure she gave her daughter a good two hours of attention every weekday evening.

Now it seemed she might have a reason to begin keeping up with current events. She shook her head. I – I missed that one. But it had to be a coincidence. The media was always looking for a way to blow things out of proportion. There was more money to be made that way.

But what if it wasn’t a coincidence? She shoved the thought to the back of her mind as she squeezed her purse to her side. Do we know the condition of my daughter?

She felt Robert stiffen beside her. No. He walked her over to where the school nurse, Jeralyn Phillips, and the office manager, Lucy Perez, were sitting, then released her arm. Please, have a seat.

Not until somebody tells me what happened, and I see Melissa.

Lucy, a gray-haired Hispanic woman whose round figure filled the chair, looked up with a troubled expression. They had refried beans, broccoli, and vanilla pudding, and some other kids said she was having trouble breathing, then she just passed out.

Excuse me. Cynthia turned to see a nurse half-walking, half-sprinting toward them. The nurse looked at Robert. Is she the mother?

Yes, I am. Cynthia couldn’t quell the tide of emotion that rose in her. Is my baby okay?

The nurse hesitated. That was all Cynthia needed to release the storm that had been brewing inside her for the past half hour. I said, is my baby okay? She grabbed the nurse’s arm. Answer me! She grabbed her other arm and began to shake her. I demand—

Strong arms pulled her away from the nurse, who stared at Cynthia with an ashen face. Mrs. Redman, calm down. Robert held her arms firmly. They need to know if Melissa has ever reacted to food before, or if she has any other medical condition or allergies.

Cynthia spoke through gritted teeth. No. Except for an occasional cold and three bouts with the flu, Melissa had been a picture of perfect health up until now. She twisted her neck to look at Robert. Let me go, please. I’m okay now. She willed her voice to match Robert’s in its composure. No one was going to let her see Melissa if they thought she was going to go beserk.

She turned to apologize to the nurse, but she was already trotting toward the swinging doors on the other side of the waiting room. That’s where they have Melissa, isn’t it?

The silent glances exchanged among the trio from the school was answer enough. Cynthia began following the nurse, sidestepping Robert’s attempt to catch her, and picking up speed. She wasn’t going to be kept away from her daughter a minute longer.

She pushed open one of the doors, ignoring the protests behind her. She caught a glimpse of the nurse slipping out of the sterile hallway and into one of the rooms. Melissa must be in there.

Cynthia straightened, steeling herself for what she might find. Although she didn’t know what she was so worried about. They’d probably already given her whatever medication was necessary, and she’d probably find her daughter lying peacefully on a bed with an IV in her arm. She followed the nurse into the room, only vaguely aware of the hurried footsteps coming up behind her. At first, she couldn’t see Melissa. It seemed to her that half the hospital staff surrounded the bed, their heads bent over it, their hands in constant motion. Then two people moved, giving Cynthia a clear view of her daughter.

Her entire face, even her lips, were blue, and her neck was swollen like a balloon. And she wasn’t moving.

Doctor, the epinephrine doesn’t seem to be having any effect.

Blood pressure still dropping.

Blast it. We’ve got to get her breathing. Increase the dosage—

Melissa?

Every head turned in Cynthia’s direction. Melissa! She tried to get to the bed, but the same arms that had released her a minute earlier were gripping her again, even more tightly.

Get her out of here! one of the doctors ordered.

Melissa! My baby! Oh, no! Cynthia’s screams were muffled by the sobs that broke through her throat at the same time. She felt herself being dragged backwards, and struggled futilely. As the door closed on the horrifying scene, her legs suddenly buckled, and she sank against the school principal, weeping uncontrollably.

Preston Brenner set the boxed dinner on the glass dining table and sat down in one of the four black leather chairs around it. He stared at the steaming Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes in the green cardboard, wondering if it would taste better if he bothered to scrape it onto a plate.

Who are you trying to impress? He smiled to himself, forking up a mouthful of potatoes, as he remembered an episode with his last girlfriend, Katherine. She came from a high-society family, and was utterly shocked one day when Preston invited her over for dinner and served her a meal just like the one in front of him now, box and all. After she finished sputtering all over herself, she managed to ask Preston in the most coldly civil tone to transfer the food to a plate. Even after that, despite Preston’s half-joking that the boxed meals were a perk from his job, she barely ate anything, and their relationship soon fizzled.

Which had been fine with Preston. The luxury surrounding him, the money in his bank account, had never felt like it was really his. Having been brought up in a middle-class family in Minneapolis, he was much more comfortable with the beer-drinking, jeans-wearing, T.V. dinner-eating crowd. He could have made himself fit in with Katherine’s family and their values, but he would have been miserable doing it.

The problem was, most of the ladies he met in his line of work were a bit too refined for his taste. He was beginning to wonder if, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, he would finally have to resort to hanging out in clubs and bars to find a down-to-earth woman.

His eyes flickered idly from his plate of food to the large, flat television screen on the far wall. He had muted it, but the scene depicted in front of him made him sit up a little straighter and reach for the remote to turn on the sound.

On the screen flashed a woman, probably around his age, with flowing brunette hair and a petite figure that showed through a tailored leather winter coat. She was walking arm-in-arm with a balding middle-aged man into what appeared to be a hospital.

. . .said the girl is in critical condition, the reporter’s voice was saying. Doctors are still unsure about the cause.

A doctor appeared on the screen. We’re not ruling out the possibility that she had a reaction to something she ate.

The reporter’s face replaced the doctor’s, staring into the camera with practiced seriousness. And if it was something she ate, it will have been the third episode this month that a child eating cafeteria food in the St. Peter school district ended up in the hospital.

A photo of a smiling little boy appeared on Preston’s T.V. as the reporter reminded viewers of the child who had recently died after getting sick on school food. Preston cocked an eyebrow as the reporter strongly implied that there might be a connection between the boy’s death and the latest apparently food-related illness.

Then there was another clip of the beautiful woman who turned out to be the mother of the latest cafeteria case. She was in hysterics, turning away from the cameras, with her hand up to try to keep them from filming her. Then the reporter was back on the screen, wondering aloud whether the child would live through the night, and closing with, I’m Joseph Menard, for WBHG news, St. Peter.

The camera cut back to the news room where the anchors began joking about the dangers of school cafeteria food. Preston would have normally laughed along with them, except the report meant that his job was about to get a lot more difficult.

He was the regional V.P. for the food processing company that provided most of the meals for the St. Peter school district.

Chapter Two.

The director of the daycare, a plump sixty-something woman named Barbara Tenniger, was full of compassion and understanding when Cynthia told her that she would have to take an indefinite amount of time off from the job. I’ve got a couple of girls who can fill in for you, Barbara told her, and when Melissa gets back on her feet, your job here will be waiting for you.

Cynthia wondered if her daughter would ever recover. It was two days after Melissa’s collapse, and yesterday afternoon she had slipped into a coma.

At least Cynthia had had the foresight to put aside the small amount of life insurance money she’d received after Justin’s death. It would likely cover the impending medical bills, and might also be necessary to help with the household expenses, as Cynthia had decided to temporarily set aside her web design business, as well. She needed to be with Melissa.

And she needed time to seek answers to the questions constantly bombarding her mind.

Holding her daughter’s limp hand, she tried to ignore the daunting plethora of machinery humming and clicking around her that made her feel like she was in the middle of a sci-fi movie. She had dozed for about seven hours out of the last thirty-six, and fatigue was beginning to envelope her in its haze. She was going to have to go