Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Nan Fischer’s The Book of Silver Linings, which is out now.

Constance Sparks always says yes …when her capricious best friend needs money; when her boss gives her more responsibility without a raise; and when her boyfriend, Hayden, who is very kind but also secretive, asks her to marry him.

While planning their wedding—and struggling with anxiety about the right course for her future—Constance researches the history of her antique engagement ring and unearths the name of a man who might be connected to it, plus his tragic love story. When she finds a book of letters in her library’s old manuscript section written by the long-dead man, Constance is deeply touched by his words and leaves a note for him confessing her uncertainty and doubts. She’s shocked days later to find a response tucked among the pages.

As the notes continue to arrive, Constance finds herself quickly falling in love with a ghost and putting her real-life relationship in jeopardy. Will a bond based on letters impossibly sent from the past derail her future? Or will Constance discover her voice and risk everything for the chance to somehow connect with her true soul mate?

Chapter One

Yoga speed dating? You can’t be serious!” I hold out the bright red flyer, awaiting my best friend’s reaction. Now I understand why Mars told me to dress casually. She was too smart to suggest yoga clothes-those that can stretch do. I can’t and don’t and prefer adrenaline sports who do not require an instructor or navel-gazing.

Mars takes the flyer back then tugs me down the sidewalk. “Remind me again, when was your last date?”

I’ve been on two dates in the past six months. On the first, my date asked the waitress out when he went to the bathroom. The second guy took me to a strip club so I could make it rain dollar bills for the scantily clad performers. I hop over a crack in the pavement. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Of course you will,” Mars says and bumps my shoulder. “You never say no to any of my ideas.”

We pass an unhoused man camped out in the doorway of a closed Gap. A mutt in a blue rain jacket, his face sugared with gray, lies beside him. I dig into my backpack for the plastic bags I always carry and hand the man one. Inside there’s a granola bar, a travel-sized toothbrush and toothpaste, a pair of wool socks, and a grain-free dog biscuit.

“Bless you,” the man says while his dog happily munches the treat.

“Seriously? You’ve added socks?” Mars mutters once we’re well past the two of them.

She doesn’t begrudge the guy socks. She’s just concerned because I live on a tight budget. I glance back. The man has wrapped a sleeping bag around his dog to keep him warm. We get frequent visits from the unhoused at the animal shelter where I volunteer. Most of the time, they take better care of their dogs than themselves. Unconditional love is priceless, something I witness often when our animals find their forever home.

“Watch out!” I drag my best friend around a ladder set beneath a sign for Chestnut Street Doughnuts.

“What do you actually think would happen to us if we walked under it?” she asks.

Mars has always been the voice of reason in my life. “In the old days people believed you’d face death by hanging.” I can’t help but share the historical origins of the superstition with her. “But my mother thought that the spirits of people were trapped in the triangle beneath the ladder. Walking under it is like asking them to haunt you.”

Mars snorts. “And you believe in haunting?”

I giggle. “Maybe.”

“Good to know.” Mars drags me forward. “Almost there.”

“I seriously doubt my perfect match will be at yoga speed dating,” I say under my breath.

“I’m sure there will be some old shoes in the studio.”

Mars knows I’m looking for comfort and durability in a relationship, like a perfectly worn-in pair of sneakers. While she’s game for stilettos, sparkly cowboy boots, flip-flops, even ten-inch platforms.

“If you’re not up for it, you could go hang out at the shelter you love so much, all alone with your unwanted fur-balls,” Mars adds.

“They’re not unwanted! They just haven’t found their forever home. Yet. But point taken-we’re doing this.”

“Look on the bright side,” she says with a cheeky grin, “men in yoga clothes leave little to the imagination.”

“Oh. Lovely.”

“Remind me again why we’re best friends?” Mars teases.

But she knows the answer. Destiny. We met the first day of freshman year at San Francisco State when I walked into a generic dorm room and saw a striking girl with high cheekbones, wild brown curls, and a smiley face T-shirt seated on a red plastic suitcase . . .

“Are you Martha?” I asked.

“I’ve changed it to Mars. What should we change your name to?”

“It’s just Constance. Why would you change your name?”

Mars gave me the hard blink that always punctuates her irreversible decisions, then said, “I know what being Martha is like-a mom who’s on her fourth husband and weekends working at the bowling alley spraying disinfectant in smelly shoes. I have no idea what life as Mars will be, but I plan to make it epic.” She held up a box of pink hair dye. “Join me?”

I set down my duffel. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. I’m on scholarship and they’re handing out jobs. I want to make sure mine doesn’t interfere with the classes I’ve already chosen.”

“Well, just Constance, I’m on scholarship, too, though I haven’t considered my schedule yet. What’re you studying?”

“Biology. I’ve lined up a job for the next three summers at an animal hospital. After graduation, I’ll spend a year in research then apply to veterinary school.”

“Any room for fun in that plan?”

I knew she was teasing me and blushed. “Sure. If there’s time.”

Mars winked. “There’s always time. I’m a chemistry major. You’re looking at a future plastic surgeon. But my plan is to balance studying with tons of good times. You only live once.”

That night I let her dye one lock of my dark blond hair bright pink while I organized our small closet, but kept my name. We became best friends despite her kicking me out to sleep in the lounge a few times a month so she could have privacy with a momentary crush. I’d never had a close friend before, mostly kept on the periphery of the cliques in high school for fear of being judged, and Mars’s steadfast loyalty was a revelation that resulted in a deep trust between us.

In the end we both ditched our professional dreams to play the hand we were dealt but remained best friends despite the fact that she’s a firefly everyone wants to catch so they can bask in her light and I’m more of your everyday moth.

Mars, her hair now a shade of purple that complements her light gray eyes, leads me inside the yoga studio, a spare space with white walls and a gleaming wood floor dotted with red yoga mats. Despite the yoga part, a trill of excitement rolls through me. Mars has always pushed me out of my comfort zone. And if my best friend wants my company, I’ll do pretty much anything for her even if I’m not suited for it . . . like the time Mars made me sign up for hip-hop class for the physical exercise credits we needed freshman year of college. I couldn’t find a beat if it hit me over the head and was mortified for an entire semester but also had never laughed harder.

Five minutes later twenty-six barefoot women stand in a line on the wooden floor facing twenty-six men while our “guide,” a lady with long gray hair in a crimson and gold maxidress, walks between the rows and explains how yoga speed dating works.

“Hello, my name is Sara and I’m here to help all of you open yourselves up to new experiences and connections. You’re here because swiping based on first impressions and meaningless hookups has left you empty, yearning for deeper bonds.”

I glance at Mars and she wrinkles her nose.

“We’ll start with a yoga warm-up. Then you’ll be given a series of exercises to do with a partner, each lasting five minutes,” Sara says. “When I ring this bell, it’s time to move down the line to the next person. Each of you has a one-letter name tag and a piece of paper. If you like your interaction and want to know more about your partner, write down their letter. I’ll compile your lists at the end of the night and if there are any matches you’ll be connected via email.”

Sara holds her hands up in a prayer pose. “For your own sake, the next time you meet build upon your initial connection in a meaningful way, open up your soul, and share your life force, your heart energy. Make something beautiful together.”

I whisper to Mars, “My heart energy wants to run for the door.”

Sara stops in front of me. “Tonight you’re being asked to shed the skin that hasn’t worked for you; to expose your true self. Are you up for the challenge?”

Her eyes are so earnest I want to support her. “Sure.”

“What’s the number one thing you want out of a relationship?” Sara asks me.

That’s easy. “Someone who stays.”

“And you?” Sara asks Mars.

My best friend grins. “I also want someone who stays . . . at least for the night.” The room erupts with nervous laughter and Mars now has all of the men’s undivided attention, which she already had the minute she walked through the door because she’s tall, striking, and wears a crop top and leggings that showcase all her curves while I’m barely five-two and sport a T-shirt with a red dog on the front pocket and leggings that have lost most of their elastic. An old boyfriend told me that I look like the actress Michelle Williams but with none of her style. I have more of a “vintage” (meaning thrift store) vibe, favor clothes with flowers or animals on them, and usually wear my wavy dark blond hair swept into a ponytail despite Mars’s best efforts to give me a more put-together look.

After a handful of Down Dogs, Warrior, Baby, and Tree poses, Sara rings her silver bell. “Let’s begin,” she says. “Remember, you are free to say no to any exercise that makes you uncomfortable, but I encourage everyone to give it a try. Your first challenge is to take a step toward the person across from you, place one hand on their chest, and gaze into their eyes. Let your mind open like a flower and drink in their sunlight . . .”

I stand for five minutes with my hand over the heart of a shirtless man with the letter B stuck to a chest matted with black hair that climbs from his belt, covers his shoulders, and carpets his back. Meanwhile, his own hand is sweaty and partially soaks my T-shirt. We look into each other’s eyes for what feels like an eternity. When the bell rings, I don’t write down the letter B nor does he scribble down the N stuck to my T-shirt.

The next guy, D, and I are supposed to tell each other our biggest secret. I stick with something safe-“I wish my career had gone in a different direction.”

D smiles, revealing a mouthful of crowded teeth that match his sallow skin tone. “I wish I was a vampire.”

I can hear Mars and her current partner laughing, and the room is filled with the gentle buzz of people getting to know each other. I notice several people writing down initials on their pad. Squelching my discomfort, I ask, “So what attracted you to being a vampire?”

“Mostly the sunlight thing, but also the biting,” D shares.

When the bell rings I’m relieved to escape without a puncture wound and then incredibly uncomfortable when I have to hug Z for a full five minutes while listing all the things I love.

I start. “I love spending time with animals.”

Z pulls me in tighter. “I love human contact.”

Mars is right. Yoga pants leave little to the imagination.

When the bell dings, I can’t get away fast enough while I notice Mars is still locked in a hug and only moves on at Sara’s request. She blows me a kiss, clearly in her element.

I go through an exercise mirroring my partner’s movements, then hold hands with another to share our energy. K’s hands are freezing and mine are clammy so there’s that. Plus, he smells overwhelmingly of patchouli, an earthy scent that makes me sneeze repeatedly.

When I’m partnered with C, we’re asked to share our first jobs and what we loved about that experience while balancing on one foot and supporting each other if we wobble.

“I was a lifeguard and I loved working on my tan and hanging with girls in swimsuits,” C says with a wink.

“I worked for a telemarketing company making phone calls.” What I loved was the anonymity but instead I say, “I liked connecting with people.”

“Didn’t they curse you out sometimes?” C asks.

I laugh, wobble, and he grabs my arm. “Definitely, but there were also the old folks who just wanted someone to talk to and it was cool to make their day a little less lonely.” C doesn’t write my name down when the bell rings.

When I’m asked three guys later to release what I’ve been holding back while my partner intones “and it is so,” I release work stress, worry about the dogs and cats who have been at the shelter over a year, concern over my grandfather’s health, and the fear that I might never meet the right guy because if past choices predict future success I’m in trouble.

My partner, P, releases his fear that he won’t get a promotion, that his brother’s leukemia might return, and that women won’t want a guy who’s bald. Instead of intoning Sara’s and it is so I tell him that Jean-Luc Picard is one of the sexiest men in the world. But P has never heard of the Star Trek captain and dislikes science fiction. Before that, I’d considered writing down his letter. But I draw the line at a guy who doesn’t appreciate the starship USS Enterprise.

Three men later I’m instructed to list all my deepest wounds. I opt out of that one and notice Mars does, too. There’s actually a lot of reasons we’re best friends. One of the biggest is that we don’t see a point in dredging up trauma from the past. I can’t help but notice that only a few of my partners have written down my initial while I’ve written several of theirs down, mostly because I don’t want to hurt their feelings.

When I sit across from X, we’re told to massage each other’s feet. Neither of us seems comfortable so I suggest we just talk. His name is Ryan and his tight black T-shirt reveals a tattoo sleeve down one arm. He’s in ripped jeans so my guess is that yoga isn’t his thing, either. “Did you get dragged here by a friend, too?” I ask.

Ryan laughs and points at a guy at the end of the line. “I’m playing wingman for my brother over there-letter Q. So why’d you agree to come?”

After an hour of discomfort, I’m too tired to scrounge for a witty or flirty response. “My best friend’s idea, but the truth is I’m tired of dating and I’d like to find my person.”

“You said to our guide you’re looking for someone who stays?”

My cheeks grow warm. “I guess that doesn’t sound very romantic.”

Excerpted from The Book of Silver Linings by Nan Fischer Copyright © 2023 by Nan Fischer. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The Book of Silver Linings’ by Nan Fischer appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and excerpt from Nan Fischer’s Some of It Was Real, which is out July 26th 2022.

Psychic-medium Sylvie Young starts every show with her origin story, telling the audience how she discovered her abilities. But she leaves out a lot—the plane crash that killed her parents, an estranged adoptive family who tend orchards in rainy Oregon, panic attacks, and the fact that her agent insists she research some clients to ensure success.

After a catastrophic reporting error, Thomas Holmes’s next story at the L.A. Times may be his last, but he’s got a great personal pitch. “Grief vampires” like Sylvie who prey upon the loved ones of the deceased have bankrupted his mother. He’s dead set on using his last-chance article to expose Sylvie as a conniving fraud and resurrect his career.

When Sylvie and Thomas collide, a game of cat and mouse ensues, but the secrets they’re keeping from each other are nothing compared to the mysteries and lies they unearth about Sylvie’s past. Searching for the truth might destroy them both—but it’s the only way to find out what’s real.

One
Sylvie

The outfit is the easy part. It was chosen by a style consultant hired by my agent to create an image. I slip on a sleeveless black silk jumpsuit with crystals along the edge of a plunging neckline, fasten strappy heels and diamond hoop earrings, and slide a platinum ring whose sapphire stones form an infinity symbol on my index finger. On cue, my stomach cramps and I rush into the bathroom, grip the cold porcelain, and lose a late lunch. Moose whimpers then rests his blocky head on my shoulder. He’s a 145-pound Great Dane, but despite his size, he’s a big baby. “I’m good. Promise.”

A kiss between Moose’s eyes; swish of mouthwash then I return to the mirror, sweep my dark brown hair into a glossy chignon. On goes a light coat of foundation, blush, eye shadow, dark gray liner, false lashes, and red lipstick. One final look confirms everything is in place. I swivel my chair and rifle through last-minute reminders. When the phone rings, there’s no need to check caller ID. My agent always calls before a show. “Hey, Lucas.”

Lucas crows, “We have a deal!”

The news shoves me back in the chair.

“Sylvie? Why aren’t you jumping up and down and screaming? We’ve been working toward this for years.”

“Are you jumping up and down?”

“I might’ve shot a fist in the air when Jackson phoned to say we had the green light. Syl, it’s a guaranteed ten episodes, more money than we’d hoped for, bonuses, and if we get the numbers, which I’m sure you will, we can push E! for a two-year run. This is huge.”

“I don’t know if-”

“I do-that’s why we make a great team.”

While we talk, I wander around the dressing room, past a long mirror, a chipped wooden table and mismatched chairs, and a dusty shelf with a drip coffee machine that looks like it belongs in a 1950s diner. My rider-a set of requests fulfilled by each venue-is pretty basic. I ask for a well-lit mirror, a private bathroom, a few bottles of water, and lots of coffee, but don’t demand anything fancy, like an espresso machine.

“Sylvie?”

“Connections don’t always happen. You know that.”

“Then you build a bridge.”

“When I started-”

“Syl, what you do? It’s incredible. You make people feel better. There’s no harm either way. I’ve told you that since the day we met. You’re one of the good guys.”

I rest my forehead against the cool wall to quell a nervous heat. “I’m not consistently filling theaters at the shows.”

“Your numbers have been climbing fast.”

“I’ve never been on TV.”

“I negotiated approval for each episode.”

“Who will I read?”

“A mix of celebrities and regular people. Sylvie, if you don’t take this opportunity, someone else will. That’s just the way things work in this business.”

I run through my options. No family support. No real friends. No college education. And this fits. At first it was about survival, money, so I never had to go back home. But over the past few years, I’ve realized that this is the only thing that gives me some semblance of peace. “I’m in.”

“Of course you are. It’ll take a week for the lawyers to comb through the contract. When it’s signed, we’ll announce in Variety, Page Six, too. Sylvie?”

“Yes?”

“I believe in you.”

The first time he said that was my third show after I moved to LA-just a basement club in Venice, but Lucas made sure it was packed and that a few small entertainment papers were there. I was on fire, hit after hit. Finally, I felt like I might be in the right place. After the show, he drove me back to the studio apartment in West Hollywood he’d rented for me. He turned off the engine and said, I believe in you. Then he added, I’m going to make you a star.

“You still there?” Lucas asks.

Moose leans against my leg and stares up at me. “Is Moose part of the TV show?”

“He even has his own contract.”

I kiss the crown of Moose’s head and his tail thumps. My first therapist was the one who suggested I get a dog. The young woman who took me around the shelter walked right past Moose, like he was invisible. He ran forward, put a massive paw on the chain links. I pressed my hand to his pads, can still recall their warmth. We chose each other that day. I kept Moose but let that therapist go. Lucas said I could hire a new therapist if needed. Even in the early days, he was aimed at the stars. Celebrities can be ruined by all kinds of past relationships and unethical practitioners. Lucas was determined to keep skeletons out of my closet. He also quickly understood that I didn’t want to dissect a past that left me feeling like a disappointment.

Now Lucas is right again-a TV show is the next step. It doesn’t matter how I fell into this profession. Before, I always felt like my shoes were on the wrong feet. This fits, despite my fears. And the bottom line is that what I do helps people.

There’s a knock. “It’s time,” a muffled voice says.

I grab a black marker and slip it into my pocket. “Gotta go.”

Moose mouths the enormous, stuffed fuzzy bone he loves and carries it out of the room. On the walk from the dressing room to the wings of any stage, I go through the guided imagery the last therapist I quit designed. It helps me overcome the anxiety that began when I first started going onstage and became crippling as my success grew. Today an image slips through the carefully constructed peace . . .

Pale sand beneath my feet, a blue-green ocean, foam nibbling at my bare toes. Behind me, a castle-ornate turrets dotted with pale pink shells, a drawbridge made from delicately curved driftwood, beneath it, a moat where tiny paper boats rock in the breeze. A wave gathers on the horizon. It grows taller and white horses gallop across its face. When the wall of salt water strikes, the castle will be destroyed and with it a treasure, something precious . . .

The vision disintegrates. Ghostly lips brush my cheek. I know what’s coming next. A whisper I’ve heard intermittently my entire life. When I tip my head, the unintelligible slides away. I crunch an antacid to quell my burning gut then wait for the cue to step onstage and begin my show . . .

Two
Sylvie

Music flows through the theater’s surround sound-a symphony of instruments that slowly builds. An intricate dance of multicolored laser lights traverses the empty stage then dry-ice vapor rolls across wooden boards and spotlights turn curls of smoke violet, azure, and emerald. The smoke dissipates, frenetic lights slow their search; the symphony strikes its crescendo. I walk to the center of the stage just as the last notes fade away, wait for the applause to thin and people to take their seats.

One hand on my dog’s sleek, black head, I start. “Thank you for coming. I’m Sylvie Young and this handsome guy beside me is Moose. I get a bit nervous before each show and he helps with that, so I hope you don’t mind him being here?” There are murmurs of encouragement. “Every psychic has an origin story that reveals when and how we first recognized our abilities. That might be when we predicted a grandparent’s passing, delivered a message to the living only the dead could possibly know, or found a lost object, pet, or child. We must then choose whether or not to use our gift.” My eyes scan the theater. Almost every seat is taken. “I never planned to be a psychic or stand on a stage. Sometimes where I’ve landed is overwhelming. Truly. But what’s most important is that when someone asks me to connect with those they loved and lost, I will do anything to make that happen.”

I let this promise settle then continue. “My gift appeared when I was eighteen, living in San Francisco, and had just worked a double waitressing shift, food stains on my T-shirt, the smell of fried food in my hair. On the long walk back to a basement apartment, I stopped in the funky Haight-Ashbury neighborhood to rest on a bench. A few feet away, outside a magic shop named Abracadabra, a young guy read tarot at a rickety metal table. He was flying by the seat of his pants, but he had a gift for weaving stories. After a funny reading, I giggled. The tarot reader laughed, too, we chatted for a bit, then he scribbled a sign that read psychic $5 on a folded piece of cardboard and dared me to sit in the chair beside him. I took the seat, assumed no one would waste money on me.

“My first customers were sisters. The pregnant one was Bethany. I guessed she was almost nine months along-it wasn’t a psychic thing, it was obvious that she hadn’t seen her feet in a while.” I wait for knowing laughter to subside then go on.

“Am I having a boy or a girl? Bethany asked.

“I rested my hands on the swell beneath the cool silk of her dress. The baby kicked and I jumped, laughed, and the mom-to-be did, too. To give Bethany a good show, I closed my eyes. An instant whooshing sound enveloped me, followed by a river of warmth that flowed around my limbs. The warm water cradled me and I felt my body slowly roll . . . but then something tugged, stopped me . . . The next thing I knew, the tarot reader was shaking me really hard. When I opened my eyes, Bethany was on her feet, arms wrapped protectively around her belly.”

The audience is quiet, caught in the story’s web. “Why would you scare her like that? Bethany’s sister demanded.

“Confused, I followed her pointed finger. Scribbled across the inside of my right forearm were the words I can’t breathe. I turned to the tarot reader. Did you do that? But his black marker was gripped in my hand and the writing was mine.” Whispers float through the audience. “By then Bethany was crying.” I tip my chin and look into the balcony section. “I should’ve apologized. But when I was little and in trouble, always with my mom, Dad would say that there was a plant that grew inside my belly called a contrary tree. Instead of backpedaling, I said, She can’t breathe.”

I shake my head at the memory. “The sisters left. I eyed the water bottle that the tarot reader had given me. What the hell is in that? But it was only water. What happened with Bethany exactly? I demanded.

“He explained, You grabbed my marker, started writing on your arm. I think you have the gift.

“Of course I didn’t believe him. The guy was leaving town and offered to sell me his table and chairs for ten bucks, put in a good word with the owner of the magic shop so I could still work in front of her store. He’d made a hundred and seventy-five dollars reading tarot in just two hours. After a full day waitressing, I’d only made twenty-eight bucks in tips. At that rate, I wouldn’t make the month’s rent. So I bought the table and chairs, figured I could try for a few hours after my restaurant shifts, vowed to keep things light and lovely, just play around.

“A few days later, I set up my table and nervously waited for customers. They actually came. After my anxiety burned off, it was surprisingly fun. I scribbled messages, hummed songs that burst into my head, and the customers were amazed. I still didn’t believe the tarot guy, but I was a crap waitress and it felt good to be good at something, you know?” More than a few people in the audience nod in agreement. They understand that need to be recognized.

“Soon, there were lines just from word of mouth. People came to see me. Late one afternoon an old man named Arthur asked if I could contact someone who’d died. He looked so miserable that I agreed and closed my eyes . . . A red barn door materialized. It jumped into my head, like a kid in a classroom with her hand held high, desperate for the teacher’s attention. I let the door swing wide and the tang of metal filled my mouth.

“Anything? Arthur asked.

“I felt a female energy cross the door’s brink but couldn’t see a face. The next thing I knew, I’d written a message in the crook of my elbow: No rush. I’ll be waiting. Take that watercolor class old Tiger-M.

“Arthur told me his wife’s name was Maribel and she’d nicknamed him Tiger. She’d been dead six months, and he missed her so much, he wasn’t sure he could hold on. After reading Maribel’s message, he said that as a young man, he’d wanted to be a painter but had chosen accounting to support his family.” The audience draws in a collective breath and I shyly smile. “Arthur kissed the bend of my elbow then walked off with light steps, like he’d sprouted wings.” I lower my voice to share, “His smile has never left me.”

Crossing the stage, I continue, “Six months later my business was going strong. I’d sprung for a black velvet tablecloth over the metal card table and I wore a midnight blue, sleeveless dress and used a metallic silver marker to draw stars, moons, and planets on the cheap cotton. It was pretty hokey, but I made enough to cover rent, eat more than ramen, and I’d quit waitressing.” I admit, “None of this is very flattering, but it’s important that you know that I didn’t always believe in myself.” Murmurs of disagreement ripple through the theater. Each time I reach this part of my origin story and the audience reacts with understanding and belief, I get a lump in my throat.

“One day a woman sat down across from me-pretty with dark blond hair. The man resting his hands on her shoulders had a baby on his chest in one of those trendy slings.

“I’m Bethany, the woman said. You did a reading for me months ago, told me my baby couldn’t breathe.

“I apologized profusely for scaring her. She introduced her husband, Matthew, and I tensed, ready for him to tell me off, probably put me out of business.

“Bethany said, I came home from your reading and insisted we go to the emergency room for an ultrasound. I was rushed into surgery. Grace’s umbilical cord was wrapped twice around her neck. If I hadn’t had an emergency C-section . . . She started to cry.

Excerpted from Some of It Was Real by Nan Fischer Copyright © 2022 by Nan Fischer. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Some of It Was Real’ by Nan Fischer appeared first on The Nerd Daily.