by Kara Isaac
Anna was married. To a man called Cam. Anna. Who had been determined that she would never join the patriarchal and oppressive institution that was matrimony. Rachel let herself absorb the information for a second.
“They said it’s the best place in Colorado for brain injuries. I wondered why it sounded familiar. But of course. You told me your dad was here before . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Before Rachel had evicted Lacey and Anna from her life.
“I’m sorry about Cam.” There were no other words. Not when Rachel knew that if Cam was still here in five years, Anna would no doubt think it would have been better if he’d died.
Anna’s face sagged. “He fell off a ladder. A ladder he’s used a hundred times before. It doesn’t make any sense. And all everyone keeps talking about is how great it is that he’s here. I just want my husband back.”
At least she had that. Rachel couldn’t even say she wanted her father back. Well, not the one who’d loved booze far more than he’d ever loved her. And invested the last years of his life turning into such a selfish, vindictive man not even the grave wanted him.
She shook her head. He was already sucking up all her money. No need to give him any more mental energy.
“Let me show you the water cooler.” Her hand grazed Anna’s forearm but Anna stayed rooted, staring out the French doors.
Outside, the rain still pelted down, barreling against the glass. “You know, I went home last night and painted my kitchen pink. Just slapped it over every surface I could find. It’s a disaster.” Anna shook her head. “I hate pink. Libby had to beg me for months before I gave in for her bedroom. I still hate it, but know what I hate more now?”
Rachel was pretty sure she did, but the question was rhetorical.
“Lemon. Stupid, sickening, insipid lemon. I chose it so that even in winter we still had sunshine. And now I spend all day, every day, living my worst nightmares, surrounded by blinking Pollyanna yellow, and it makes me want to break things. Which I did. And then we ran out of dishes, so now I have a pink kitchen.” Anna’s face scrunched with distaste just saying the last two words.
My father is a vegetable because of you and you think we can still be friends? If I never see you again it will be too soon. Those were some of the last words she’d spoken to Anna, and here they were talking interior decorating. “The lemon’s new,” Rachel said, gesturing toward the wall. “When my father came, it was duck-egg blue. I still won’t stay in a blue hotel room. Or lemon. So I’m hoping they don’t repaint again soon.”
Anna glanced at her, gratitude in her eyes. “Has he . . . ?”
If only she could lie. But any idiot could see her father had nowhere to go but up. And still be alive, that is. “Nothing.”
“Mommy!” A mop of carrot curls torpedoed into Anna’s legs.
“Hey, sweetie.” Anna lifted her up onto her hip.
Two curious hazel eyes peered at Rachel. “Who’re you?”
Anna mouthed “sorry” over the top of Torpedo’s head. “Libby, this is Rachel. Her daddy is here too.”
Rachel just stared at the little girl. Anna’s daughter shared her snub nose and long lashes.
“Look!” A pudgy fist shoved a crumpled piece of paper into the air. “I drawed this for my daddy.”
“Ooooh, let me see.” Anna peered over the paper.
The best Rachel could make out from the multicolored scribbles was something that might be an abstract tree.
“Can you tell me about it, sweetie?” Anna unfolded a crumpled corner.
A stubby finger stabbed the picture. “That’s you, and that’s Daddy in his bed, and Poppa and Grandma, and the angels making Daddy all better.”
Anna gazed heavenward and forced a deep swallow. “That’s right, baby girl. Daddy has lots of angels watching over him.”
A sigh snuck through Rachel’s lips. Everyone got religion in these walls. People who had never stepped foot in a church suddenly found Jesus, angels, and the power of prayer. Until none of them worked.
“Can we go gimmit to him?”
“Sure, baby.”
Libby wiggled herself out of Anna’s arms, entwining five pudgy fingers around her mom’s. “Daddy’s going to think it’s my bestest one yet!” She made the pronouncement with the authority of someone who has never doubted for a second her place in her father’s world.
Envy entwined itself around Rachel’s heart. Her cornerstone memory of drawing her father a picture was of finding it in the trash the next day, jammed between leftover mashed potato and moldy bread.
Without warning, five little fingers wound around hers. “You too, Rachel. You come meet my daddy.”
Her daddy. Anna’s husband. Was here. Years ago, she’d wished that Anna would one day know how this felt. And here she was.
Rachel was glad she didn’t believe in a god. Because she would hate to think one could be cruel enough to answer a prayer like that.
- 4 -
“Good show the other night, Luc. Especially Dr. Donna. Didn’t realize she’d added sports commentator to her quiver of expertise.” His brother clapped him across the shoulder, his other hand tossing the last bite of an oatmeal cookie into his mouth.
“You’re hilarious.” No doubt as soon as Donna had come on air, Scott had turned the show off. His brother would sooner plow his fields by hand than sit through two hours of talking about feelings. Same as any other average red-blooded American male. The supportive-older-brother act was nice, though.
“Uncle Lucas!” Three feet of pint-sized power barreled into the den and wrapped itself around his legs.
“Hey, champ.” Lucas swung his nephew up by his armpits and spun him around, then dropped him back to the floor. “Man, I think you’ve gotten even bigger since I saw you last. Much more of this and you’ll be taller than your dad before you’re six.”
“Let’s hope not.” His sister-in-law wandered into the homey room, laundry basket tucked under her arm. “I have enough trouble keeping enough food in the house as it is.” Her T-shirt was rumpled and her brown hair looked like it needed a wash. Something was wrong.
“Hey.” Lucas dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. “How’re you doing?”
“Okay.” Grace ditched the basket on the sofa. “Lunch is ready.”
“Yay!” Joey careened out of the room.
“Wash your hands first, young man,” Grace called after him, then shook her head. “Let me just go make sure he does. He’s lately taken to just running the tap.”
Lucas grabbed the bottles of soda he’d brought and headed for the kitchen. Pulling the fridge open, he stashed a couple away and pulled out a tray of ice from the freezer. “Coke or Dr. Pepper?” His brother peered past him with an odd look on his face. “Scott? Everything okay?”
“What? Oh, whatever is fine.”
Lucas pulled out three large glasses and Joey’s Spiderman cup, tumbling ice into all. He twisted open the Dr. Pepper, filled two glasses, and handed his brother one. “What’s Joey drinking these days?” Grace was a stickler about soda being allowed only on special occasions.
“There’s some lemonade in the fridge. Add half water.” Scott thumped into a chair at the dining table, landing like a sack of spuds.
“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
His brother didn’t say anything for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed a couple of times. “The latest round hasn’t taken. We found out a few days ago.”
Not again. How much more could they take? Lucas crossed the room in a couple of strides, taking the seat beside his brother. “I’m so sorry.” Three years of trying to give Joey a sibling. An endless carousel of angst, anticipation, hope, and despair. Secondary infertility. There was a phrase he wished had never been added to his vocabulary.
Scott shrugged his shoulders, then slumped against his chair. “I don’t know how much longer we can keep doing this, Luc. It’s killing us. Emotionally, financially, mentally. Not to mention what Grace’s poor body gets put through.” H
e took another gulp of his soda. “It had just looked so promising this time. She’s taking it hard.”
“I’m sorry.” There was no time Lucas felt more useless than in these conversations. The ranch, Joey, everything else he could help out with. But this? Nothing.
“Okay, all done.” Grace marched Joey into the room and he clambered onto the chair next to Lucas.
“I’m so sorry, Grace.”
She offered a weak smile that failed to reach her cornflower-blue eyes as she took her chair. “Some things just aren’t meant to be, I guess.” Tears welled, but she swiped the moisture away. “Grace, Scott?”
They all joined hands, Joey standing on his chair to reach both his mom and uncle.
“Gracious God, we thank you for this meal and for the many blessings that you have bestowed upon us. Thank you that even when things don’t make sense, we can trust you. Amen.”
Lucas studied the pockmarked table as the words rolled over him. How could his brother believe in a gracious God when He kept dishing out defeat?
“Uncle Lucas.” Joey tugged on his sleeve. “Pass the peanut butter, please.”
Lucas slid the jar to his nephew, who dug his spoon in with a vengeance. “You want some help with that?”
“Nope.” A boulder of peanut butter flopped onto the whole-wheat bread.
“Joey.” Grace’s voice held a note of warning.
“No, thank you.” Joey swiped some spread up and popped it in his mouth.
An awkward silence settled over the table as everyone put together sandwiches. It wasn’t like they could discuss the elephant in the room with Joey there.
“So.” Grace cut her bread into two perfect rectangles. “Good show the other night, Luc.”
“Thanks.” He took a bite of his roast beef, cheddar, and pickle on rye. Mmmm, his sister-in-law did a knockout roast.
“Is Dr. Donna as great as she seems?”
He choked for a second, then swallowed. He’d thought she was just making polite conversation. Why on earth would she want to listen to a whole bunch of other people’s issues when her dream for another child had been shattered, again?
She shrugged, reading his expression. “I know you would rather have been talking about the Brewers, but sometimes it’s nice to know other people in the world have problems. I especially liked the serve you gave that last caller.” She shook her head. “She doesn’t deserve either of those poor guys.”
“What happened?” Scott actually looked interested.
“Oh . . .” Grace flicked her hand, seeming to forget it was holding her lunch. A piece of tomato splattered on the table. “This married woman has a boyfriend and he wants her to move in. She wanted to know what to do. Lucas gave her a bit of a hard time.”
“You did, huh?” Scott took a sip of his soda.
Lucas’s blood boiled just thinking about it. With the benefit of hindsight, he wished he’d given the caller even more grief. “No more than she deserved.”
Scott speared a pickle. “Fortunately, most of us don’t get what we deserve.”
Lucas was so not in the mood for a sermon today. “Well, most of us have the decency not to live a life of lies.” He took a large bite of his sandwich. Hoping his brother would get the signal.
“I think everyone is capable of crossing lines they never thought possible, given the right circumstances.” His brother either missed the hint or just dodged it.
Lucas stabbed an errant pickle. “Well, anyone capable of living a double life is not someone I want anything to do with. Not on my show, or in my life.” And if anyone ever tried it again, he’d cut them loose so fast, they’d have whiplash.
- 5 -
“Donna!” Theodore Randolph’s voice boomed across the private dining room. Not even the plush carpets or the velvet curtains were able to muffle the sound of a man used to having his every word obeyed.
“Theo!” Donna glided forward, regal in a burgundy wrap dress, perfectly painted face an expression of delight. Rachel trailed behind, her role so ingrained she didn’t even need to think. Air kisses all round before Donna gestured behind her. “You remember my assistant, Rachel.”
“Of course.” Theodore Randolph IV, patriarch of the Randolph publishing empire, didn’t even glance her way. The man couldn’t pick her out of a lineup of one. Which was just how they wanted it.
She was here only because Donna, with her Southern sense of justice, wouldn’t hear of Rachel not coming to her own celebratory new-release lunch. Which was a shame, since she would’ve preferred staying at home and conjuring up more terrible ideas for their next book over a brisk spring day in New York watching Donna being fawned over by the senior executives at their publishing house.
Cue received, she left Randolph and the head of marketing to schmooze with Donna, and she dropped into a seat opposite Kelly at the end of the table. All dark glossy hair and Fifth Avenue pearls, you’d never guess that under her perfect twinset, their editor spent her weekends as a competitive rock climber.
A waiter materialized, pouring fizzing champagne to the tops of their glasses.
“Hi, how’s the tour going?”
Rachel placed her phone beside her plate. “Fine, I think. We’re in Charleston next. Then Texas. I haven’t been with her this last week, but Lacey says the crowds have been good.”
“Randolph is desperate to know about the new offer.” Kelly took a dainty sip, mouth puckering slightly. Whether because of the taste or the conversation topic, Rachel wasn’t sure.
“I know.” Rachel plucked a piece of bread from the bowl at the center of their table. She wasn’t stupid. Donna was Randolph’s golden-egged goose.
“Do you think she’ll sign?” Kelly’s voice was hopeful.
Rachel checked that everyone else was a safe distance away. “She’s been talking about taking a break, a life-out-of-the-limelight sort of thing, so I’m not sure.”
Kelly’s face fell like a child’s who’d just been told Christmas had been cancelled.
“But who knows. Anything could happen.”
“Well, we’ll all know soon enough, I guess.” Kelly’s hand tightened around her glass.
Rachel looked around for a waiter to order a drink. What was she even doing here? Her mind drifted to Libby and Anna.
Seeing her old friend in the last place she’d wish on anyone had created a hurricane of mixed emotions inside her. Ones that refused to be compartmentalized, no matter how hard she tried.
“. . . do it.” Rachel jolted to, only to realize she’d just missed everything Kelly had been saying.
“Sorry, Kel, zoned out for a sec. What was that?”
Kelly paused, champagne glass in her hand. She shook her head, dark hair swishing like a shampoo ad, and gave a little laugh. “Oh nothing. I was just saying that you’ve been with Donna so long, you could probably write the books yourself.”
A cough erupted from Rachel’s throat.
“You all right?”
Rachel smacked her chest. “Fine—something just went down the wrong way.” She grabbed her glass, slurping some water to buy some time.
“So do you know what the next one is about?”
At least she could answer this honestly. “No idea. She’s played with a few ideas but is going full tilt promoting this one at the moment.” Her calm words belied the twisting in her stomach. The two of them had spent the entire previous evening in Donna’s hotel room trying to brainstorm a concept, but even that effort hadn’t come up with anything they felt good about. Which had never happened before.
Kelly leaned back and glanced up the table toward Donna. “You know, we were talking at the office the other day about how crazy her schedule is. Does she need some help?”
“What do you mean?”
They both paused as the waiter topped up Kelly’s glass.
“Can I grab a lime and soda, please?” The man nodded at Rachel’s request and disappeared.
“A collaborative writer. It’s no problem to hire someone t
o get started with putting some words on the page. In fact, it’s very common once people reach this level.”
Donna didn’t need a ghostwriter. The problem was her ghostwriter. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Kelly cast a look to where Donna and the executives were still standing and talking. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but I’m pretty sure her sales are keeping half the company afloat. He put some big money into a couple of titles last year that didn’t sell nearly as many copies as had been expected.”
Rachel put down her fork and pushed her plate away. “You’ve got plenty of other big authors, though, right?” They had to. Randolph Books was an empire. Publishers Weekly was always packed with their latest and greatest deals.
Kelly’s brow furrowed. “Well, of course we’ve got Bella and Mark in fiction, but even they’re not doing as well as they used to. Some people think that books that take a year to write should cost less than a latte. And of course they’re competing with the indies giving away their books.” She shrugged her shoulders. “At the end of the day, if you’re not a hard-core fan and just looking for an easy beach read, are you going to pay twelve bucks for a Bella Kingsley or download twenty for free on the chance that at least one will be decent?”
Rachel took a sip of water. “Can’t say I’ve ever thought about it.” Especially when Donna got sent more books than one woman could read in a lifetime.
“Well, so far Donna isn’t suffering the same fate. Her sales are strong across all channels. Some of our mid-list authors should be sending her gift baskets. She’s the only reason they still have contracts.”
Rachel’s stomach clenched. How did she end up responsible for a bunch of people she’d never even met? “I’m sure she’ll let Max know what her decision is soon.”
Kelly twirled her fork, half-eaten asparagus spear spinning. “Can you do me a favor then?”
“Of course.”
Kelly leaned in a little, dropping her volume. “If she does decide not to sign, can you at least give me a heads-up? I’d like to at least get my résumé out the door before the stampede begins.”