Free The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala by Laura Disilverio Page A

opened the door. “He’d better do it quick, because otherwise I’m going to.” She closed the door firmly on the final word and marched toward the house, where the porch light and a dog’s barks welcomed her home.
    It was enough to make me want a dog, I thought, unlocking my own door and stepping into the quiet dark of my bungalow. My erratic hours wouldn’t be fair on a dog, however, and I didn’t think a gerbil or a goldfish would fill the same void, so I remained petless. I shucked off my Catwoman outfit in the dark, brushed my teeth, and flopped into bed, emotionally and physically exhausted. Thank goodness tomorrow was Sunday and I had nothing on my calendar except the Readaholics meeting. I’d meant to finish
Rebecca
tonight, but . . .
    *   *   *
    â€œGothic heroines aren’t much like today’s female cops, PIs, or even amateur sleuths, are they?” Kerry said, buttering a biscuit. Even though she phrased it like a question, it sounded like a statement. Kerry never shied away from making statements. Maybe it came of being a politician, even a small-town one.
    We were sitting in Lola’s cramped kitchen, having voted previously to have brunch while discussing
Rebecca
, since we were meeting on a Sunday (to accommodate my schedule). Lola’s grandmother had insistedon cooking for us, so we were feasting on scrambled eggs with sausage, homemade biscuits with strawberry preserves Mrs. Paget had put up in the summer, and pancakes topped with pecans and bananas. It was more food than I’d generally have for breakfast in an entire week, but I was enjoying every bite of it. I poured more melted butter onto my pancakes.
    Axie was at a friend’s house and Mrs. Paget had left for a Bible study after cooking our breakfast, so it was just me, Brooke, Kerry, Maud, and Lola in the small kitchen with its cheery wallpaper printed with chickens, gingham curtains, and butcher-block counters that Lola complained about every time she had to refinish them. It felt very 1950s to me. The red Formica-topped table had a metal rim and legs, as did the padded chairs. Somehow, it also felt homey, even though it was nothing like the kitchen in the house I’d grown up in and where my parents still lived. The smell of coffee pervaded the air as Maud poured herself another cup.
    â€œThat no-name protag was pretty helpless, I’ll give you that,” Maud said. “No gumption. No grit.”
    â€œI wouldn’t say that,” Lola said. She looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes. “She was a product of her times. Women weren’t raised to stand up for themselves then, not physically, not financially.”
    â€œWhy didn’t she have a name?” Brooke asked. Even on a lazy Sunday morning she was perfectly made-up with her hair gleaming in the sunlight that streamed through the windows over the farmhouse sink.
    â€œIt makes her kind of an ‘everywoman,’ don’t youthink?” I asked. I’d finished the book hastily this morning, skipping church, and hadn’t had time to analyze it as much as I usually do.
    â€œNo,” Maud said. “The average woman doesn’t meet a handsome millionaire, marry him, live in a mansion, and duke it out with a dead former wife and demented housekeeper. I should have dressed as Mrs. Danvers last night. I can play sinister.” She narrowed her eyes and tightened her mouth into a thin line.
    â€œYou creep me out,” Kerry agreed.
    â€œThe heroines in gothic novels should make it a practice to fire all the servants the moment they walk through the door of the spooky old mansion,” Brooke said. “And call the Ghostbusters. That would solve a lot of their problems up front.”
    When we stopped laughing and humming the
Ghostbusters
theme song, I said, “Okay, maybe not an ‘everywoman,’ but I think it’s the same ploy you see in modern