The House on Olive Street (4 page)

From the very beginning, Barbara Ann found the friendship between Gabby and Sable to be an odd one. Gabby was a very attractive, small woman who put more emphasis on her feelings and her intellect than on her wardrobe or lifestyle; Gabby valued things like friendship, honor, loyalty and sensitivity. Sable, you could tell after one meeting, mostly valued success and power. She was a classy, slender, gorgeously dressed blonde.
She wore specially made suits and slacks and exactly the right amount of tasteful jewelry, all real. She drove a Mercedes, had a rich cache of famous acquaintances, and Barbara Ann met her at about the time she’d landed the biggest agent in New York and was beginning to sign contracts for a series of movies.

Not that Sable was shallow or superficial. She was entirely earnest. And her devotion to Gabby was one of the things she was most serious about. But they did make an odd couple—Gabby in her oldish Chevy, Sable in her Mercedes. Gabby in her blue jeans and Birken-stocks, raising two kids alone in an average-size four-bedroom house; Sable hiring servants, secretaries and publicists from her Hidden Valley manse. Gabby going to PTA meetings, soccer games, orthodontists’ appointments and block meetings; Sable dashing off to New York for a book-release party, then on tour, starting with
Good Morning America
and
The Today Show.

If the two of them were not an odd enough combination, Barbara Ann was introduced to their closest crony, Eleanor. A professor. A critic. A dour, drab, intellectual spinster. The three of them together looked perfectly ridiculous, and yet they were clearly thick as thieves. After a while, Barbara Ann began to see how timeless their relationship to each other was. She found out that the connection went deeper and had lasted longer than it even appeared, but they were, all three, protective of the details. That was the only thing that made Barbara Ann continually feel like a newcomer, but it was a significant thing. Apparently Sable had been a college freshman when Gabby was starting her master’s program and Elly was teaching comparative literature when they met and became friends for the first time. They were aged nineteen, twenty-nine and thirty-six. (They must have
looked even stranger then!) Sable moved to Los Angeles to finish studying and begin making her fortune while Gabby and Elly remained close and, of course, welcomed Sable home with open arms as a successful, bestselling writer. But there always seemed more to the story than they were telling, like they were all arrested for murder together or something.

Barbara immediately recognized the understated power of this trio. Gabby seemed to know everyone in the writing industry—the agents, the editors, the romance writers, the mystery writers, the president of the authors’ guild. She’d collected these acquaintances through years of traveling as a correspondent, teaching, conferences, publishing and various writers’ groups. Sable held the celebrity achievement award for fame and making money. And Elly provided the collegiate connection, the credibility, the brainpower. She had authored many little-known academic papers, but she also had written copious reviews of popular literature and articles for artsy-fartsy publications.

These women were the movers and shakers.

But they hadn’t helped her. She was not so far from where she’d started, actually. More books under her belt, sure, but she wasn’t exactly meteoring to fame and fortune. She was still a pudgy housewife who suffered under the constant stress of family obligations and found solace in Twinkies.

And now Gabby was dead. Gone. Gabby was the one she had truly grown to love and depend on. Of the three of them, only Gabby really consoled her, tried to encourage her, kept her going. Barbara Ann wept as much for Gabby as she wept for the fact that their group would now surely fall apart. Though she had lost patience with the way every goddamn thing had gone Sable’s way,
though she felt simpleminded in the face of Elly’s brilliance, though Beth seemed more a child in need of nurturing than an equal, she loved them. She needed them.

I love them and need them, but do they need me? Of course not! What could I possibly give any one of them?

It would be too much to say that Barbara Ann was going to give up or live in a vacuum. No, she was going to keep writing, keep in touch with Elly, Sable and Beth, and maintain her memberships in the writing groups where she had friends and acquaintances—and was pathetically most famous for being a close friend to Sable Tennet. But she was so unhappy. And tired. Frustrated by the mess and the noise and the blustering men who took her completely for granted while they trashed the house and made plans for how they’d spend the next royalty check.

“I need a new engine.”

“Tough shit, artichoke brain, I’m going to electrician’s school—that takes tuition money, y’know.”

“What about the ski gear I been promised since graduation?”

“I thought we were all going to take a family vacation. Hunting.”

“Hey! Does Mom have anything to say about this? Mom, what’s more important, ski gear or electrician’s school?”

Take it easy, honey, Mike would say. They’re just boys and we won’t have them forever. They are animals, Barbara Ann would reply. And I think they’ll pick my bones clean.

The message publishing was giving her was that she’d better resign herself to remaining one of those reliable, average romance writers, take her money (which was good money if you compared it to what she could make
as a secretary, stinko money if you compared it to what she could make as a bestselling romance writer!), and accept the fact that she didn’t have
it.
What she had was
some.
The skyrocket had left without her.

She felt she had failed. She felt doomed to stay right where she was. And it just wasn’t enough.

T
he autopsy revealed that a subarachnoid hemorrhage caused by a ruptured aneurism had taken Gabby quickly, probably causing her only brief pain. The aspirin bottle on the sofa table suggested she may have had a headache, but the fact that she hadn’t attempted to call anyone indicated the pain had not been severe or protracted. Although Gabby hadn’t had any religious affiliation for years, the memorial service was held in the First Presbyterian Church because of its size. The front of the church was covered in such an array of flowers it became gaudy. No one, not the family nor Eleanor, had had the presence of mind to come up with an alternate way for people to show their sympathy, such as a trust or benefit. They simply hadn’t been prepared for this outpouring. They should have been—Gabby had many friends and admirers—but they weren’t.

Writers tend to have more long-distance friends—brought together by their books, conferences, guilds and necessary networking—and fewer local friends, because they work in isolation. Even so, Gabby had exceeded the norm. There were cards, flowers and calls from hundreds of people in publishing. Writers and editors had traveled
from far away to attend the memorial and the subsequent reception. It was not just that she was loved and admired. She had impacted the lives of those she knew.

Sable had been the first to realize the gathering to memorialize Gabby was going to include authors and publishing people from out of town. Sable’s secretary, Virginia, was flooded with calls requesting information about the time and place of the service.

Barbara Ann, who had called names from various writers’ groups’ rosters, found the same response. Her phone rang for two days. Then, something that often takes place in anticipation of conferences and conventions began to surround Gabby’s memorial. Writers, editors, agents and booksellers planned to add a day or two and made plans for dinners and lunches. They had set themselves up in little enclaves all over Fair Oaks and Sacramento. Something had to be done with them.

Opening up Gabby’s house was out of the question. Her personal effects had not been sorted through and it would not be appropriate to attempt to entertain over a hundred mourners there. Even though Don and Gabby had remained amicable, he couldn’t manage the after-memorial reception in his condo. Her kids, Sarah and David, hadn’t the time, energy or room. Elly’s, Beth’s or Barbara Ann’s homes—not even worth considering. Sable was the only person capable, and capability was Sable’s middle name. She would host the mourners in her Hidden Valley manse.

Sable and Elly met at the church at one forty-five. Beth came in alone, and after saying one or two hellos, she gravitated to her friends. Barbara Ann arrived with her entire family. She looked like the grieving widow in her navy blue dress and dark glasses, flanked by her five huge men. She saw Beth, Elly and Sable standing in the
aisle beside their pew and hesitated. Sable lifted an arm to her, a gesture welcoming her to the remains of the group, and Barbara’s handsome husband leaned close and softly mouthed, “Go ahead.” Barbara Ann tearfully joined them, unable to express her relief that they wanted her still, unable to admit the fear that it was only for today. Mike and the boys took their places behind the four women who had taken their places behind Gabby’s ex-husband, mother and grown children.

And then Eleanor spoke, her voice mostly strong, her words more carefully chosen than at any other time in her life.

“I’ve known Gabrielle Seton Marshall for over twenty years, but I think there’s another reason I’m before you today. I tend to draw assignments like this because I have worked so hard to establish a reputation as one who is absent of sentiment, as one who cannot be broken by anything of this world. Well, Gabby is no longer of this world. And I am no longer unbreakable.”

Elly faced a gathering of over two hundred, five days after Gabby’s death. As per Gabby’s wishes, she had been cremated and her remains scattered over her beloved Sierra Nevadas, mountains she’d gazed upon from her deck or writing loft.

Elly spoke of Gabby’s greatest life project, the mothering of Sarah and David, and her great pride in having raised “people of high standard.” She described the years before Gabby’s career as a novelist began, when she was traveling the world as a correspondent, from Bangkok to Africa to Belfast, in search of human rights stories of women and children that she witnessed firsthand, from infanticide to female mutilation to the agony of mothers who watched their eight-year-old sons bear arms. Eleanor described Gabby’s work during that period as “largely
overlooked and desperately good.” She told of Gabby’s near brush with death nineteen years ago when meningitis struck her, when she emerged from that nightmare stronger and more determined than ever. Gabby had given so much of herself, she reminded them, when she taught or supported or mentored other writers. And, of course, her heart and her home were always open to countless friends.

“Oddly, I thought until today that Gabby belonged to me,” Eleanor said. “But that was her way, to make each one of us feel, on some level, that we were the only ones. Not one of us, I suppose, was more important than another…but then, neither were we ever less. I wish at this moment there was one stranger here, someone I could approach and convince, with my vast training in literary criticism and my extensive experience in debate, that I have not idealized this woman in her death.

“But, it is apparently unnecessary. If you were ever left in need of encouragement, you didn’t know Gabby Marshall. If you ever felt forgotten, if you’ve longed for loyal friendship or a steady hand or compassion or understanding, you didn’t know Gabby. If you ever found yourself trying to overcome a character flaw while you were Gabby’s friend, she was utterly useless to you. She had an uncanny ability to accept the worst attributes in people as though they were charms. She saw us all in good light, rest assured.

“And if you ever thought you were alone, you never met Gabby.”

Eleanor’s voice croaked then, but she recovered herself instantly and admirably.

“Gabby’s life was not easy, but you’d never know it. For as many years as I’ve known her—twenty-two now—whether she was on top of the world or had just
suffered some magnificent defeat, she believed that her life was good and her future glowing. That, more than anything, is the tribute we can give our friend. To have a glass half-full and occasionally lift it to her continued success. Because wherever she is, she is making friends and making waves.

“Here’s to you, Gabby,” Eleanor said, lifting a mock glass in the air. “Good journey, my friend. Godspeed.”

When Sable looked around her house at what her swift, efficient hand had wrought, she was pleased. She had made maps of the route to her Hidden Valley home and gave five small stacks to key people, asking them to pass them out with discretion. This reception was limited to those who were legitimate friends of the departed. Even making that firm assertion, she was still prepared to deal with curious tagalongs or, worse, opportunistic deal-makers. She’d be goddamned if she’d have someone make a book deal at her best friend’s memorial service.

Caterers served a light buffet dinner and drinks; tables had been set up around the lakeside deck and pool area; the spring weather cooperated beautifully. She’d hired a valet parking service because, although there was an extensive drive and parking area, she thought she’d keep the traffic moving in and out, and it would serve as her first line of defense against letting anyone out of her house who’d toasted Gabby’s memory too often. And, though Sable didn’t expect any trouble, she called Jeff Petross, her personal security consultant. He owned a company that offered alarm systems, investigations, protection for celebrities and, for a handsome fee, a variety of other security services. He’d traveled with Sable on book tours, not as a visible escort but rather as an
adjacent traveler who was always nearby in case there was any problem. At her reception for Gabby’s memorial, he and one of his employees were present, appearing to be bartenders.

“Barbara, I don’t know many of these writers on sight. Please introduce me and help host them. And Beth, please…? The ones you know?” Sable was neither antisocial nor unfriendly. It was her concealed fear, insecurity and lack of trust that caused her to refuse to join any of the national writers’ organizations, despite the fact that she was frequently invited. She was most often begged by Barbara Ann, who, she suspected, wanted to take her to a conference or convention and show her off. She couldn’t see herself chumming with them; she always assumed people had ulterior motives. Because Sable attended so many muckety-muck doings and eschewed the gatherings of ordinary writers, all in the interest of promoting her own success, she had set herself apart. Unintentionally, above. The resultant effect was that many writers considered her a snob.

Barbara Ann, in her glory, provided most of the introductions. But Sable once again stunned her. And left her slightly embarrassed. Sable had rarely discussed other popular writers or their works. “Oh yes, Elna, I’ve enjoyed your books,” Sable said. “Particularly the pirate series.” “Rosemary, a pleasure. I’ve often wondered what kind of woman can capture those Wild West tales with such erotic adventure. I’m curious to know if you have some Native American blood yourself.” “Maggie, hello! You had a protagonist named Gabrielle once. Tell me, was any part of that wild, bright little sprite based on our friend?”

“You’ve never said anything about any of their books,” Barbara Ann whispered, annoyed by this surprise. “I didn’t know you even read them.”

“Now and then,” Sable replied. Sable had an uncanny memory and her reading speed was untimeable. But she had learned, long ago, to be careful what she said. No one but Elly would believe the number of books she read. Criticism was deadly and casually tossed-out compliments would cause her to be besieged by requests for endorsements. Her silence, however, had only caused her to be viewed as arrogant. She had no idea how greatly her few, well-placed comments had softened that impression.

By six, everyone had arrived, eaten from the light buffet, had their wineglasses or coffee cups refilled, and contentedly strolled the property. For some of the writers present, a reception at Sable Tennet’s home was a treat of rare and special significance. Not that she was the lone success story; several of these writers had staked their own claims on bestseller lists, owned large, beautiful homes and drove expensive cars. But Sable was an icon, whether she knew it or not. Her success had been quick and fabulous, and had preceded them all.

She was exceedingly pleased with the way the reception had turned out. Sarah and David were down by the dock with their father and Beth, talking. Hopefully, not arguing this once. Barbara Ann’s husband and four sons, all suited up stunningly, shared a table by the pool and did not betray the slightest itch that they longed to get away. The fact of their presence and behavior showed great respect and sensitivity to Barbara Ann, and Sable hoped her friend saw this. Gabby’s mother, Ceola, and her latest husband, Martin, had drawn a small, sympathetic crowd. There were groupings of people here and there, chatting softly; guests walked around the yard, the lake, the patio. To their credit, she had not witnessed anyone poking around, curious about her possessions,
though she did see some admirers of her artwork. She was complimented—that’s what art was for.

She had stretched a gold chain across the staircase at its top, an idea she’d gotten from an older woman, a society matron. There was no reason the group should not be confined to the ground floor—upstairs was only her private quarters and business office. But Sable went up to her bedroom to use the lavatory.

She was about to open her bedroom door when she heard something, a sound in her office. She should have known, she thought instantly. One of these people would find their curiosity too much and be compelled to look at Sable’s work area. She knew just how to ask the offender to please not pry; the door was closed for a reason. But when she opened her office door, she found there was a man in there she didn’t know. He’d been looking at her desk.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked icily.

He shrugged, not terribly embarrassed. “I must have lost my way.”

“That would be hard to do. There was a chain across the stair indicating that this area is off-limits to guests. Who are you?”

“My name’s Robert Slatterly, Ms. Tennet,” he said, stretching out his hand. She declined to take it. “I was just curious. I wanted to see where you work.”

“This is not a time for presumption like that, Mr. Slatterly. We’re all a little—” She stopped herself. Slatterly. She knew that name. “How did you know Gabby?” she asked.

“I…ah…took a class from her at Sac State.”

“When was that?” Sable asked.

“I don’t know. Two, three years ago. Why don’t you have any pictures of your family around your desk?”

Sable turned and depressed a couple of intercom
buttons beside the office door, paging to the kitchen. “Will someone please send Jeff up to my office? Right away, please.” She turned back to Robert Slatterly. “Why would you be expecting to see pictures of family?” she asked. She knew she didn’t like what was going on, but she couldn’t figure out why.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I read somewhere that your parents were killed when you were young. I thought you’d have a picture of them on your desk, or mantel, or something. I mean, since you never married.”

“What
are
you looking for?”

“Look, I’ll just shove off and—”

Sable shut the office door, barring his departure. “You don’t even know Gabby, do you? What are you doing here and who invited you?”

He pulled a crumpled map out of his shirt pocket. “A nice woman named Iris invited me.”

“Gabby didn’t teach at Sac State recently. Not in the last few years. She guest-lectured for a writing class now and then, but she’d stopped teaching on a regular basis. Now, why don’t you tell me what you want.”

There was a light
tap-tap-tap
at the door and Sable opened it to admit Jeff, a nice, big guy with no neck—even less of a neck in his tux shirt and bow tie. “Better still, tell Jeff here.”