The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala by Laura Disilverio Read Free Book Online Page B

the expensive restoration. It smelled like lemon furniture polish. It was quiet at this time of day with most guests dressing for the costume ball, I guessed, and Sandy and her husband working on their never-ending to-do list of repairs, modernizations, androutine maintenance. She’d told me once that they’d had no idea what they were getting into when they left their Madison Avenue jobs to take on the B and B.
    â€œI imagined that my having a background in advertising and Dave being in finance would be useful when we bought this place,” Sandy had said. “We’d have been better off with a plumbing certificate and a high school class in woodworking!” Her droll expression made me grin.
    I could just leave Francesca’s hat on the registration counter, but I was reluctant to do that. Before I could call out for Sandy or Dave, I heard voices from the room ahead of me on the left. It was a small parlor, decked out with reproduction Victorian furnishings, where Sandy kept hot coffee and tea going all day. I walked toward the room, but something about the intensity of the voices, lowered but intermittently audible, made me hesitate.
    â€œâ€”told you I will not tolerate—” It sounded like Constance Aldringham, but I couldn’t be sure. “—playing you for a—”
    Was she haranguing Merle, annoyed by his evident pleasure in meeting Maud again? The voice that replied to her was female. Allyson.
    â€œI’m an adult and I’ll do what I want to.” Fury thrummed in her voice and she was making no effort to be discreet. “I don’t need a keeper! You treat me like I’m too stupid to be let out alone. Well, I’m done with this, with only being the daughter of the bestselling Constance Aldringham. I need to be me—I need to listen to my inner goddess.”
    I almost gagged. Allyson Aldringham was a
FiftyShades
fan. I knew that only because, for a joke, the Readaholics had read the book last year. It had been vaguely titillating, but I gave up on it after about the twelfth reference to the heroine’s—no,
stooge’s
—“inner goddess.” Maud had posted a very funny essay on her blog about how the book was really written by a committee of men conspiring to convince young girls that they should continue to accept lower wages and glass ceilings. She suggested, tongue in cheek (I think), that the book was about economic bondage, but Kerry told her it was just smut.
    â€œYou don’t really need a secretary,” Allyson went on. “You only talked me into coming on this book tour because you wanted to keep an eye on me. Well, I’m going back to California. He said he’s going to be out there next week, and I’m going to see him.”
    Allyson didn’t add “So there!” but I could hear it on the air. I wondered who the mysterious “he” was that had mother and daughter fighting like, well, mother and daughter. Cats and dogs have nothing on mothers and daughters when it comes to fighting.
    Suddenly feeling guilty about eavesdropping, I retreated a couple of steps and called out, “Sandy? Dave? Anyone here?”
    â€œIn the kitchen.” Sandy’s voice floated to me. I followed it, peeking casually into the parlor as I passed it. Constance and Allyson stood three feet apart from each other, stiffer than waxworks, cheeks flushed, eyes turned to the door.
    â€œOh, hi,” I said in a voice that clearly implied, “I didn’t know you were here and I certainly wasn’tlistening to your argument.” I waved the hat. “Francesca left this at the school.” Without waiting for a reply, I navigated the maze of hallways to the kitchen (where I had supervised many a party) and gave the hat into Sandy’s keeping, regretfully declining the opportunity to sample her new currant and rosemary scone recipe on the grounds that I needed to head out to the Club.
    The