“It does sound bad.”
“Bad? Bad is Tanner’s bout of hiccups during the severe weather coverage last month. What I saw yesterday was a television personality drop an atomic bomb on her career and our network.”
Emma shifted uncomfortably. “Might I mention my mic should not have been on?”
“Is that really where you’d like me to put the blame?”
“No.” She knew the rule. Always assume the mic was on. Always.
Her career was in the proverbial toilet, swirling furiously around the bowl, ready to be sucked away and spewed into the sewer. “I’ll do whatever it takes to redeem this.”
Mr. Peterson pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. “Emma, I have to wonder if you truly do want to redeem this.”
“What? Of course I do.” Visions of eating Ramen soup and living out of her car danced in her head. “I need this job.”
“Lately your work has lost its luster.”
“My piece on celebrities’ favorite candy might’ve been a little lacking.”
“You’ve been at this since college. It’s normal to experience burnout and—”
“I’m fine. Maybe I’m just ready for a new challenge.” Yes, that was it. A new challenge would breathe life into her career. She had to admit, she was bored. There was more to her abilities than reporting on celebrity gossip and the latest heart-warming dog video.
“Well, I’m about to give you a new challenge. You’re still fired.”
Her hazel eyes burned with unshed tears. “I was thinking more along the lines of sending me to D.C. to report on politics. Or a war zone.” Pretty much the same thing.
Mr. Peterson leaned back in his seat taking his first relaxed posture of the meeting. He crossed his arms over his sweater-covered chest. “Officially, we’ll tell everyone you’re taking a sabbatical.”
She sniffed and swallowed past the emotional clog in her throat. “And when I don’t return?”
“Maybe you do return.”
“I. . . I don’t understand.”
“Here’s the deal. You’ve done lethal damage here. The only thing that can restore this disaster is for you to go away. Let the viewers forget you for a bit.”
“Last week they loved me.”
“There’s currently an online campaign to surrender you to the Mother’s Christmas League of Dallas to stick you on top of their twenty-foot Alpine spruce.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“It has seven thousand signatures.”
Emma yanked a tissue from her purse and blotted her eyes.
Mr. Peterson’s voice softened to that familiar tone that had supported and encouraged her during her time at the network. “To save your image, it will require a lot more than just disappearing for a while. I’ve got to save our show, but as for saving your career, that’s going to be a bit more difficult. Are you willing to do what it takes?”
All she could do was nod.
“Your little vacation runs until the new year. But by Christmas, I want you to bring me the most beautiful, inspirational story you can find, something so moving, no reader will be left unaffected.”
“Where am I going to get this story?”
“That’s up to you. You’re a reporter. Use your journalistic nose. But if I don’t have a fully-developed human interest piece by December twenty-fifth, one that no other station has a hint of, something that makes our readers weep with joy, restores their faith in humanity and in you, then your sabbatical becomes a termination.”
“But I don’t know where to even look for—”
“Your correct response here is thank you.”
She straightened. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Peterson.”
Her boss eased off his glasses and regarded his fallen news star. “I don’t know what happened that makes you dislike Christmas. But it’s about to cause you to lose a career you’ve worked your tail off for. Turn this around—for the network and for yourself.”
Emma stood and gathered her purse, the memories pelting her like sleet. “I can do this.”
“Find Christmas, Emma,” Mr. Peterson’s voice boomed like a heralding angel. “Find your Christmas.”
Purchase A Sugar Creek Christmas on Amazon here.
Special Thanks
Thank you to editor Kristin Avila for your input on the story and your excellent taste in historical novels.
A big thank you to editor Christa Allan for the labor intensive editing, the time you invested in this story, your writer-angst counseling, and years of friendship. I can’t imagine doing this crazy writing thing without my short, sassy, hilarious, brilliant, sarcastic friend.
I’m quite grateful to Kim Traylor for once again letting me monopolize an hour or so of her time with my farm questions. You’re so agri-chic!
Thank you to my readers, who make it all so fun.
Finally, a big shout out to the women of Arkansas. We know how to bless a heart and call those Hogs. We know the Southern twang is the stuff of poets and that God sure knew what he was doing when he created our beautiful state. No matter where you live, no matter where you roam, you carry home with you.
About the Author
Award-winning author Jenny B. Jones writes romance with sass and Southern charm. Woefully indecisive, she writes YA, New Adult, and women’s romance. Since she has very little free time, Jenny believes in spending her spare hours in meaningful, intellectual pursuits, such as watching bad TV, Tweeting deep thoughts to the world, and writing her name in the dust on her furniture. You can find her at her website, JennyBJones.com.
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