The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala Read Online Free

out the candles with loud whooshes. Al started slicing as audience members got to their feet, stretched, and began milling around, some descending on the authors and others forming a straggly line to get cake and punch.
    I helped Nate, the audio guy, coil up the cords from the microphones and put them in a box. “Two o’clock at the high school,” I reminded him.
    He merely nodded, hefted the box, and left, leaving me to ponder yet again the irony of a man who spoke as little as possible being in the business of amplifying and recording others’ words. Turning, I bumped into Merle Aldringham, who had exchanged his tank book for one on the effect of airpower in the Vietnam War. Up close, he was taller than he’d seemed, at least sixfeet two, and smelled pleasantly of bay rum. I said, “Excuse me,” and got a surprisingly nice smile in return, half-hidden behind a mustache and beard, both showing more silver than the dark blond hair on his head.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” he said in a soft voice. “It’s—oh, my God.”
    For a moment, I thought I’d crushed his toe or something, but from the way he was staring over my shoulder, I realized he wasn’t reacting to my klutziness. I turned to see what had caught his attention as he exclaimed, “Maudie!” and elbowed me out of the way to sweep my friend and fellow Readaholic Maud Bell into a bear hug.
    â€œWhen I saw Connie was coming, I wondered if you’d be here,” she said, planting a kiss on his lips while I watched in astonishment. Goofy little smiles played around both their mouths and they gazed into each other’s eyes in a way that told me they had History with a capital
H
. I cleared my throat.
    Maud laughed, crinkling the skin around her eyes, and reached out a hand to draw me closer. She was only a couple of inches shorter than Merle Aldringham and in her early sixties, like him. Wearing her usual henley shirt and multipocketed camouflage pants, she exuded health and vigor; no one would have been surprised to learn she made her living as a hunting and fishing guide during the good weather.
    â€œAmy-Faye Johnson, Merle Aldringham. We go way back.”
    â€œI got that impression,” I said drily.
    Maud laughed, completely unembarrassed, but Merle looked around and I suspected he was checking to see if his wife was within earshot. “Connie and Merle and I were quite the threesome during our Berkeley days,” she said.
    I squelched the urge to wonder what kind of threesome.
    â€œWe met in a class on the politics of revolution. Remember, Merle? The teacher—what was his name?”
    â€œProfessor Kendrick—‘Call me Kenny.’”
    â€œOh, heavens, yes. Kenny! I always thought he looked a little bit like Castro. How long has it been? We haven’t seen each other in—oh, what? A couple of decades.”
    â€œTwenty-nine years,” Merle said, looking nostalgic. “Remember? We had dinner at that Italian place in D.C. when we bumped into each other after the hearing on acid rain.”
    â€œYou’re right! How did we let it get to be so long? How long are you in town? You and Connie have got to come over for a drink or dinner before you leave. Joe would love to meet you.”
    â€œJoe? I thought you and Robert—”
    â€œDivorced not long after our D.C. dinner,” Maud said.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    Maud shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
    â€œDoesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt,” Merle said in a way that made me think he had something other than Maud’s divorce in mind.
    â€œLet’s go say hi to Connie,” Maud said. She grabbed Merle’s hand and plunged into the crowd.
    This I had to see. I followed in their wake.
    The crowd parted before the force of Maud’s will (or the jab of her elbows), and in moments she was face-to-face with Constance Aldringham. The fan who was