The House on Olive Street Read Online Free Page B

spotless kitchen. She browsed through the refrigerator; it was stuffed with the groceries for the brunch, including the champagne.
    She hit the intercom button and waited for Dorothy’s dry response from the cottage. “Yes?”
    “Do you suppose you could make me something to eat? I’m quite done in from notifying people of my best friend’s death.”
    “Yes.” Not “Yes, dear,” or “Yes, ma’am” or even “Yes, you bitch.”
    “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll eat in the kitchen. In thirty minutes.”
    It was precisely a half hour later that Sable descended again. She wore satin lounging pajamas and silk slippers, chic even when in mourning. She entered the kitchen to find that Dorothy was already gone, her chore finished for the time being. There on the table, perfectly appointed for one, was a brunch. The woman had prepared the goddamned brunch food. If it wasn’t bad enough that this was to be her dead friend’s meal, how about the fact that this food—cream, eggs, cheese, sausage, mushrooms, melon and strawberries—had been sitting in the trunk of the car for two or three hours? Was she trying to kill Sable, or merely wound her emotionally?
    Sable felt an ache in her throat but would not cry. Ever since the last time she had really cried, when crying had almost killed her, she’d vowed that she would never cry that hard again. Never. It was too dangerous. Too futile.
    She left the brunch on the table and heated up a canof chicken noodle soup. She poured it into a bowl, leaving the can conspicuously on the counter for Dorothy to find and ponder. She grabbed the box of saltines, a diet soda, and took her dinner on a tray to her suite. Goddamn her, goddamn her, why does she hate me so? she asked herself as she trudged back up the stairs. I’ve been good to her. Kind. Patient. What do I have to do? What right has she to hate me so?
    Her legal name was Sable Tennet, because she’d had it changed in court, but that was not the name she was born with. Only Elly and Gabby knew that, and now Gabby was gone. Elly would never tell. Sable had threatened her once and Elly said, “Why would I tell anyone? Secrets don’t intrigue me.”
    Sable had met Gabby and Eleanor long ago, way before it had ever occurred to Sable to write her way out of her misery. Way before Sable bottomed out and ran away from everyone and everything. The only two people who knew her before and after were Elly and Gabby. Sable lived in constant fear of someone finding out who she really was and where she really came from, before she worked her way up.
    Worked her way up indeed. She’d gone from a poor girl with a GED and one accidental year of college—where she’d met Gabby and Eleanor—to a world-famous novelist. She wrote fast—stories with emotional sting and happy endings. Women in trouble could identify with lonely heroines who were desperate, the odds being they would never get the job/money/recognition/man. She was a fixture on the New York Times list; she was now worth millions. Her books were printed in more languages than she knew existed. She had rich friends, knew celebrities and socialites. She dined with famous actors, sports stars, publishers and producers.She had taken meetings on yachts, rested with friends in Nice between books and flown to Monte Carlo for dinner. She was much more than a writer. She was a star.
    And alone. The golden ones she partied with were not her friends, they were business acquaintances. They helped her reputation and appearance. With Gabby gone, so was the one person who had loved her unconditionally, had never been jealous of her success—nor fooled by it either. Gabby, the nurturer and admirer and true soul mate, had known the facts of all that Sable had endured to get what she’d gotten. Gabby had respected her even though she was pretty sure she didn’t deserve it. That was something she would never have again. No one, not even Elly, knew the extent of what Sable had lost today.