Page 26 of SapphicLover69
Truths and Lies
The master class on Writing in Color was my favorite, equipping me to broaden the scope of my primary characters. Then the Piracy Panel unearthed some unsettling truths, more than a little scary to contemplate. I thanked the presenters for giving us handouts to take home, so I could scour all the fanfic and pirated book sites to learn if they had posted any of mine.
Did the thoughtless readers who consumed these “free” books not care that they stole food from our tables? Were they under some delusion that all authors live in a mansion like Nora Roberts or Stephen King? Did they think we lie around all day in satin gowns while a staff of servants waits on us hand and foot?
Tammy had done some digging. She discovered that the average U.S. author working with a midsized to large publishing house earned a net income of around $50,000 a year from book sales. The royalties for the average self-published or small-houseauthor were a dismal $12,749 in 2023. Either way, without a New York Times #1 Best Seller distinction, novelists were living hand to mouth or holding down other full-time jobs. Oh, but by all means, call us greedy because we sell an ebook for the price of a coffee and expect to be paid for the work that went into creating it.
Feeling the need to escape from the throng of writers now riled up about how they were being robbed blind, I ventured onto a large terrace off Chinoiserie B to get some air. The humidity of the late afternoon was like standing in a sauna, but the sprawl of the Crescent City beneath the hotel’s tower was captivating.I should set a romance novel here,I mused.The atmosphere is ripe for it, and it would be decidedly steamy.
Soon I sensed Winter’s presence and smiled at being able to recognize her without looking. “What do you want to do before dinner? Change clothes or anything?”
“Is there something wrong with my clothes?” she asked.
Pivoting, I raked my eyes over her petite form in appraisal. Over the invitingly wide-legged shorts, she wore a white button-up shirt with a navy sailor collar and tie that had to be a size too big for her. It had short sleeves and the rounded tail hung untucked. I was vaguely familiar that some girl anime characters wore these—well, and Donald Duck. But, to be honest, the only thing I could find wrong with Winter’s clothes was that they were on when I’d prefer they be off.
“I just didn’t know if you’d be cold in the lounge with bare legs,” I said instead. “They may have the AC cranked up.”
“You’re so sweet, always thinking about me.” She bit her bottom lip in the most adorable way.
Tammy swooshed through the open doors to interrupt the moment. “I picked the restaurant last night,” she announced. “One of you should choose for tonight.”
“Is there time to have dinner in the French Quarter and be back for karaoke?” I asked. I had no intention of singing, but it could be fun. It would also mean more time with Winter and still have chaperones about to keep me from doing something foolish.
“Sure,” Tammy confirmed. “I mean, the hotel restaurant is probably good too, but we’ll be eating their spread tomorrow night.”
“Remember, we have budgets,” Elaine pointed out as she joined us on the terrace.
I could feel the sweat rolling between my breasts and lifted a hand to shade my eyes from the intense sun. “It’s five o’clock, and, at this rate, I’ll have to change clothes before karaoke because my shirt will be drenched. I know a place with the most excellent po’boys and Cajun food in a homey, quaint atmosphere, no frills, come-as-you-are, and you can get a whole delicious meal for under twenty bucks. It’s called Mother’s, and it’s just around the corner, not a block away.”
“Perfect!” Beth declared. “I love home-cooked style meals.”
“I love no-frills, come-as-you-are,” Tammy added.
“Let’s go,” Elaine suggested. “Aspen, lead the way.”
Mother’s Restaurant was just how I remembered it—hundred-year-old brick walls, hot food display counters, friendly smiles, and mouth-watering aromas that made you want to melt into a puddle of satisfaction. It was only five-fifteen and already the main dining hall brimmed with boisterous customers eating and laughing around fifty’s style dinette tables. Well, they may not even be retro. Those could actually be seventy-year-old tables and chairs.
When Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans in 2005, the French Quarter, with its higher elevation, was mercifully spared from the brunt of the disaster. There was flooding here as well but only a few feet’s worth instead of up to rooftops. Owners had to repair or replace flooring and drywall, but the historic homes, hotels, restaurants, and businesses miraculously weathered the storm.
“Five today?” A young man in black pants and a white button-up shirt met us at the door. Every table appeared to be full, and I was concerned about us clogging up the doorway, especially with Beth’s wheelchair.
“Seven!” corrected a sultry voice from behind us.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spied R.B. and the Canadian escort she had recently gained. She’d twisted her long, auburn hair into a cool knot and clipped it on top of her head in a casual splash that could still take my breath away. From the sparkle in Jeri’s attentive eyes, she concurred.
“Seven,” Tammy confirmed with a smile.
“Come with me.” The youthful waiter led us through the narrow dining hall where knives and forks clinked on ceramic plates and conversation rolled over into laughter. Then he ushered us through French doors, down a six-inch ramp into a second dining hall. This one was quieter and cozier, dominated by high, ancient, brick walls with only a couple of street-facing windows at one end. The ambiance was more intimate and, with the ceiling fan and lack of warm bodies, cooler than the primary dining area.
“This is our reception hall,” he explained, “but no one has reserved it for this evening. So, we will open it for overflow seating. Please, come to this big, round table over here.”
He directed us to a setting for eight and pulled away a chair, making a space for Beth. “I am Ramone and will be your waiterfor the evening. If there is anything you wish, please let me know.”
As we took our seats, Ramone passed out accordion-folded, laminated menus. “You see, the gluten-free, vegetarian, and pork selections are marked so you may adhere to your dietary preferences. I’ll be back in a moment with ice water and to take your orders. Please make yourselves comfortable and enjoy your stay with us.”
“What a nice young man!” Elaine exclaimed. She put on her glasses to inspect the menu.
“Glad to have you join us,” Beth said to R.B. with a welcoming smile. “Please introduce your friend.”
