Chapter 3

Keeping Up Appearances

Four months later, Thursday, June 27 th , New Orleans, LA

W hen I finally rolled up to the front of the Windsor Court on Gravier Street, less than a block from Canal, I was exhausted. It's a good thing I'd left before the crack of dawn because my nine-and-a-half-hour drive had turned into twelve. Summer traffic during beach season—what could I have expected? The biggest holdup had been crossing Mobile Bay as an accident in the tunnel had everyone standing still for an hour.

My initial plan was to house Furball at the vet's over the long weekend, but, when Alice's kids, ages six and nine, heard about my trip, they pestered their mom until she surrendered and agreed to keep my cat at her house. I knew he would be pampered and loved and probably never notice I was gone.

I handed over my keys to the valet with a spring in my step and let the porter stack my boxes of books, roll-up banners, and suitcase on a cart and wheel them to the check-in desk of the plush hotel. The ornamental trees and flowering shrubs lining the walkway presented an appealing aura, as did the quaint, brick paving and welcoming statue. However, an oppressive wave of heat and humidity hit me the instant I stepped out of my air-conditioned car, so I didn't tarry long before seeking relief in the lobby. The late afternoon produced miserable conditions, but nightfall promised a pleasant reprieve.

Taking a glance in a full-length mirror in the lofty entry, adorned in golden opulence and sparkling chandeliers, I smoothed the side of my skirt with a pampered hand. Alice had affixed acrylic nails to mine—not too long because I wouldn't know what to do with them—but just chic enough to add a touch of glamor. She had done wonders with my ordinary brown hair, arranging loose curls to flow along the tops of my shoulders. It was so glossy it teased a smile from my lips—on which she had spread a coating of lipstick. She gave me the tube and said I'd need to touch it up from time to time. It held that perfect balance of natural and noticeable that I was going for.

Since I'd spent weeks working on my tan, I could get away with bare legs and sandals for informal occasions, but I brought expensive hose and a sexy, black evening gown with a slit up the thigh for the banquet on Sunday. You must understand, I never dressed like this. Mary Jones had three dresses to her name, and they seldom made it out of the closet. The descriptors of "glamorous," "graceful," "alluring," and "beautiful" had never applied to me. The best I could have mustered was "cute." Typically, I'd wear shorts, a hat, and shades with my hair in a ponytail. I had slacks and button-ups to dress in for teaching, but I never got manicures or fancy hairdos. Mary was a real plain Jane.

Aspen Wolfe, however, required an entrance. She needed to make a statement. While I fell somewhere between butch and femme on the spectrum, my alter ego was supposed to be sophisticated and stunning, exuding enough feminine power to reel in every woman in the room. My floral button-up blouse with its playful collar and capped sleeves heralded me as fun, while the hip-hugging gray skirt accented the curve of my butt and the sleek muscles in my legs. I felt the heat in my cheeks when more than a few heads in the lobby turned my way.

Squaring my shoulders, I lifted my chin and waltzed to the counter, feeling as if I owned the place. Being Aspen Wolfe in the flesh gave me a rush that I couldn't deny. I am a successful, award-winning, best-selling author, sounded the mantra I played in my head on a loop. It helped me project the proper vibrations.

"May I help you?" a man about my height with a deep tan and black hair asked with an accent that suggested he wasn't Southern-born.

"Yes. I'm here to check in for the Literary Laurels Conference," I replied in a husky, regional drawl. I set my pint-sized purse—which I couldn't get used to carrying since I normally stuck to pockets—on the desk and presented a pleasant expression. "Aspen Wolfe."

"Ah, yes, Ms. Wolfe, here you are." The man's broad grin revealed a gap between pearly-white front teeth. He engaged in small talk with me while printing out pages to sign, and I practiced being Aspen by using proper grammar and big words, endeavoring to make every phrase sound like poetry.

I really should have practiced talking like Aspen, I thought . Instead, I spent all my effort on making sure I looked as good as humanly possible. Four months of a fresh diet and exercise regimen had shaved two inches from my waist, so I could display more of an hourglass silhouette. I'd promised myself that, as a reward, I could eat whatever I wanted while in New Orleans. Just thinking about the delicious delicacies caused my mouth to water.

After I signed all the papers, he slid two keycards across the counter to me. "Your accommodations, including parking, have already been paid for, Ms. Wolfe. If you order room service, pay-per-view programming, or have beverages from the mini-fridge, those will be your responsibility to pay before checking out. Here's a hotel map to show you where to find all our fabulous amenities. Pools are on the fourth floor and the roof. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask, and please enjoy your stay here at Windsor Court."

"Thank you." I deposited the keycards into my purse, took the cart handle—as the uniformed porter had disappeared—and strode with confidence to the elevator.

I made a point of soaking up the atmosphere of the elegant hotel lobby, as I'd never stayed in any place like it. Someone's laugh carried over the echo of footsteps and I glanced at a group of men in business suits standing in a clump. A small herd of excited women, two of whom sported butch haircuts and clothing, spilled in from outside chatting feverishly and hauling plastic bins and cardboard boxes on foldout rolling carts. They must be here for the conference.

I didn't recognize them, but nobody looked like their profile pictures, did they? I bit my bottom lip, trying to decide if the sultry, raven-haired beauty with rich, golden-brown skin and curves that could jerk a stockcar driver off the track was the wildly popular, mystery-thriller author Selina Fowlerton. If I intended to stand out, I wouldn't do it next to her. Still, I'd have to discover which one was Selina, as she was also a finalist in one of my categories.

The elevator doors opened, and I rolled my cart in, taking a last expectant glance at the group of women laughing as if they hadn't a care in the world ambling toward the check-in desk. The doors closed, and the reverberations of the lobby vanished. I rode alone to the fourteenth floor and supposed most attendees would be with someone else, whether a spouse, lover, friend, or relative. But I wouldn't be the only unaccompanied attendee. Besides, I was here to meet people and let them see that Aspen Wolfe was a real person. I would have to sweep fears and insecurities away and show them a woman worthy of presenting a masterclass—and winning another award.

The bright, aromatic hallway was empty when I exited the elevator and consulted the sign to see which way to my room. Many people wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, and some would only show up for the awards banquet on Sunday night.

The keycard worked on the first try—a miracle in my experience. I threw open the door, pushed in my cart, and simply stood staring gobsmacked for a full minute. Never could I recall occupying so plush a bedroom. I inhaled the fresh linen scent, my gaze lingering over the spacious sitting area, the matching mahogany dresser, desk, and entertainment center, the spotless carpet, two queen-sized beds with neatly tucked spreads, and foot benches. A charming nook with a closet and a door, presumably leading to the bathroom, lay to the left. Directly across from the entrance, beyond the luxurious beds, grand picture windows offered a captivating cityscape. Even though my room didn't face the river, the natural light and scenic vista were enchanting. Watercolors adorned neutral walls so clean they almost shone. The realization I would spend four nights in these ritzy accommodations quickened a regal sense of worth in my soul.

"And look," I said to myself upon noticing the vase of flowers on the little table in the sitting area. I rushed over to touch a petal and give it a whiff. "They're real!"

I hummed cheerful tunes to myself while I hung my new clothes in the closet and unpacked my suitcase. Next was time to check out the bathroom. It was massive and opulent with a soaking tub, spa shower, and an Italian marble vanity. Flicking the switch flooded the area with a sea of light. This room smelled great too. I won't be needing the air freshener I packed. Because the only hotels/motels I ever stayed at had been the cheapest ones within twenty miles of my destination, the thing I had grown to hate most was the smell. They always were musty or reeked of wet dog, old cigarette smoke, or age. This place was like being at Versailles or something. It exuded a French elegance ambiance, and paintings graced every wall—not to mention the fancy mirror in the bathroom and another in the primary portion of the suite. And I didn't even have to pay for it!

I adjusted the temperature control and lay on the bed closest to the window with a sigh. Although there was plenty of daylight, it would soon be time for the jazz meet and greet. I'd just rest a minute and let my body quit vibrating from the long car ride. Before I drifted all the way to sleep, my phone beeped—a text from Tammy.

‘Are you here yet?'

I typed back, ‘Yeah. This place is freaking awesome!'

She replied with a big grin emoji. ‘ We'll meet you in half an hour in the lounge.'

Half an hour? I glanced at the clock and groaned. The activity began at seven and, sure enough, it was six-thirty.

Bolting out of bed, I raced to the bathroom to check my makeup and hair. I needed to brush my teeth and decide what to wear. What did a successful, award-winning, best-selling author who was also a masterclass presenter wear to evening entertainment at a fancy hotel in New Orleans? Casual? Semi-formal? The last time I'd come here, I'd only worn shorts and a tank.

Frantically, I typed back, ‘What are you and Beth wearing?'

‘LOL! You know I'll be in jeans. Beth has picked out a flowery sundress. There's no dress code. Wear what makes you happy.'

I rolled my eyes at that. I couldn't wear what would make me happy, even if I knew what it was. The success of my mission hinged on scoring a respectable impression. Being an erotic romance author comes with expectations. I needed to look the part. I wanted to save the sexy, tight slacks and come-hither blouse for tomorrow since I'd be running my table most of the day, and the galley would be packed with fans coming and going. Deciding on the halter-top dress to display my Florida tan and firm arms and shoulders meant I had to sort out how to use the boob tape to get them situated just right. Like the rest of me, my breasts were suitably average. Still, no place for a bra with that dress, and I wasn't going without some modest support.

The knowledge that I would spend the evening with someone I knew and trusted was a saving grace. Tammy could afford to relax and be herself. She was an established author, had a wife who worked as her business manager, and a retirement income. What did I have besides hope and a prayer?