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.”
Slatterly, tall but thin and wiry, began to chuckle as though satisfied and amused. “Security? At a funeral? Rich.”
“Can I see some ID please?” Jeff asked.
“You a cop?”
“No. Private security.”
“Then I don’t have to show you any ID.”
Jeff slowly smiled. He seemed to flex slightly without really moving. “Yes, you do.”
Robert Slatterly produced his wallet and seemed to do so with arrogance. Driver’s license, credit cards, library card, a few dollars. Jeff examined the wallet and passed it to Sable. “Los Angeles?” Jeff asked.
“Kind of a long commute to Gabby’s class at Sac State, wouldn’t you say?” Sable asked. “Jeff, this guy’s some sort of interloper. He wasn’t a friend of Gabby’s. And he let himself into my office. Can I have him arrested for that?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, take it easy,” Slatterly said hastily. “I’m sorry, okay? I had no business coming in
here, but I was curious. I didn’t take anything. I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t even open a drawer. I just looked at the office.”
Jeff turned him around and began to pat him down. This seemed like overkill to Sable, who just wanted his ass thrown out, until Jeff came up with a very small camera. He handed it to Sable. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “A reporter.” And not one interested in a story about the passing of Gabrielle Seton Marshall, but interested in the inside of Sable’s house, and perhaps more. He probably worked for a tabloid of some kind. “Who do you work for?”
“I’m freelance.”
“Who were you going to sell pictures to?”
“The highest bidder,” he shrugged insolently.
“Wait a minute, that’s it. You called my publicist and asked for an interview with me. You told her you were with People…”
He smiled and shrugged. He wasn’t with People. It was a lie.
She was completely unprepared for something like this. She’d turned down a number of interviews, totally unimpressed with some she’d given, and had even had a couple of journalists get real pissed off by her penchant for privacy. But she had never had anyone stealthily enter her house, her office.
“Jeff, can you get him out of here with as little commotion as possible?” She handed him back his wallet, but kept his camera. “Mr. Slatterly, my best friend just passed away. I think your behavior here today has been shameful and I won’t forget it. Please don’t ever come near me or my home again.”
That unfortunate incident put an edge on Sable’s hospitality, having validated those misconceptions about people in general that she harbored. They always wanted something. It wasn’t her that people wanted to be close to, but her success, her connections, her influence. Or they wanted to find something about her to dislike, to resent, to criticize. She had opened up a little during the introductions, let her authentic good nature show, but by the time her guests were leaving, she was closed off again.
“We’ll be seeing you in New York at the conference next month, right?” someone said upon leaving. She was to attend this writers’ conference to receive an award for her years of writing the most popular books women read and to deliver a banquet speech. She had labored long and hard with the decision, having been tempted to send her editor or publicist in her place. But pressure from the publisher and from her friends—all but Elly, actually—had induced her to accept the invitation personally. Now she was having second thoughts. She was scared to death of them. She didn’t want to overhear their snotty remarks; she knew she was called the Ice Queen. She thought maybe it was Barbara Ann who had let that slip. Although her books sold better than anyone’s, she couldn’t take two steps without hearing that they were badly written. Bewildered by her good fortune, people were compelled to find all that was wrong with them.
“I hope so,” she said without warmth. “If there’s no schedule conflict.”
FIVE
“What do you mean, schedule conflict?” Barbara demanded. This was just what she expected—for Sable to bail out on her without a thought! Without remorse! “You made a commitment to that group and now you’ve got Elaine Hardy all worked up. She’s going to start making phone calls the minute she gets back to her hotel, panicked that her banquet speaker might be standing them up.”
“Who is she going to call?” Sable asked.
“Probably everyone on her conference committee, getting them to start looking for an alternate. There are eight hundred people scheduled for that conference. There might be a couple of hundred attending just because you’re going to be there.”
“Why?” Sable said. “What do they want?”
Barbara sighed and shook her head. “They don’t want as much as you think, Sable. They’d all feel a lot friendlier toward you if you’d get down off your high horse and admit you’re one of them. You just need to say a few words about how seriously you take your writing, or how hard it is, or how difficult it is to get published in the beginning…something that makes them nod their heads in agreement. Why do you think you’re so much better than they are?”
“Are you so sure that’s what I think?” she asked.
“That’s what you make people feel. They can’t understand why you won’t socialize. Gather with other writers. You’re not shy, we all know that. You don’t lack confidence. You haven’t been burned by any of them—you’ve been admired.”
“Oh, please. They say awful things about me all the time.”
“You bring it on! You won’t take their calls! You won’t accept their invitations. You’re cold, Sable. You’ll clear your calendar for a dinner halfway around the world if the right people are going to be there, but you can’t be bothered to say a few words to the very people who buy your books!”
“I do all my socializing for business. I sell millions of books a year—I can’t start meeting with small groups of readers. I’d never get any work done!”
“Jesus. I’m at the end of my rope.”
“All right, all right,” Elly said. “That’s not what we’re here for.”
“Don’t you ever get annoyed by this, Elly? The way Sable refuses to participate?”
“Not everyone is attracted to these large guilds of writers, Barbara. I think there’s good reasons for either bent—the group person, the private person. But there’s something else I asked you to stay for. If you can put all your other squabbles aside for a while.”
“We aren’t squabbling, Elly,” Sable said. And she almost said, “Barbara’s safer in that group than I am—she doesn’t threaten them.” But she stayed silent on that matter.
It was just after eight. The caterers were finishing up in the kitchen and loading the tables and chairs into their vans. The guests had all departed, as had Don Marshall, David and Sarah. Mike Vaughan and his sons left Barbara behind when Elly asked if she could stay to discuss the disposition of some of Gabby’s personal effects. Beth would drop her off later. Now they sat in Sable’s living room, the French doors open to allow Elly’s cigarette smoke to escape from the plush but sterile decor of that room. Elly had her coffee, Beth her diet soda, Sable her tea, and Barbara, a glass of wine.
“I have a letter,” Elly said, beginning to dig around in her enormous purse and withdrawing a long, slim envelope. The women went suddenly still, shocked by this. In the five days since Gabby’s death, no one had mentioned a will or a letter. “I’ll just read it.
“Dear Elly. If you’re reading this, I’m gone. It must have been unexpected, and I apologize for leaving you and upsetting you. Don’t get the impression I knew I was going. I rewrite this letter to you every New Year’s Day. It’s part of my annual tradition of starting the year by organizing my desk and files.
Forgive me for not going on and on about how I’ve loved you—how valuable a friend you’ve been to me. I hope I showed in my life what I’m omitting in my death. Likewise, tell the girls I treasure them. If I could give you each a gift, it would be thus. To you, Elly, I would give a garden of virgins for you to tend and plow.
“Hmmph,” Elly snorted. “I’ve no idea whatsoever what that means. Maybe she was drunk when she wrote this.” Elly read on,
“To Sable, I would bequeath the Girl Scout Creed—she would have made a great Girl Scout leader. To Barbara Ann, our love expert, I would dedicate 1 Corinthians, 13, my favorite chapter in the Bible. And to Beth, I would give a laser sword, like the one they had in Star Wars.
“Fine,” Elly said. “If you can figure that out, more power to you.
“The purpose of this letter, Elly, is to ask an enormous favor of you. I have often wondered what would become of this office. The papers I’ve collected, received, written, condemned to dead files, kept handy in current files to deal with when there’s time. Don wouldn’t have the first idea what to do. David is too busy making his life, and Sarah isn’t worldly enough. And here I am, sitting in the middle of mountains of junk—some of it precious and some of it idiotic. I can’t think of anyone who would know b
etter than you which is which. Since it’s something I wouldn’t even want to do for myself, I know what a monumental task it is. If you look through and decide the best fate is a match, so be it. Alternatively, if you find something of value, I’m sure you would be the one to recognize it and know what to do. Believe me, there is no hidden gem in here that I know of. But this letter is an official codicil. I am asking you to be my literary executor. It will be by your discretion that letters, papers, stories, contracts, diaries, etc., be burned or passed along to someone else or published.
I have a suggestion, though you are by no means obligated to take it, or even to share this letter, for that matter. You might ask Barbara Ann, Beth and Sable to participate, to help you sort and file and decide. I know everyone is terribly busy, on deadline, committed to personal lives and families, work and obligations. Maybe the job would be quicker and more efficient if each one took a drawer? Don will want to sell the house and furniture…give the things or the money to the kids. But if there’s any memorabilia left behind by Sarah and David that you or one of the girls would like to keep, I know of no one better to wrestle it away from Dr. Don than you. And don’t let him give you any shit. He’s never known anything about my work.
Thank you. I feel better knowing you’re in charge. I’ll see you again. Love, Gabby.”
There was a deep silence, some clinking of dishes in the background as the caterers packed up the last of their goods. Only Elly had had the opportunity to consider the impact of this request or to puzzle out the meanings behind Gabby’s special gifts. Sable was the first to comment.
“I guess you read us the letter because you’d like our help.”
“I think so. Not because I’m intimidated by the chore—I could do it. But because I might not recognize the value of certain things Gabby’s been saving. She wrote in so many veins, tried her hand at such a variety of things. There are manuscripts that can go to the Special Collections Library at the university—Berkeley. Original pieces that she was unable to sell or complete that we should read. Letters from fans and writers from all over the world. She was a compulsive letter writer. Gabby was in touch with Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winners. Her letter collection alone is probably worth a fortune—the names are staggering.