One Thing I Know

by Kara Isaac

Her hands hovered over the keyboard. Mind trying to come up with the right words. The only words that hadn’t landed on the page like someone had already written them and she was just filling in the lines.

  She hit seven keys. For L.G. Looked at the words. Deleted them. Any semiliterate tabloid reporter would be able to work out what they meant. She had done enough without unleashing the never-satisfied paparazzi on him. Her fingers drummed on the surface of her desk for a few seconds. What was something that would have meaning for only the two of them?

  She cast her mind back through their conversations, trying to ignore her heart constricting as she played back some of the best moments of her life. Gone. Finally she got it and typed out the words, fingers heavy on the keys. A token gesture, all for nothing. He was so repulsed by what she and Donna had done, even if by some miracle it was published, he’d never read it.

  God . . . A prayer hovered, but she cut it short, refused to allow herself to think it, let alone ask the Almighty for any more assistance. She hadn’t even stopped writing long enough to unravel the implications of His appearing to have answered her pathetic, half-hearted request for help the week before.

  It seemed too improbable, impossible, to believe. But deep inside she knew it was more than a fluke coincidence that she hadn’t been able to write anything for eight months and minutes after asking for help, words had been pouring out of her.

  She pushed back her chair and strode to the kitchen. The fridge was a tomb of rancid milk and shriveled produce. The cupboards were persuaded to part with the dregs of a packet of crackers, a half jar of peanut butter, and four semi-stale Oreos.

  Dipping the crackers into the jar, she chewed and swallowed, the taste barely registering. It was all about calories, an attempt to prevent her cotton jammies, once well fitting, from slithering to the floor and puddling around her ankles.

  Tucking the boxes under her arm, she grabbed a glass of water and wandered back to her desk.

  Her phone blinked. Donna. Three words. All done. Sent.

  She clicked open her emails and waited for five days’ worth to unravel down her screen. Finally, Donna’s popped up at the top and she clicked on it.

  You know I’m not a writer. So you have to promise to fix it.

  Opening the document attached, Rachel started scanning the first page. Her aunt telling her part of their deception, in all its ugliness, for the whole world to know.

  After a couple of pages, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Whether she knew it or not, Donna was a great writer. Oh the irony.

  Putting the two documents side by side, she set to work copying and pasting Donna’s chapters into the manuscript. A shower would have to wait. The truth had already waited long enough.

  - 34 -

  Lucas flung open his front door and slammed it shut again.

  “Lucas, open the door.” Scott’s voice was determined, no-nonsense.

  “I will to you, but never to him!” Lucas yelled the words, hoping their force knocked his father straight off his porch and back into whatever hole he’d crawled out of.

  “Lucas, if you don’t open the door right now, you’re not taking Joey out this weekend.”

  Lucas wrenched the door open so hard it barreled into the wall. A cracking sound let him know he’d be digging the handle out of plaster. He seared his unflinching brother with a glare. “Didn’t know you had it in you to be so low.”

  “And I thought you were smart enough not to let him ruin the rest of your life.” Scott jerked his thumb back toward their father, who stood behind him, weathered face unreadable.

  Scott couldn’t have come up with something with more tinder in it if he’d tried.

  “You’re deluded.” Lucas dropped a curse for effect, but neither man even blinked.

  “You want to have this conversation yelling at each other on the porch, little bro? Because I’m more than happy to.”

  Lucas stepped back and Scott, then his father, crossed the threshold. He had lost his mind. What we he doing letting him into his house?

  Scott paused under the arched doorway to the den. “You don’t look so good. Have you been on a bender or something?”

  He wished. “No. I haven’t had a single drink. As much as I would desperately like to.”

  Lucas crossed his arms and stood in the doorway. Nothing could be between him and the exit. “What is he doing here?” He didn’t even look at his father—who now sat in his favorite armchair—as he barked the words.

  Scott settled into the sofa, making himself comfortable. “He’s here because you need to forgive him, and clearly you have some things to get off your chest in order to do that.”

  “I have nothing to say to him.”

  “Son—” The word was tentative at best.

  A sliver of something pierced his conscience. No. Don’t let him get to you. Remember what he did. He could be dead for all you care.

  For the first time in years, the familiar words held a hollow ring. His eyes trailed sideways to where his father’s boots scuffed the carpet.

  “We need to talk.” This time his father’s tone was stronger. His chair creaked as he stood.

  Lucas turned his head at the sound, palmed his hair, and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Leaving you boys and your mom was the worst thing I ever did. And I wish every second of every day that I could take it back. I would give anything, do anything, to change what I did. But I can’t.”

  The fury that had simmered inside Lucas for almost twenty years exploded. His feet took him across the room until he stood less than a yard away from his father. “Do you know what you did to us? Mom cried every day for a year. Begged God to bring your lying, cheating carcass back. We had to live in a trailer. She worked two jobs to make ends meet. She died because of you. She got sick and—” His voice broke and he spun around, picked up the lightweight coffee table in front of Scott, and threw it against the opposite wall.

  The table gouged the wall, then hit the floor, bouncing once before settling on its top.

  He shook his head at his father, who still stood, face sagging under the weight of accusation. “We were a family and you left. And now you’re back? For what?”

  “I want to ask for your forgiveness.”

  Lucas laughed. A harsh, scornful bark that echoed around the room. “You have got to be joking. Are you in AA or something? Working your twelve steps? My name on your list of people to make amends to?”

  “Lucas.” He’d almost forgotten Scott was even in the room. “Hear him out.”

  His father sat down, kneading his hands in front of him. “You don’t have to ever see me again. I know I don’t deserve to know you. And I—” His voice stalled and he brushed a hand across his cheek. “And you’re right: it’s my fault your mom is gone. But please, Lucas, I want you to have a good life, the best one, and as long as you hate me, you’re never going to be free.”

  Lucas slumped down on the sofa next to his brother. “You know who you sound like? Dr. Donna.” He fisted his hands. “Turns out she’s a liar too.”

  “People make mistakes. Sometimes big, ugly ones that can never be undone. But please don’t throw away the woman that you love because you hate me.”

  Lucas turned on his brother. “You told him about Rachel? How dare you!”

  “Because you love her, and you’ve walked away because you can’t move past him.”

  “She lied to me. She deceived me. She used me. And not just me—everyone! And you’re sitting here wondering why I don’t want to have anything to do with her?”

  Scott pushed himself up off the couch. “Yeah. Because if it weren’t for him, you might have some perspective. Like the fact that her mother died. Sound familiar? And her father turned out to be a loser. Déjà vu at all? And his farewell gift was to load her up with medical bills that she had to contort her life into a lie to pay for. Any other guy might have had a bit of compassion, but not you. No, poor Rachel has committed the unforgivable Lucas crime o
f not being perfect.”

  How could he ever think his brother knew him? “That’s not it at all.”

  “Really? Because the only other option I can see is that you’re just as big a hypocrite as you say she is. You who went on tour with Dr. Donna and handed out advice to everyone else all about forgiveness and second chances. Sounds like a perfect match to me. She writes her lies, you transmit yours. Or are you just jealous that she makes more money off hers?”

  “Out.” Lucas launched up from the sofa and marched to the front door. “Both of you. Get out.”

  - 35 -

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Max turned, checking one last time.

  “I’m sure.” The words echoed in the elevator, bouncing off the walls.

  “It’s going to get ugly.”

  “Yup.” It wasn’t that Rachel didn’t want to say more; she was just busy clamping her teeth together to stop them from juddering.

  Donna reached over and squeezed her hand.

  The doors pinged, sliding open to reveal the plush reception area of the president’s office. Floor-to-ceiling windows took up one side, reveling in the view of New York’s skyline. In the center of the room sat a coiffed middle-aged receptionist at a pristine desk. From the look of her perfect nails, she didn’t do a lot of typing.

  Rachel stepped out of the elevator, feet plunging into luxurious carpet. She lingered behind Blake, their lawyer, enjoying her last few minutes of anonymity before everything hit the fan.

  “Max, Donna—welcome, welcome.” Randolph himself strode out from the boardroom before the mannequin even had a chance to open her mouth. Shaking Max’s hand, he dropped a kiss on Donna’s cheek. His eyes skated across Blake and never even made it to Rachel. “Please, come through.” He gestured toward the boardroom. “You know you didn’t have to come in and hand deliver it, right? We do accept manuscripts by email.” He chuckled at his lousy joke.

  Walking the plank. This was it. Her last chance to back out. The boardroom swallowed them all in. A huge table with seating for sixteen, dwarfed again by the same windows. The only other time they’d been here had been to sign Donna’s last deal.

  Only two other seats at the table were taken. Kelly sat in one, suit pressed, hair pulled back in a French knot. Her face was pinched, despite Donna promising the meeting had nothing to do with her. Poor girl.

  The seat on Kelly’s right was taken up by an older gentleman in an expensive suit. The firm’s lawyer, given that he was the only other person requested.

  “Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?” Randolph gestured to the receptionist, who now stood poised at the door.

  All four of them demurred, settling themselves in the seats he indicated to his left. Max, Donna, Rachel, and Blake at the end.

  Dismissing the woman with a nod, Randolph took the chair at the head of the table, game face on, drumming right hand the only indication he wasn’t the one in control of this meeting. “Well then, Max, Donna, what can we do for you? I’ve checked with all of my departments and everyone has assured me that we’ve been treating you well.” His tone made it clear that anyone who had made a liar out of him would be packing their boxes as soon as they were back in the elevator.

  Max cleared his throat and straightened his jacket. “Theo, your team is wonderful, always have been.”

  The president’s face unfolded a little. “Good to hear.”

  “The reason we’ve called this meeting is, well—there are two reasons. The first is that Donna won’t be signing another contract.”

  Randolph paled. “We can match whatever another house is offering her. Both in terms of the advance and favorable terms.”

  “She’s not going to be writing any more books. She’s going to be retiring.”

  “Is this true?” Randolph looked at Donna.

  “Very. My husband has a horse ranch. I’m looking forward to spending a lot more time with him and a lot less time on planes.”

  “Well, let’s not be too hasty. You said there were two things?”

  “Yes. As we know, your father could be slightly unconventional.”

  Randolph tipped back in his seat, triangulating his fingers in front of him, tilting his head forward as if to say “go on.”

  “The thing is that when Donna was signed with you . . . oh blast it, just read this.” He handed three copies of their original confidentiality agreement to Randolph, who took one and passed the other two on.

  “What is this?” Randolph dropped the stapled pieces of paper in front of him.

  “It’s the confidentiality agreement that Donna and Rachel first signed, to endure over the first, and any subsequent, deals they had with the company.”

  “Who on earth is Rachel?” Randolph spat her name out as if it tasted bad.

  Max nodded down the table. “Rachel is next to Donna. She’s her assistant, but, as you’ll see, she’s a lot more than that. And up front, I’d just like to state that your company was all for this from the beginning.”

  Across the table Kelly’s lips moved as she read the paper, while the company’s lawyer was already scanning the final page.

  “Jonathan.” Randolph turned to his right. “What is this all about?”

  The lawyer threw the papers down on the table, whipped his glasses off, and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It would appear that Dr. Donna is not so much an individual as a team.”

  Understanding was dawning on Kelly’s face. No doubt beginning to click as to why Donna insisted book edits be carried out “through” Rachel.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m assuming Max can fill you in on the background, but the confidentiality agreement sets out that while Donna is the front person, so to speak, this Rachel . . .” he glanced at the top page, “Somers is the author.”

  “The author?” Randolph frowned.

  Max intervened. “To put it bluntly, Donna is the face, but Rachel writes the books.”

  A vein running through Randolph’s forehead started to pulse, a fat finger stabbed inches away from Max’s face. “You’re sitting here telling me that my bestselling author is this, this . . .” He was on his feet, arms waving, jacket buttons straining to hang on for the ride. “Girl! This had better be your idea of some sick joke, because if it’s not, I’m going to sue every last hair off your head.”

  A cough from his lawyer. Randolph swung around on him. “Don’t you dare tell me I can’t. I pay you a thousand bucks an hour to tell me that I can!”

  His eyes settled on his poor hapless editor. “Did you know about this?”

  “No, sir. They were acquired by Jacqui. She—”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re fired! Get out!”

  “Theodore, she—”

  “Out! Out! Out!” Randolph roared, and Kelly ran for the door. She’d have a miserable few hours until they were able to get to her with the news that not only had they put some money aside for her, but Max had already gotten results on the feelers he’d put out to some publishing contacts.

  “Tell me.” He thumped back into his seat.

  “Well—” Max started, only to be cut off.

  “Not you, you.” Randolph pointed at Rachel, eyes like razors. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  What did he want from her? An apology for existing? “Yes, I’m her ghostwriter. It’s not like all your other big nonfiction authors don’t have them.”

  “Why?”

  Rachel’s fingers curled around the arms of her chair, held tight. “I started a blog when I was in college. Called it ‘Ask Donna.’ A post went viral and I got contacted by a couple of publishers interested in whether I wanted to write a book.”

  Max jumped in. “Long story short, she found me. When the team that was here found out how young she was, there was a view that she wouldn’t have any credibility. So Rachel and Donna came up with a proposal: Rachel could still write the books and Donna could do the rest. Your head of marketing agreed.”

  “Who?” Randolph demanded.


  “Not important. Long gone.”

  “And what do you have to say for yourself?” Donna was at the end of the sausage finger this time.

  “My ex-husband left me borderline bankrupt and with three boys to raise. I needed the money. And I’m hardly going to apologize for that when it’s not like you haven’t made millions out of this as well.” Donna’s voice was as cool as a chocolate Frappuccino.

  “How could I not know this? I’m the president of the company!” The vein throbbed; he looked like he was about to have a stroke.

  “Well, whoever drafted this was clearly an idiot, because instead of allocating knowledge to the deal to certain positions, they attached it to people. Your father and a couple of others, who I can only assume are gone too?” Jonathan looked to Max for confirmation, who nodded. “Clearly whoever drafted this assumed your father would retire and pass the knowledge on, not keel over dead while still president.”

  “But surely they”—a finger stabbed in their direction—“had a duty to tell me after my father died, as the new president.”

  Jonathan sighed. “I need the time to work through this in detail, but it’s complicated.”

  Randolph tilted, spun, and cast his evil eye across the three of them. “So why now? What do you want? More money?”

  “Actually, it’s the opposite. We’re just here to deliver their last book. I know we’d negotiated an extension, but it turns out we didn’t need it. Rachel?” Max nodded at her.

  Her hands shook as she reached into her bag and pulled out two copies of the completed manuscript, passing them to Max, who handed one to Randolph and pushed the second over the table to his lawyer. “Gentlemen, the final book to complete their current deal. We’ll email you a copy, of course.”

  Randolph looked at the title and did such a dramatic double take, it would have been funny if Rachel wasn’t readying herself to dive under the table for cover.

  “You want to tell the truth? Are you insane?” He yelled the question at such volume, Donna clamped her hands over her ears. “Why? So we all can get sued to kingdom come? No, no, absolutely not. Over my dead body.”