by bow, frankie
“No, now that you mention it. Not for a while now. Of course you know Aunt Celia and him don’t always see eye to eye, especially since she got elected Mayor. Maybe he’s still mad about that thing with Uncle Nelson.”
“Oh, that’s a good point. Maybe he’s on the outs with Celia.”
Ally’s horrible aunt, Celia Arceneaux, was Sinful’s new mayor-elect (pending an audit of the voting results). She’d already tried to fire Carter once, so that she could replace him with her idiot cousin. I liked the idea that Carter’s recent disappearance might be Celia’s fault and not mine. I already had enough to feel guilty about.
“You have a message for him?” Ally asked. “In case I do see him?”
Oh, no, nothing in particular. I just, you know. Just haven't seen him around, is all. So is Sinful falling into lawlessness and chaos without our star deputy sheriff?”
“No, actually now that I think of it? It’s been really quiet today with you and Gertie and Ida Belle gone. I mean, oh, that didn't sound good. Sorry Fortune, I didn’t mean to say—”
“It’s okay, Ally. I’m glad to hear things are nice and peaceful back home. How’s Justin?”
I could practically hear her blushing over the phone.
“We’re making dinner tonight over here. He wants us to try cooking something called squid luau.”
“Squid luau? What is that?”
“It's like a stew. I don’t know if I’m gonna like it. I looked it up online, and everyone says it’s green and fishy-smelling. Anyway, don’t worry. It can't be any worse than the swamp rat pie. And I'll make sure to air out the kitchen afterwards.”
“So sounds like things are going well with you two. That's great.”
“Yeah, the only problem is Aunt Celia. She keeps hassling me about carrying on with a foreigner.”
“Ally, Hawaii is one of the United States.”
“I know. I keep telling her that. Aunt Celia doesn't really buy it though.”
I heard a low rumble, and then an abrupt swell in the volume of voices as conference room doors flew open up and down the hallway. I checked my watch. The sessions were ending right on time. This was probably the best-run conference I'd ever been to.
“Listen, I gotta go. I have to collect Ida Belle and Gertie for lunch. I'm so glad you called. Give my love to Merlin and Justin.”
“And Carter, if I see him.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Chapter Seven
I sat between Ida Belle and Gertie at lunch. I hoped they'd fill the time with bickering or gossip, anything that would take my mind off Carter. That “Bad Romance” game had put me in a bleak mood.
Unfortunately, Gertie was sitting next to her new friend Larry Lindgren, and they were busy making puppy eyes at each other. Ida Belle was busy too. As soon as she sat down, her phone hummed. She glanced at it and she disappeared back into the hallway.
I could tell that some kind of big news was rippling through the Mardi Gras Ballroom. I sensed scandalized whispers and indignant murmurs. No one was talking to me, though, which made me feel bored and left out.
“Excuse me Gertie,” I interrupted, “What’s going on? What's everyone talking about?”
“Oh,” Gertie exclaimed. “You haven’t heard?”
“If I had heard I wouldn’t be asking you about it, would I?”
Gertie was dying to share the gossip, it turned out, and Larry was happy to help. Between the two of them talking over each other and trying to finish each other’s sentences, it took me a few minutes to piece together the story.
The short version was this: A famous romance writer had stolen the work of a less-famous colleague, changed a few details, and published the stories as her own.
The villain of the piece was a bestselling author named Felicity Valentine. I hadn’t heard of her, but Gertie had. Felicity Valentine was a superstar in the world of romance writers, which made this a very juicy scandal.
“She wrote seventy five books in five years,” Gertie said.
“More than a book a month? That sounds impossible.”
“It is quite a lot,” Larry said. “Her productivity was really something.”
“Well, now we know how she managed to be so productive, don't we?” someone said. “Just steal someone else's book and slap a new cover on it.”
“How did she get away with that for so long?” I asked.
“Destiny Davis wrote M/M romances,” Gertie said.
“What're M/M romances?” Ida Belle was back at the table now.
“Male-male,” Gertie said. “Romances with two men in the leading roles.”
“Well, times have certainly changed.” Ida Belle shook her napkin out and placed it on her lap. “I wonder what Quan would have to say about that.”
“That poor, sweet man.” Gertie shook her head.
“Who?” I asked.
“Someone we knew back in V—”
“In the Sixties,” Ida Belle cut Gertie off.
“Felicity Valentine must’ve thought there wasn’t any overlap in the readership,” Larry said.
“Oh, I think she’s wrong about that,” Gertie said. “Lexi says a good love story is a good love story. And she says ninety-five percent of M/M readers are women.”
The conversation quieted down when the lunch plates began to arrive.
“Gimme a fried seafood platter from Francine’s Diner any day,” Ida Belle grumbled. “I’ve never seen such tiny portions on such huge plates.”
“Small portions are supposed to be fancy,” I said. “That's how it is in D.C., anyway.”
“Hope there’s a good dessert at the end of this.” Ida Belle picked up her fork and poked at her jambalaya, which was about a tablespoon of teeny seafood fragments, thinly ladled over a little bump of rice. “Francine gives you so much food that you need a doggy bag.”
“I can’t believe Felicity Valentine has the nerve to show her face at this conference after all this,” I heard someone say.
“Felicity Valentine is here at the conference?” Gertie’s fork paused in mid-transit.
“What does this Felicity Valentine look like?” I asked. “I have good eyesight. I could scan the room for her.”
“I got her latest book in my swag bag,” said a rangy woman sitting next to Ida Belle. Her platinum-blond pixie cut framed a gloomy face with deep circles under the eyes. She reached into her bag and pulled out a paperback. The cover showed a man’s muscular, hairless chest under an unbuttoned policeman’s uniform.
“Wait, this isn’t it. Here it is.”
Back into the bag went the underdressed policeman. Out came a clean-cut young couple embracing on a beach with a lighthouse in the background. Pixie Cut turned the book around to show me the author’s photograph.
“That’s the plagiarist?” I exclaimed. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, that's Felicity Valentine,” Pixie Cut said. “Why?”
“Also known as Fel. I was sitting right next to her.”
Chapter Eight
“Felicity Valentine was at our Bad Romance session?” Gertie exclaimed. “I can’t believe I didn’t see her!”
“She was hosting my table,” I said. “She invited me over after you all abandoned me. She seemed nice enough. I mean, for all of the five minutes I talked to her.”
“Ooh, this is so exciting! It’s only the first day of the conference and we already have a scandal.” Gertie fanned herself with the napkin.
“How do they know that Felicity was the one who copied, instead of the other way around?” Ida Belle asked. “Cause sometimes the wrong person gets blamed for that kind of thing.”
“The pub dates.” Pixie Cut dropped the lighthouse book back into her bag. “You know, it’s kind of ruined it for me, knowing she stole another author’s work. I was totally in awe of her productivity. Now that I know how she did it, wow. So disappointing.”
“Are you an author too?” Gertie asked.
The woman nodded. “Contemporary. Similar to Felicity
Valentine, actually, but with better representation. More diversity. You?”
“Well I know you’re not supposed to switch genres, but I can’t stay faithful to just one.” (Giggles around the table.) “I’ve done one contemporary and one shifter. My WIP is mature romance. I call it seniorotica.”
“Oh lordy,” Ida Belle clapped her hand over her face. “Gertie, you’re actually calling it that?”
Larry chuckled and shook his head in mock dismay.
“Larry doesn’t approve.” Gertie patted Larry's hand. “As far as I’m concerned, the hotter the better, but Larry writes squeaky clean. I suppose there’s room for all kinds.”
“Oh there certainly is,” Larry said. “Plenty of romance readers to go around.
“Romance is the largest single fiction market,” Pixie Cut said. “Over a billion dollars a year in the U.S. alone. So are you three virgins?” Her solemn expression stayed in place as she used the cutesy slang.
“Yes,” Ida Belle groaned. “It’s our first time at a romance conference, but about the hundredth time I’ve heard that stupid—”
I yelped as pain blazed in my ankle bone. Gertie placed her hand over her mouth.
“Oh sorry, Fortune. That kick was meant for Ida Belle.”
“How was that supposed to work, Gertie? I’m sitting right between you and her.”
“Well, I forgot you were there.”
“How could you forget that? Geez, I don't think I'm gonna be walking right for the rest of this conference.”
“Oh, Fortune, you're tougher than that. And Ida Belle, don’t be such a grumble guts. I’m having a lovely time. I’m meeting such interesting people”—here she gave Larry an adoring look—”and now we have a nice, juicy scandal on top of everything else. I think this is all absolutely wonderful. So much better than anything I expected. Of course I’m still hoping to meet Lexi Tingle.”
“I heard she was going to be at this conference,” one woman said. “I'm taking her online course. I think she’s a genius.”
“I enjoy some of Lexi’s work,” Pixie Cut said. “Her heteronormativity is deeply problematic, but she has a rich erotic imagination.”
“Now let’s not make poor Larry blush.” Gertie patted his hand protectively.
“It’s her!” Ida Belle exclaimed.
“Lexi?” Gertie gasped.
All heads at the table turned in the direction that Ida Belle was staring. Two tables away was the woman of the hour, the friendly little redhead from my Bad Romance session—Felicity Valentine. She was brazening it out, chatting with her tablemates as her assistant Danny moped quietly next to her.
“Felicity Valentine, huh?” Ida Belle sounded dangerous. “I might have known.”
“And just how might you have known? Five minutes ago you didn’t even know who Felicity Valentine was.”
“Don’t you recognize her, Gertie?”
“Well sure. That’s Felicity Valentine. I can see her red hair from here.”
“Felicity Valentine my—Gertie, if you weren’t blinder’n a big-eared bat, you’d a realized who that is.”
“What on earth are you on about, Ida Belle?”
“That’s Felicity Vigneau.”
Gertie’s little hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened.
“Felicity Vigneau!” she gasped. “No. Are you sure?”
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of dessert, which was a tiny dab of tiramisu on an enormous plate, drizzled prettily with chocolate syrup. Ida Belle harrumphed and pushed hers away.
“Are you going to eat that?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Barely worth the effort.”
I picked up Ida Belle’s dessert plate and tipped the contents onto mine before she could change her mind. What can I say? I’m five-ten, and used to regular workouts and a generous calorie allowance. These doll-sized conference meals weren’t going to do it for me.
“You know Felicity Valentine?” someone asked Ida Belle.
“Ida Belle,” I said, “that lady is having a bad enough day already, and we don’t know for sure that she really is who you think she is. Ooh, this tiramisu is pretty good. Ida Belle, sure you don't want some?”
“So she's using a fake name,” Ida Belle said. “That figures. She wouldn't dare show her face otherwise.”
“Why don’t we just ignore her and concentrate on having a good time at the conference?”
I didn’t even want to think about what kind of trouble Ida Belle and Gertie might cook up for this poor woman, whoever she was and whatever she’d done. The two of them could do some real damage if they set their mind to it, I knew that much.
“You know what would help me have a good time at this conference?” Ida Belle stood and pushed her chair back. “Not being in the same room as that woman.”
I watched her march through the maze of tables toward the ballroom exit, her carpet bag banging angrily against her hip with each step.
Chapter Nine
“Sympathy for the Villain”
Bissonet Room
How do you make a villain understandable, even sympathetic, but still keep him villainous? Is there a ‘Hero’s Journey’ for villains? Get into your villain's head and learn to create characters that are not merely moustache-twirling bad guys, but fully developed individuals with a story arc of their own.
Gertie and I went back up to the hotel room after lunch to find Ida Belle sitting on the edge of her bed. As soon as we walked into the room she started coughing and hid something behind her back.
Gertie put her hands on her hips and gave Ida Belle a stern look. “Are you drinking our supply? And straight out of the bottle? I told you, that’s unsanitary.”
Ida Belle contemplated the little brown bottle with its old-style apothecary label. Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup. The All-Purpose Elixir that Gently Soothes the Worst of Coughs.
“And I told you, the alcohol kills the germs. Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s going to the session on Western romance. I'm heading down to the villain workshop. Fortune’s going with me, right Fortune? Ida Belle, you should come too. Forget about Felicity. I don’t think I need to point out that high school was a very long time ago.”
“Gertie, Miss LeBeau actually believed to the very end—”
“Miss LeBeau’s been dead for decades. You’re going to give yourself a hernia carrying around a grudge like that. And look what happened today. You should be happy about it. Felicity got caught out this time. Everyone at the conference knows she plagiarized Destiny Davis. Destiny's probably going to sue her. Her reputation will be ruined. She'll never live this down.”
“Felicity was nice to me,” I said. “After both of you ditched me at the Bad Romance session she brought me over to her table and made me feel welcome.”
Ida Belle glared at me, drained the bottle of cough syrup, and then lobbed it into the trash can where it landed with a clang.
Gertie darted over and retrieved it.
“This is a perfectly good bottle, Ida Belle. We can reuse it for our next batch. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, honestly. Come on, quit moping around the hotel room. Come downstairs with us.”
“Sure. I feel waaaaay better now,” Ida Belle slowly wobbled to her feet. “Let’s go.”
The session was already underway when we got there. We edged into the only empty seats left, which were in the middle of a row. The session had started right on time, and the leader was already describing the assignment. We were to take a “villain” from our own lives and try to construct a backstory for them that would make their actions more sympathetic.
“In their own mind, everyone’s a hero,” she said. “Everyone casts themselves as the good guy. Even murderers on death row. Use the worksheet you found on your chair when you came in. And please work by yourselves. At this stage you should be coming up with your own ideas.”
I was happy to work alone. I can’t stand depending on people less competent than me, wh
ich pretty much describes every group assignment I’ve ever suffered through. I’d loathed group work in school, and I hated it even more now that I was a grown-up.
At the last Company team-building retreat I’d elbowed my tablemates out of the way and constructed the stupid marshmallow-and-spaghetti-sticks tower all by myself. Our tower was the tallest and most structurally sound in the room. Frustratingly, our grade for teamwork was also the lowest.
I've always liked a challenge, so I started with the most villainous villain I could think of: Ahmad, the ruthless arms dealer who’d put a bounty on my head. He was the reason I was spending the summer hiding out in bayou country to begin with.
Unfortunately, Ahmad had no redeeming qualities that I could see. He was completely lacking in loyalty or compassion; he'd shot his wife for walking in front of the TV during American Idol. He had no principles, other than looking out for himself. He sold weapons to the highest bidder, often supplying both sides of the same conflict. He didn’t have a single redeeming quality that I could see.
Drumming up sympathy for a villain was going to be hard for me anyway. In my world, there were good guys like me and the people I worked for, and bad guys like Ahmad. I wasn’t used to thinking in shades of gray. The world would be better off with Ahmad gone. Period.
I took another look at the worksheet in my lap. I’d have to think of someone a little less evil than Ahmad. There was Celia Arceneaux, the new mayor-elect of Sinful. She was an awful person, but she was my roommate Ally’s aunt, and I liked Ally.
“Who are you writing about?” I whispered to Gertie.
“I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Is it Celia?”
“Fortune, do your own.”
“How about you Ida Belle? Who’s your bad guy?”
“You, you traitor.”
“Me?”
“You said Felicity Vigneau was nice.”
Gertie leaned across me to scold Ida Belle.
