The House on Olive Street by Robyn Carr Read Free Book Online

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 makeas 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.

FOUR
    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 traveledfrom 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