The House on Olive Street (9 page)

“According to Gabby, Ceola was always beautiful. She’s still a good-looking woman at seventy-two—a bit hunched, somewhat slower. She had flaming-red hair and bright green eyes, long, enamel nails, lots of makeup, lots of jewelry and an extensive wardrobe. But she was always fragile, Gabby said. When she did go live with her mother, she ended up taking care of Ceola. Then Gabby’s stepfather died, the day before Gabby’s sixteenth birthday—the same date as Gabby’s own death. Gabby said Ceola nearly died herself, she was so depressed. Gabby would have to hurry home from school to make sure Ceola was out of bed, had something to eat, had bathed and primped a little so she’d feel better.

“Gabby always called her Ceola, from the earliest time she could remember. It didn’t offend her mother.
When Gabby was seventeen and Ceola found another man, she lied to him and told him Gabby was her younger sister, orphaned and in her care. Gabby said she thought it was hilarious. The only problem was, by that time Gabby’s grandmother had died and Gabby had to stay with her mother. When she did go to college, Gabby’s stepfather—or brother-in-law, as he thought he was—took on the expenses so that Gabby could live away from home. And she almost never went back. Ceola would make excuses about how busy they were.

“One Christmas, Ceola and her husband went to the Caribbean without her. They
forgot
to mention it to Gabby until the last minute. The dorm was closing up for the winter break and Gabby had to go somewhere. She finally went home with a friend for the whole month. She said it was the most humiliating thing she’d ever endured. From that point on she made sure that Ceola gave her an allowance that would afford an apartment. She wasn’t ever going to have to admit that her own mother cared so little about her that she’d make plans for Christmas that didn’t include her.”

Ben made a tsking sound. “That poor woman missed the most rewarding part of being a parent…having your children come back home to you.”

“I don’t think Ceola was at all interested in being a parent. She’s always had a man in her life. And when she’s between men or having a little trouble with one, she gets on the phone to Gabby, her little mother, or visits her, until she can recover from the shock of being a woman on her own. She’s loaded, Gabby had said. She’s been divorced at least twice and widowed three times. She has quite a little nest egg. But she still never helped Gabby out or remembered the children much. Gabby used to put money in a birthday card and write
‘With love, Nana.’ Then one year David said, ‘Doesn’t Nana live in Atlanta? This card was mailed in Fair Oaks.’ That pretty much blew the whistle on Ceola. The kids were on to her. I wonder if Ceola knows that David is gay?”

“It sounds like she’s a woman who wouldn’t pay much attention to what’s going on around her. Your shoulders are tight, Elly girl,” he said, massaging. “Maybe Gabby never bothered her mother with any of that. And it doesn’t sound like the boy would tell his gramma.”

“It’s what drove a wedge between David and his father. David is doing his residency in internal medicine right now, but he wants to specialize in treating AIDS patients. Dr. Don almost flipped his lid. Don had envisioned something more along the lines of a suburban practice and country club membership for his son.”

“Those folks are having a hard time of it, those AIDS folks. Seems like they need a few more doctors to specialize. It’s not as if the boy hasn’t found himself a challenge. You ever see anyone with that disease, Elly? It’s the most pitiful thing I’ve ever seen. I saw a special
20/20
program on AIDS patients.” He tsked again. “Would you like some ice cream?”

Elly didn’t answer. She simply leaned back, relaxing into his hands. Strong, gentle, farmer’s hands.

“I wish I had known your friend,” he said.

But Gabby had died not even knowing that Elly had a man in her life. The first man in over thirty years. It was that fact more than the fact that Ben was a simple, uneducated farmer that embarrassed Elly. She reckoned her friends and acquaintances would have a very hard time picturing her with a man. And they might not appreciate Ben, innocent, unprejudiced, sweet Ben. She
wouldn’t be able to bear it if they thought he was a funny little man. As for his kids, well, she didn’t want to get involved. She felt she was incapable of playing grandmother to the grandchildren. She had never been nurturing. Once Ben’s children told him how cold and intractable they found her, the relationship might be over.

“Would you like to lie down for a while?” he asked her.

“I’m not feeling very much like—”

“We could just lie down,” he said. “We don’t have to be wild lovers every night.”

“Maybe we could. Just lie down.”

“I’ll hold you for a while. Maybe you’ll even fall asleep. That would be okay.”

“You’re the most generous man I’ve ever known, Ben.”

He laughed. “Me? With my free tomatoes and butter brickle ice cream? You must not have known very many men.”

“I didn’t mean about the tomatoes and ice cream,” she said, grateful. And guilty about the fact that she kept him hidden, as though he wasn’t up to the scrutiny of her friends and colleagues.

E
leanor knew that Sable feared large gatherings of writers. The Hearts and Roses Annual Conference in New York was the first of its type Elly had ever attended with Sable; there would be mostly romance writers. There had been other workshops, conferences and conventions at which they’d both been present—Cal Writers at Stanford, the American Booksellers Association Convention, Southwestern Writers Conference. Sable was always particular about being shuffled into and out of such gatherings quickly. If she was to sign books for two hours, she’d appear from the back of the store with unobtrusive security behind her, sign, and leave by the same route, whisked away in a limo. If she was to speak, she would arrive in time for her talk and manage to slip out before any gathering could form around her prior to or after her speech. She minimized her contact with the coordinators or hosts. Eleanor frankly thought that Sable went to extremes.

For the New York conference—booked for eight hundred, predominantly women—Sable had convinced Elly to take a room at the St. Regis with her rather than the Hilton, which housed the convention. Sable had
booked herself a suite between two spacious rooms on the tenth floor, one for Elly and one for Jeff Petross, Sable’s security man. Jeff’s room connected to Sable’s suite, their usual arrangement. Petross hung back until Sable introduced him to Elly at the airport and Elly found him to be a personable, fair-looking young man in his late thirties. He seemed to have a good sense of humor, though a cautious one. He was as protective of Sable as the Secret Service was of the president. He was always within sight, but he took care not to appear to be escorting Sable. There were two reasons for that, he explained to Elly. First of all, it wouldn’t do to advertise her security—that would make it easier for a troublemaker to breach. And second, it might only serve to create adverse publicity for the subject. Petross had been in this line of work for years; it was his business and he had many employees he had personally trained. He was more than a bodyguard to the rich and famous; his small company could install alarm systems, provide safe transportation, even investigate anyone who threatened the safety and general well-being of a client.

The three of them flew to New York, first-class, Elly and Sable sitting beside each other and Jeff across the aisle. When Elly and Sable took a cab to the St. Regis, Jeff followed in his own cab. They checked in separately. At least they rode up in the same elevator.

“Isn’t this just a bit over the edge, Sable? Do you expect to be kidnapped or something?”

“The good scenario is that I’m going overboard,” she said. “I’ve had a problem or two. I told you about them.”

But Elly hadn’t really taken them seriously. Once, when Sable was in Los Angeles on a book tour, an off-balance couple with a cowritten book had hijacked her. They caught her coming out of a television station, herded
her into a cab and took her to their hotel room where it was their agenda to have her read their manuscript and personally get it to her agent and publisher. They didn’t actually have any weapons, but they had
suggested
they had a gun. She played along with them until she could break free on the pretense of calling her agent and having him fly out to meet them all for dinner. The couple was arrested.

Another time a prisoner in a federal penitentiary had written to her at her home address, knowing full well where she lived. When she didn’t answer his first letter, a flood of eerie letters followed—he could picture her showering, reading, writing, sleeping. He never threatened harm, but there was definitely an invasive, frightening quality. So far, only the letters had arrived, but Sable did have to go to some trouble to find out about the man and keep tabs on the length of his sentence. Since Sable was not a victim or family member, the authorities were under no obligation to inform her when he was paroled.

“I hate to admit this,” Elly had said during the flight to New York, “but I think Barbara Ann might be right. You hold yourself too far apart from other writers. Perhaps it would show better on you if you played along with them a little, wandered around their convention, attended a couple of their lunches or cocktail parties, acted like one of the guys.”

Another thing that bewildered Elly was Petross. He was the president of his security company, yet he took on these little missions of protecting Sable as though he were just a simple bodyguard. She asked him about this, forthright as Elly is.

“Because it’s a very light security job. I only travel with Sable when there’s some publicity accompanying
her trip, business trips, not when she’s traveling to visit friends or for strictly social reasons. And I only go to her home when she has guests in. Those occasions are rare. It doesn’t make for a full-time job. Besides, it’s very good for the client to see the same person or team for every occasion. It makes them feel, pardon the expression,
secure.
”

There was definitely more to it than that, Elly decided at once. The man was smitten with Sable. You could smell it on him.

“Has he ever made a pass at you?” Elly asked.

“Elly! He’s just a very thorough, very thoughtful man!”

“Bull. How long has he been following you around, trying not to stare at you like that?”

“Like what? Heavens, for a woman with no imagination, you certainly—”

“And has he ever saved you from your crazed fans?”

“He cleared a couple of nonthreatening but too ardent book lovers out of my hotel hallway once, but he appeared to be just the guy next door, responding to some sort of trouble outside his door. The whole idea is that with Jeff around, and some careful planning, it should never get to that. And his personality is simply sweet all the time…so I never have to worry about being uncomfortable with him.” Sable thought she answered that quite well, though she was a bit shocked that others might also see what she’d known for some time.

“Does Barbara Ann know about him?”

“She knows about the few problems I’ve had—some phone calls, letters, being chased down by people who think I can ensure fabulous publishing careers. And she knows I have a security company that monitors my house. But she doesn’t know about Jeff. Barbara Ann
thinks I’m crazy not to lap up the attention. A few crank letters or phone calls wouldn’t bother her, she’s been very vocal about that. But then, maybe they wouldn’t bother me if I lived with five brutes. Remember, Elly, I live alone. And there’s no one within shouting distance.”

Elly lived alone, too. Gabby had lived alone the past three years, since her daughter had married and moved out. Beth was alone most of the time. But of course none of them had a name that was a household word. Perhaps Sable needed a security consultant, Elly conceded. But Jeff Petross was no ordinary bodyguard, Elly was convinced of that.

Elly, being fairly anonymous even though she had been one of over fifty workshop speakers, was able to watch from a close yet safe distance as Sable met her obligation at the convention. Barbara Ann and organizational muckety-mucks shouldered Sable from room to room, from workshop to signing to tea…and Sable was swarmed everywhere she went. When Elly wasn’t conducting her own modestly attended class, she kept an eye peeled for Sable. She was fascinated. How could she hold up so well? Smile so naturally when her lips must be ready to fall off? Even Barbara Ann appeared to be wilting by the end of the day, but Sable dashed off via limo to primp for the evening affairs, and returned in minimal time looking smashing. Elly didn’t put much stock in things like fame; however, something like pride began to swell up inside her, for Sable unquestionably did honor to the role. And by the glowing faces of the dozens of writers and would-be writers who mobbed her, she satisfied them with her friendliness, encouragement, charm and gratitude.

“The Ice Queen is mingling with her subjects? I’ll be damned!”

The cutting remark came from behind Elly and she turned sharply. A couple of women closely watched as Sable entered the banquet hall amidst a happy throng.

“I wish I could get by with writing the same goddamn thing over and over. I don’t know what keeps her on the
Times
list,” her companion said.

“Momentum, that’s what. She bought her way on in the first place, you know. She comes from money.”

Elly was seized with a simultaneous urge to snap out some ugly retort in Sable’s defense, or crumple to the floor in a fit of laughter. Money? She came from the poor section of Fresno! Jesus Christ, what a couple of vipers!

It was irresistible. “Hi,” Elly said, sticking out her hand. “My name is Eleanor Fulton. I don’t believe we’ve met.” She eyeballed their name tags closely. The women cautiously introduced themselves, and with the most exquisite timing, Barbara Ann joined them. They may not know Elly, but
everyone
knew Barbara Ann.

“There you are, Elly! I’ve been looking for you. Hello,” she nodded to Elly’s companions politely. “Come on, I have a place for you at the head table, beside Sable.”

Elly kept her eyes on the women who had spoken so nastily of someone they didn’t even know. This was the sort of thing that hurt Sable so deeply, and one of the reasons she avoided these large crowds. There was a prevalent misconception that if you made enough money, you wouldn’t care if people hurled malignant remarks your way. What a crazy notion. There was a certain percentage of people in the world that would hate her simply because she’d made good.

“It was nice to meet you,” Elly slyly told the women. They had the good grace to flush slightly, but Elly did not delude herself that they might have learned a lesson.

Elly looped her arm through Barbara Ann’s, as affectionate as she’d ever in her life been, and moved with the happy throng toward the banquet tables. She would not let a small, negative experience mar what was, for Barbara and most of these people, a night of nights. “Give the spot at the head table to someone else, Barbara Ann. You know, someone who will think they’ve died and gone to heaven to have a chance to sit next to Sable Tennet.”

“Why Elly, isn’t that sweet of you!”

“I’m feeling generous,” Elly said. And not in the mood to have eight hundred people watch me cut my meat.

Sable was the guest of honor and sat at the center of a head table while the awards were being given out. She was to receive her award at the end of all the others. In a surprise move that she must have worked out with conference coordinators, she rose in the midst of these awards and acted as a presenter for one of the categories. She held the plaque, smiling secretively, as Barbara Ann Vaughan’s name was announced. It was quite an emotional moment; there was hardly a dry eye in the house as the friends embraced. If Barbara Ann had ever doubted Sable’s friendship, Elly thought, she must surely be convinced now.

Then Sable received her award for her contributions to women’s fiction. She gave what Elly considered a roaring good banquet speech, complimenting them one and all on their contributions to changing the way women saw themselves in their relationships with the culture, the gender, the arts and the opposite sex. Sable urged them to write from their hearts with honesty and continue to elevate the quality of women’s fiction. When the banquet was at an end and the chairs were pushed
back, Elly faded out. She didn’t bother to say goodbye to Barbara Ann, who was surrounded by her many friends anyway and had plans, Elly knew, for an “after the banquet party” in one of the suites. She had seen Sable shaking hands and giving those abbreviated hugs and kisses—and also shaking her head—perhaps declining one of the many parties upstairs. It was already eleven. These people were inexhaustible!

Elly went to the hotel entrance. Jeff was standing at the curb beside the limo. He must have been told that Sable would leave the hotel immediately following the banquet. After about fifteen minutes, Sable arrived at the door, escorted by about ten people to whom she must say goodbye again. Her agent, her editor, convention hostesses. They all said goodbye so fondly, with such flowery compliments and thanks for her participation, that it was hard to believe everyone here didn’t love her to death. “No, no, thanks anyway, but it’s been a very long day and I’m worn-out. And I have to leave in the morning.”

She made eye contact with Elly, inclined her head toward the car, and the dowdy little woman slipped into the limo with Sable. Jeff sat in front with the driver. Elly wondered what that left them all thinking. Was that her mother? Her secretary? Her masseuse?

“Whew!” Sable said when they were inside.

“You did an outstanding job, Sable. Your speech was excellent.”

“Why thank you, Elly!” she said, surprised. “God, am I glad that’s over! Do you think Barbara Ann will be satisfied?”

“She’d better be satisfied with what you gave today,” Elly said. “I was exhausted just watching you!”

“Will you have a nightcap with me, Elly?” she asked.

“I’d rather go to bed. You can have a drink with Arnold Schwarzenegger up there.”

“I just want a quick one. I could have it in my room, but I’d rather go to the lounge. And I’d rather have you come with me, than Jeff. I’ll have a drink, you can have your decaf and smoke your brains out and I won’t say a word.”

“You’ll cough and wave your hands around,” Elly said.

“If I promise not to do that, will you come with me?”

“I’m sure you were offered drinks back there. Why didn’t you join them?”

“I don’t want to talk about myself anymore. I feel safe with you. I know you aren’t going to smile in my face and then say something nasty about me when I turn away. Something I’m
bound
to overhear.”

Elly wanted to know how much of that Sable had endured, but she was loath to ask. Neither of them could do anything about it. “From what I overheard, you made a very favorable impression on some of the people you signed books for. I was standing in the lobby outside the tearoom when they came out.”

“That’s nice to hear. I was invited to a brunch in the morning, but had to decline because of our flight, and I think it upset Barbara. She had expected me to—”