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

of the world or had justsuffered 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 anadjacent 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