The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala Read Online Free Page A

fawning over her gave way, and Maud swooped in to plant air-kisses on either side of Constance’s face. “Connie! It’s been a long time.”
    Constance pulled away, inclined to be startled and offended, but her eyes widened as she recognized Maud. “Maud Bell. In Heaven, Colorado. Who would have thought—?”
    â€œâ€˜Of all the gin joints in all the world,’ right?” Maud grinned.
    â€œWhat have you been doing with yourself? You’re so brown.” Constance put a hand to her own cheek, as if to assure herself that it was still smooth as a baby’s butt.
    â€œThis and that,” Maud said. “Hunting, fishing, building Web sites, blogging. I have a conspiracy blog called Out to Get You dot com. At Berkeley, we used to see conspiracies behind every tree, under every rock. Remember?”
    â€œSome of us outgrew that,” Constance said. “Although”—her voice turned waspish—“if you want an industry simply rife with conspiracies, you should look into publishing. I could tell you stories. . . .”
    â€œI want to hear all of them,” Maud said. “Drinks at my house tonight? Before the ball?”
    â€œWe’d love to,” Merle put in before Constance could respond.
    She shot him a speculative look, but nodded. “I’vegot to get back to my fans,” Constance said, gesturing to the line of people waiting to get books signed. “Merle, it’s chilly in here and I left my pashmina at the B and B. Fetch it for me, would you?”
    â€œWe’ll catch up later.” Maud smiled, and scribbled her address on a bookmark before handing it to Merle. As he took it, I noticed their daughter, Allyson, staring at her parents and Maud from across the room, a plate of cake in her hand. As her gaze went from her father to Maud, her expression went from confused to hostile.
    As we moved away, Maud murmured, “Constance Jakes hasn’t changed a whit. She’s still the same stick-up-her-butt, self-centered prima donna she always was, even at twenty-two. I never did see what Merle saw in her. She treats him like a dog.” There was a wistful note in her voice.
    â€œJoe’s a great guy,” I reminded her.
    â€œThe love of my life,” she affirmed with no self-consciousness. “But that doesn’t mean I purged all my memories, like deleting photos off my computer. The glorious Maud you see before you”—she stopped and swept a mocking hand the length of her torso—“is the sum total of many experiences and adventures: good, bad, stupid, embarrassing, courageous, ill-advised, scary, wonderful, felonious, and more. Joe likes the me that my past has made me. He loves the real me. When you find a man who can say that he knows and loves the true you, the deep-down you with the bits even you don’t like, hold on to him. I need a piece of cake.” She headed toward the refreshment table, where I imagined she would take pleasure in plunging the knife into the heart of the cake.
    Did Hart love the real me? I put a hand to my mouth, as if I’d said the
L
word instead of merely thinking it. Hart and I had certainly not said it to each other. It was too soon. We’d known each other only since the spring, and been dating for only about six weeks. We were a long way from even thinking about thinking about saying the
L
word. A long way.
    A touch on my shoulder made me start. “Miss, can you tell me where the bathrooms are?”
    I spun to find myself facing the man who’d come in late. Up close, I could see scalp through his close-shorn hair, and he exuded an odor of stale alcohol. His brown eyes were bloodshot, but his tone was polite. Despite that, he had an air of menace, or maybe desperation, that made me uncomfortable. He clutched an expanding file folder to his chest, twanging the cord that held it closed.
    â€œIn the back left corner over there.” I