The House on Olive Street by Robyn Carr

imagine.”
    “I also appreciate that you never make me feel foolish,” she said.
    “I don’t think you are. Like I told you, I’ll stay over if it will help you sleep better.”
    She shook her head. “You’re a nice guy, Jeff.”
    “You’re a nice lady, Sable. Lock this one here and you’re all set.”
    Sable saved the letter for a while. She locked the door, assured herself that Dorothy and Art’s light was on in their little cottage, retired to her upstairs suite and slowly peeled off her beige silk suit. She got into bed before opening the letter. She could see it wasn’t very long. And it was dated September 19, four years old.
    Dear Sable,
    I hope it’s been so long that you’ve forgotten the day. We met, the five of us, and Barbara Ann was particularly tenacious in her questions about your life, your past and the history of our friendship. You and Elly and I had a brief discussion—whichverged on an argument. The subject was your invented past. I wondered if it was good for you to carry around the weight of all that pretending. But you were adamant as usual. You said something I just can’t let go. You said, “I’m better as I am than as I was.”
    No one on earth admires Sable Tennet more than I do, but there’s something I want you to know. I admire that smart little Helen, too. You may have filed down some rough edges and refined your character, but you haven’t created a whole new person. You only think you have.
    I love you like a mother, sister, godmother, best friend. I love what you’ve done with your life, your work, your ambition, your spirit. But I don’t love what you’ve done with your history, Helen. You can’t wipe people out like that. Without the guts, smarts and strength of Helen, you could not have written as the hope of so many women readers.
    I hope that by keeping Helen hidden you don’t bring yourself undue pain. Helen deserves your respect and gratitude. Releasing her could help and inspire others.
    You are by far the warmest, most sensitive, most generous person alive, and you keep it secret. Only Elly and I know a fraction of what you’ve really accomplished in your life. Please, be generous to yourself. Give yourself your due. Take pride not only in who you’ve become, but where you’ve come from. Be yourself. Your wonderful self.
    With deepest love,
Gabby
    Sable held the letter against her heart. She read it again and then held it against her cheek. She covered her face with it, breathing deeply, hoping to get a whiff of Gabby’s scent. But it smelled like paper. Then she laid it on her lap, smoothing it slowly with loving hands.
    Thank you, Gabby, she thought. I know you were always proud of me. But not everyone would be impressed with the life I led and the terrible mistakes I made. Not everyone would admire the willpower required to change from Helen into Sable. In fact, most people would gasp in horror. Some would even be delighted to know I wasn’t such a big damn deal but really just a poor, stupid girl with unforgivably bad judgment. Gabby, Gabby, I wouldn’t feel better unloading the secret. How to face the snickers from people who’ve always felt so inferior to me—though I never invited that—and have been waiting for years for my comeuppance! Or their pity? Or the sly, superior smiles of all the writers who have been asking themselves what’s so goddamn special about Sable Tennet? No, no, no.
    There was one thing Sable had understood from the beginning—people think that if you have money and success, you can’t suffer pain and humiliation. She knew; she had believed that once herself.
    She slept through the night without waking—for the first time in days. When she woke, the letter was under her cheek and the ink was badly smeared, but still legible. Upon rising and looking in the mirror, she found ink on her cheek and chin and temple. She had cried in her sleep.

SIX
    I t was already 9:00 p.m. and the dinner she’d gone to such lengths to