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

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 theaisle 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 “largelyoverlooked 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