Write of Passage - Chapter 2 ( The Passage, Part 1 )

© 2024 by the authors using the pen names UpperNorthLeft and Jalibar62.

This is Part Two of the second story in the ongoing adventures of Harry and Portia; the first being "Write 'em, Cowboy." This will make a lot more sense if you read that one first.

There is one more chapter, which has been written, and will be submitted as soon as this posts. This picks up right where Chapter One left off.

Any frisky frolicking, hot monkey lovin', or other sexy shenanigans are between consenting adults 18 years of age or older.

===

HARRY

On our first morning as man and wife, we rolled out of bed only slightly bleary-eyed. We regretted delaying our showers, as it took quite a while to get all the paint off. Such an ordeal, spending so much time with my wet, naked wife, carefully cleansing her, umm, frontal regions. At one point, Portia said, a little breathlessly, "Harry? I don't think there's any paint left..." I grinned up at her and said, "Can't be too careful," and went back to where I was washing. Her reciprocations were equally... oh fuck it, it was great.

Hopefully, our other wedding guests endured this grueling process as well as we did. Having said that, we may have missed a few spots, to discover over the next few days. Oops.

We were almost late for the brunch Betty had booked for us.

Was it awkward to face our parents and friends after dancing semi-naked with them the evening before? Only for the first 30 seconds or so. The universal sentiment from all of them was, "Wow! That was the craziest bachelorette party / reception / wedding I've ever been to!"

If they were as exhausted as we were following the wedding, it's debatable as to how much canoodling occurred last night. Whatever happened, the other married folks at our wedding seemed especially affectionate with their partners this morning.

Barney flipped back and forth between looking insufferably smug, and terminally embarrassed. This state change seemed to be linked to the smoldering looks he got from Doris every few minutes.

Joe and Pam showed up together at the brunch an hour late with identical smirks on their faces. I hoped things would work out well with them, and felt no need to give him the 'don't hurt my little sister or else' speech (viz. pg 43 of the Older Brother's Handbook). I knew that Pam could take care of herself. If Joe crossed a line, he was going to be spending some quality time hanging in a net up in a tree. Either that or staked out on a fire ant mound. Hmm... Maybe I should warn him after all? Nah...

We brunched until we could brunch no more. After our family and friends said their goodbyes. Betty asked us to stick around for another round of mimosas. We both immediately smelled the same rat. Portia asked, "Okay, Betty. What are you up to now?"

Betty put the back of one hand to her forehead. "You cut me to the quick. So suspicious of the least little thing."

Portia crossed her arms and said, "Can you blame us? Spill it — what's up?"

Betty gave a world-weary sigh. "Okay. Your book, Bumping Boots at the Circle Seven, is coming out next week. We need to schedule your first book tour together."

I cast a gimlet eye at Betty. "Last night you told us to 'get in the limo at 6' for our bachelorette and bachelor parties. The next thing we knew, we were getting married at a topless dance party. You'll pardon me for being a bit wary of your plans for us. Now, when you say, 'it's just a book tour', I worry that we'll be shanghaied and wake up as sex slaves in a Thai brothel."

Betty said, "Think of it as a rite of passage for all writers, especially new ones..."

"So, as a newbie I'll be booked in all the shit locations, like Snake's Navel, Idaho and East Aardvark, Oklahoma?"

She chided, "Harry, Harry, Harry! There are no 'shit locations' on a book tour — just shitty attitudes by entitled self-important authors. This is a chance to connect with your fans."

"Fans?"

"Well, on this first tour, they're mostly gonna be Portia's fans, but after they meet you, they'll be your fans too."

"Gosh, I guess I didn't think that far ahead."

"Didn't you have any fans for those stories you posted on that sex site?"

"Uhh, excuse me, it's an erotic literature site."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. People read your stuff though, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose. And a few people commented."

She jabbed a finger at me. "There you go! Those people are your fans! How did you feel about their comments?"

"There were a few trolls, but I've learned to ignore them. And yeah, I've gotten some wonderful feedback on the site. Positive reviews would make me feel good for the rest of the day. Those kinds of comments made me want to keep writing."

"Well, there you go! And it works both ways — a kind remark from you to one of your readers will make their day too. Heck, it may make them fans for life. They'll buy your books for themselves and as gifts for their families. They'll harass their public libraries to buy copies. They'll organize book clubs and get all their friends to read your book. See where I'm going here? It's hard to buy advertising as effective as a really good personal contact."

"Okay, okay. We're trying to win hearts and minds. Got it."

"Good! Now, consider this: eighty to ninety percent of your audience will be women, so we really want to play up this rugged cowboy angle you've got going. Turn on that West Texas charm. Hell, maybe even do a few rope tricks."

I eyed her dubiously. "Seriously?"

"Yes, damn it. Trust me. It'll boost the crap out of your sales."

I shrugged. "I guess that makes sense. Can I wear the same clothes I wore at the dude ranch?" I looked at Portia. "Remember dance night?"

Portia smiled. "Oh yeah, you looked damn sexy, babe. Here, Betty, take a look." She scrolled through her phone for a second for some shots of us taken by Jessie the Cowgirl. Then she handed the phone to Betty.

"Mmm, nice. Very Taylor Sheridan. But I was thinking more along the lines of..." and she handed us her own phone with a video queued up.

It was a how-to video on rope twirling by Daniel Mink, a leading light of the lasso who performs as The Rhinestone Roper. Great western outfit, but a bit over the top for my taste.

"Oh, hell no, Betty. There's no way I'm going to wear that getup."

"Come on, Harry. Those Midwest matrons will love it!"

Portia was laughing her ass off at my discomfort. I crossed my arms and glared at her. Then I gave her an evil grin. "I'll wear it... but only if Portia dresses like a dance-hall girl."

Suddenly Portia wasn't enjoying the conversation as much. "Oh, fuck no!"

We wound up compromising on clothing. And by that, I mean that Portia wore her usual outfits, while I wore my regular, comfortable western attire. But I did agree to let my West Texas accent out to play a bit. Betty maintained that a well-placed "Shucks, ma'am" or "T'weren't nuthin' darlin'" would go a long way with the average romance reader.

However, Portia wasn't finished negotiating. "Tours are exhausting! Spending hours waiting and eating in airports, flying to a new city every day, and never getting to stop and smell the tamales? I hate it!"

Betty nodded. "I hear you, sweetie. But we do that to squeeze the max number of events into a two-week tour." She paused for a few moments. "Of course, if you did a driving tour, we could book each stop a few hundred miles apart. It would even be a lot cheaper. But nobody wants to drive these days."

I said, "Well, I don't mind driving. Also, what if we spaced each event out, maybe three days apart? That would give us plenty of time to drive and see the sights along the way." I turned to Portia. "We could make it sort of a honeymoon trip."

Betty said, "Hon, if you did that, we'd have to extend the tour to maybe a month to cover the same territory."

Portia shook her head. "I can't take off from writing for a whole month." She looked at me. "How about your job?"

"I'm not sure. However, my boss is a big fan of yours. She might be flexible about some time off, and remote work."

"But how are we going to write code and romance if we're both driving for hours every day? That doesn't sound very appealing to me."

Betty rubbed her chin and looked off into the distance for a moment. Then she nodded to herself, and said, "What do y'all think about touring in a motorhome, with your own driver?"

Portia looked at me, and we both shrugged. She said, "I suppose that could work. But that sounds even more expensive than flying."

Betty said, "I've got a few ideas. I'll get back to you this evening." She paid the bill, and we left the restaurant.

===

PORTIA

Betty was even quicker than we thought. She dropped by the house later that afternoon and said, "It's all set. The motorhome and driver are all arranged. So get packing — your tour starts on June 1st."

I was speechless. I turned to Harry, who was as shocked as I was. He opened his mouth, and Betty cut him off.

"Don't worry, Harry — I called your boss, and she's all in on you working remotely for the next month."

Harry slowly shook his head. "Wait. You called Margaret? How did you talk her into that?"

"Well, you mentioned that she was one of Portia's fans. So, I gave her a call and offered to get her a signed advance copy of Bumping Boots. I also invited her to join me at my VIP table for the American Romance Guild House meeting up in Dallas in July."

I exploded. "You're taking her to ARGH? You don't even invite me to go there! Jesus, Betty!"

"Calm down, princess. It's just a romance conference." She paused. "And a cameo."

I spoke through clenched teeth. "What do you mean by a cameo?"

"I told her she could be a character in your next book. What's it called, by the way?"

I glared at her. "Our working title is Death of a Publisher."

Betty cackled. "That'll do as a placeholder. I'm sure that the two of you will figure out some cute romantic angle to a publisher-cide. But if y'all are gonna kill me, just make sure to make it interesting!"

Harry said dryly, "No doubt. The witty repartee will make it a big hit in the posthumor fiction section."

Betty arched an eyebrow. "Don't you mean 'posthumous'?"

I said, "Well, sure — from the dead publisher's point of view. But we think the readers will laugh out loud at the hilarious decapitation scene we have in mind for you."

Betty looked thoughtful. "Hmm... You may be on to something. This could be the start of a whole new genre — snuff-romance! A Lighthearted Look at Lethal Love! Dead Ever After!"

I just don't know how to deal with Betty when she goes all hyperbolic like this. She could just be yanking our chain. Or worse, she could be dead serious, and about to embark on yet another of what Harry and I refer to as Acts of Betty — which are like Acts of God, but usually R- or X-rated. Harry and I shook our heads and resigned ourselves to a life of uncertainty.

===

HARRY

Despite Betty's assurances, I called my boss anyway.

"Hi, Margaret."

"Harry! How's my favorite employee?"

"Uhh... fine, I, uh... just wanted to be sure you're okay with me working remotely for a while. I know you talked to my publisher, but she's..."

"Yeah, a bit of an irresistible force," she chuckled. "It's all good, Harry. I'm actually pretty excited about all of it. I know you'll be conscientious, and I'm not worried about your work."

"Okay, that makes me feel a little better. Betty kind of takes over, you know? I just wanted to be sure we're on the same page."

She snickered. "Was that a writer pun? You need to work on those."

"Ha. Ha." I snarked. "Seriously, though, I'm glad you're getting something out of it too."

"Oh yeah, I'm super stoked. A front row seat at ARGH, and a cameo in one of Portia Mueller's novels? Damn, I still can't believe you're married to her, you dog."

"Me either, Margaret, me either."

===

Austin to Baton Rouge

PORTIA

Two weeks later, a large, obnoxiously flashy, and rather garish motorhome pulled up in front of our house. Imagine the love child of Liberace's toilet hooking up with a Greyhound bus on steroids and crystal meth. Its lines exuded the understated grace and subtle elegance of a rolling stripper convention. As Harry and I goggled at this monstrosity, whoever was driving hit the horn. The first five notes of La Cucaracha blared out, then the door opened and who else, but Betty hopped out.

She was followed by a slender, dark-haired young woman in her early twenties, who was dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt with a skeleton driving a VW minibus on it, Doc Martens, wayyy too much dark eyeshadow, and black lipstick. The T-shirt had the sleeves torn off, revealing contrasting tattoos on each arm. They looked like quality work, but I was more distracted by the wheeled behemoth the two women had just exited.

I stared at Betty. Then at the... whatever it was. Then back at Betty. "My God, what is that thing? How many baby chromes and glitters gave their lives to build it?"

Betty laughed. "Blame my sister and her husband — it's theirs. The rest of the family calls it the Whorehouse On Wheels, or WOW for short. She loaned it to me for the tour."

Betty hugged both of us, and then introduced us to the goth-in-training. "Morticia here will be your driver and personal assistant for the tour."

The young woman gritted her teeth and said, "Aunt Betty isn't nearly as hilarious as she thinks she is. My name is Felicity." She continued to scowl, and generally managed to appear as non-felicitous as possible. She made no effort further to greet us, shake hands, or otherwise make nice.

Betty merely smirked. "You needed a driver. Fliss here needs the work — yet another victim of the collapsing job market for art history majors."

"That would imply that there was one in the first place," Harry said drolly, and Felicity gave him the death stare.

We loaded up our bags without further comment, battened down our house, and skipped town.

Felicity soon had us heading southeast from Austin to Houston. While the interior of the WOW-wagon was just as ostentatious as the exterior, the seats were quite comfortable, and the dining area was very roomy. I gave Harry a snarky grin, "That table looks big enough for four people... or for two computer programmers."

Harry's mock-glare was a promissory note for some future, fitting punishment — hopefully of a type that I would enjoy.

Betty gave us a quick visual tour of the other features. The bidet with Bluetooth — this time I refrained from asking 'why' — and a heated seat sounded rather decadent, but Harry and I were more impressed by the built-in satellite dish and WiFi hotspot. That could come in handy if we ever foolishly wandered some place where the Internet don't shine.

We got to Houston in no time and dropped Betty off at her office. She gave us a corporate credit card — along with dire warnings about superfluous spending — and a hug, and said, "Have fun on the tour. Do some good writing!"

She then shooed us back into the vehicle. Felicity soon had us cruising east on I-10 toward Baton Rouge. She barely said a word to us during the drive, but that was okay — we had work to do.

Harry and I settled in at the table with our computers and began to type.

===

HARRY

Felicity said very little, but turned out to be an excellent driver. By the time we crossed the border into Louisiana, I had written and debugged a hundred lines of Python code. We had great cellular internet along I-10, so I had no trouble creating an SSH tunnel to one of my big Linux servers back in Austin. I uploaded my code to the server, and by the time we arrived in Baton Rouge, the server had already trained my new AI model on a large dataset back home.

I closed my laptop and stretched. Portia typed for another few minutes, and then, after shutting the lid on her machine, she came around and began massaging my neck and shoulders. Groaning with pleasure, I let my head loll back against her very comfortable chest. She leaned down and kissed my forehead.

I smiled up at her. "That feels amazing. Get some good work done there, sweetie?"

Coming around and settling herself in my lap, she gave me a proper kiss. "Actually, yeah. I don't usually get this much writing done when I'm on tour. I hate to say it, but Betty was right — this is a pretty great way to travel." Her stomach rumbled. "Any ideas for supper?"

"Yeah, one of the guys at work suggested a great Cajun restaurant we could try."

"Yum."

Felicity drove The Mighty WOW to our RV park without difficulty. We got a few gawks from other campers as we eased into our spot, but that was something we were getting used to. After we completed all of our hookups, I asked her to join us for dinner.

"No, thanks. I'll just order something from the GrubbaDubDub app."

"Nuh uh. No app food for you. This is our treat."

"Pass."

Portia wasn't having it. "You're supposed to be our personal assistant as well as our driver on this trip, aren't you?"

Felicity grumbled, "Yeah, so?"

"We require your assistance tonight. The Uber will be here in ten minutes."

Felicity rolled her eyes. "FINE, whatev."

At the restaurant, we waited at the bar until our table was ready. I half-expected Felicity to order a Dark and Stormy, but instead, she opted for a Sazerac. I should have known she'd order absinthe. Curious, I asked the bartender to make it two. Felicity gave me a considering look, but rolled her eyes when Portia asked for a Pinot Grigio. I heard Portia's molars grinding, and grabbed her, just in case she decided to launch herself over the table at the girl.

Felicity downed her drink fairly quickly and ordered another one. I savored mine, and raising my glass to her, said, "A warrior's drink!"

She eyed me, no doubt looking for sarcasm.

I continued, "Great job driving today. We both got a lot of work done."

She unbent enough to bob her head in acknowledgement.

"So, just to be sure, do you prefer to be called Felicity or Fliss? I noticed Betty used the latter, but if it's too familiar, I don't want to offend."

Behind her hand, Portia mouthed, "Suck up!"

"Actually, I prefer Morticia."

I gaped at her, and she cracked the tiniest bit of a smile. By that, I mean her lips went from her perpetual frown to a horizontal line. One corner of one lip may have quirked upward momentarily, but I probably imagined it.

"Gotcha," she said. "Fliss is fine. Only my parental units call me Felicity."

When our table was ready, I wasted no time ordering a bucket of boiled crawfish and a platter of fried alligator tail. Portia and Felicity — err, Fliss — viewed these with dark suspicion, but that evaporated as soon as they ate the first morsel of a tender gator nugget. I then showed them how to shell and eat a crawfish. After a tentative nibble, their dubious expressions changed to looks of greed. After that, I had to work quickly to make sure I got my share.

By now, Fliss's affect had evolved from her baseline of sullen to a Gothic version of mellow, and she relaxed enough to give us a bit of her backstory. After college, she had helped design exhibits at the National Museum of Funeral History, which we were surprised to learn was in Houston.

We then polished off a large order of crawfish étouffée while Fliss shared several unexpectedly humorous anecdotes about cremation and embalming. Harry and I had no plans for a mortician-related romance, however, if we ever do decide to write one, Fliss will be our go-to girl for repartee about the departées.

A magnificent Bananas Foster provided an appropriate exclamation point to our meal. Fliss surprised us both by thanking us for dinner, and we toddled off to our beds in Hotel WOW, feeling that all was right with the world.

===

HARRY

Our first bookstore event was actually a lot of fun. Portia and I took turns reading from Bumping Boots, and I demonstrated a few simple rope tricks. Then we answered questions.

Fliss was a big help with the book signing. She went through the line with a pad of Post-it notes and a handful of pens. Each customer printed what they wanted us to inscribe in their books, and then stuck that note on the page they wanted us to sign.

This made the actual signing process very efficient and gave Portia and me more time to chat and interact with our readers.

===

Baton Rouge to Birmingham (via The Big Easy)

PORTIA

The next day, we followed I-10 down to New Orleans and spent a day being tourists. Fliss initially wanted to stay in the RV and read. We enticed her to come along with us by promising her fresh beignets, po' boys and a visit to the Museum of Death on Dauphine Street. An afternoon cemetery tour picked up her spirits even further, and she deigned to accompany us to GW Fins for an amazing seafood dinner.

After a jazz brunch the next morning, we ambled along Decatur Street, enjoying the balmy breeze blowing down the levee along the Mississippi River. I bought Harry a blue Hawaiian shirt covered with red crawfish. Fliss affected disinterest in shopping until we passed a shop window filled with skulls and Satanic masks. We followed her inside. She looked wistfully at one particular skull mask, but grimaced when she saw the price sticker. When she went to the bathroom, I bought it and had the shopkeeper stuff it in a shapeless and unmarked bag.

But I think the highlight of the visit — for her, anyway — was when, after doing a quick search on my phone, I hung a left at St. Peter, and led them a couple of blocks up past Jackson Park. Harry raised an eyebrow in question, and I gave him a 'trust me' wink. Taking another left on Bourbon Street, I stopped in front of a rather dilapidated storefront. Harry saw it immediately, and he started to grin.

Fliss, however, just huffed. "Why are we stop..." and then she saw the sign: Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo.

She tried to play it cool, but her eyes were bugging out of her head. "Oh, uh, yeah, looks okay. Guess we can go in." And she tried — failing utterly — to amble slowly in. Harry high-fived me. "Nice one, babe," he whispered, and gave me a surreptitious smooch.

We spent a solid hour in there, and Fliss was deep in conversation with the proprietor for most of it. She floated back to the RV. Yeah, Fliss was in bliss. Sorry, it had to be said!

After she finally calmed down, Fliss piloted us eastward on I-10 and then NE on I-59 toward Birmingham. We stopped at the Bonita Lakes RV Park in Meridian for the night and had an early bedtime.

It was so nice the next day that we hung out at the park itself, had a nice brunch, and stared at the lake. Harry offered to dig up a mess of worms for Fliss so that she could drop a line and do some fishin'. She rolled her eyes and stomped back to the RV in disgust.

After an easy drive up I-20 to Birmingham, Fliss parked the WOW and we Ubered over to a local barbecue spot for dinner. In this part of the country, barbecue seems to be centered around pork, rather than beef. Harry groused a bit about eating "hot, dead pig", but had seconds and cleaned his plate. My man!

The book event the next morning was lovely, with a schedule similar to the one in Baton Rouge. We had a nice crowd at the reading, and several of the women there seemed quite taken with Harry. Especially when he read his part, and amped up that sexy Texas drawl of his. Shoot, he had me amped up too! Afterward, I suggested to Fliss that the WOW needed to have its suspension system stress-tested, and that she might want to take a walk for an hour or so. I hung a sock on the door of the WOW and dragged Harry back into the rear bedroom!

===

Birmingham to Charleston

HARRY

We had enjoyed our picnic brunch in Meridian so much that we decided to have another one, this time at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens.

Portia asked, "How are you enjoying the tour so far?"

"It's getting better. I was nervous at first, but it was actually thrilling to have people hanging on every word during the reading."

"Seems to me that Betty's sexy cowboy angle was right on the money."

"Oh, bite me."

She smirked. "Later, baby. But seriously, I mean it! That lady who volunteered to 'help' you with your rope trick? When you said, 'Stand a little closer, darlin'' and spun that big wedding ring loop around the two of you, I thought she was going to hump your leg right there on stage!"

Fliss snorted, and a transitory grin flickered across her face.

I growled, "Oh, come on."

"No, really! And all of the women there were squirming in their seats when you read the scene where the cowboy saves the heroine from going over the waterfall."

She clasped both hands beside her left cheek and sighed, "Your deep, sexy voice had me squirming a little too."

My deep, frustrated voice groaned, "Can we please change the subject?"

Fliss echoed sotto voce, "Yes, please!"

Portia relented. "Okay. What else do you want to talk about?"

"Sequels."

"Sequels?"

"Yeah, several of the fans kept asking me when we were going to write a sequel to Bumping Boots."

"Oo-kay... What do you want to know?"

"Well, from listening to you and Betty talk about The Rules for Romance, a sequel shouldn't be possible."

Her eyebrows rose. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Well, Betty said that the Prime Directive of Romance is that there is always a Happily Ever After."

"Uh huh. So?"

"HEA is a state of perfection. So, if the first book ends with HEA, how can a second book improve on perfection? Seems like every romance that obeys the Prime Directive is therefore obligated to write itself into a corner that forbids any continuation of the story."

Fliss jumped in. "Sounds like a real Catch-22." She quirked one eyebrow. "Or would the romance version of that be Gash-22?"

Portia was at a momentary loss for words, so I jumped in. "You're thinking of erotica. We sophisticated romance writers prefer to say Vaj-22."

Fliss snickered, which for her was a belly laugh.

Portia importuned the heavens for surcease, and then soldiered on. "Horrible puns aside, that's a great point. It's a Catch-22 that romance writers have struggled with for years. On the one hand, you spend all this time creating a universe with fascinating characters, and the readers want more of them. On the other hand, the classic structure of a romance story precludes any further sequels."

"Exactly! So how do we solve that problem?"

Portia said, "One way is to write a spin-off, featuring other characters."

I nodded. "Okay, what else?"

"We can modify the Prime Directive. Instead of mandating Happily Ever After, we take the characters to a more realistic, but satisfyingly imperfect place: Happy For Now."

I nodded. "Ah, I see. Sorta like us. We're still newlyweds, and we float through each day on fluffy, pink clouds of bliss. However, it won't be too long before the morning dew fades from the pumpkin, and we'll start arguing over curtain colors and what to name our goldfish."

"Not too long?? Is the magic already fading from our marriage?" she uttered with mock umbrage. I grinned and made a gentle tugging motion with both hands.

She gave an exasperated groan. "You dick! Maybe I don't want you jerking my pumpkin!"

I had no idea what that meant, so I gleefully chose to take it the wrong way. "Is that a mixed metaphor, or some new sexual euphemism I should know about?" I leered and reached vaguely toward her ass.

She snorted and scooted away from me, slapping my hand aside. "Bad Harry! Naughty, naughty Harry!"

Fliss swallowed a laugh, rolled her eyes, and shook her head.

Portia paused for a moment, and then said, "What the hell were we talking about... before you derailed the whole goddamn discussion with that deranged metaphor?"

I laughed. "We were talking about gnarly, real-life conflicts — like goldfish-naming — or pumpkin jerking, I suppose. Something that will eventually make us as grumpy as Snow White's favorite dwarf. Hopefully, we'll find clever solutions to our problems, and we'll be happy again... for a while."

Portia rolled her eyes. "Okay, I'll allow the point."

"Anyhow, while we're waiting for the next painful shoe of life to fall on us, maybe we should get back to work on some of those fluffy, pink clouds of bliss together."

Portia exaggerated a dreamy look my way. "Ooh, yeah... fluff me baby, fluff me all night long!"

Fliss did a brief facepalm and groaned, "Get a room, you two." Then a look of horror crossed her face, and she hastily added, "But not in the back of the WOW while I'm driving!"

Portia and I both waggled our eyebrows at her, just to make her cringe.

After brunch, the Wide and Weighty WOW wended its (sadly) fluff-free way along I-20 through Atlanta on its way to Charleston.

===

PORTIA

Harry nudged me with his hip as I worked away at the table. I typed one last sentence and said, "Yeah, babe?"

"Going to wash a load of clothes — want me to throw in any of your things?"

"Sure, but just my jeans and T-shirts. I'll hand wash my unmentionables later, big boy." I replied with a saucy wink.

The WOW had a washer-drier! Because of course it did.

At first, I wasn't wild about traveling around the country in an RV, but the scales had been lifted from my eyes. Compared to my previous life-out-of-a-suitcase existence on tours, travel in the S.S. WOW was an epiphany.

It was like a combination of a spa and a giant, rolling life-support system. Daily gourmet coffee, fresh from an Aeropress, was a powerful argument. The endless supply of clean underwear was even better. Having my boo beside me on tour was the best part of all.

Harry and I were quickly spoiled by the sumptuous rear bedroom suite, and slept like babies. However, in deference to Fliss's tender sensibilities, we had not christened the mattress in any other way. At least not while she was driving. Meaning, mayyybe we had some sexy frolics, but only when she was off exploring on her own.

Fliss had her own cozy over-the-cab sleeping nook that Harry and I quickly dubbed "The Crypt". One evening we bought her a bouquet of lilies to clutch on her chest as she slept. She took the lilies and did 'lie in repose' with them, but giggled and flipped us off at the same time, while we took a quick photo. Fliss giggling was quite a revelation. Clearly, not a sound she was accustomed to making. We'd work on that.

===

Harry seemed to be having more and more fun at our book signings. We had been experimenting with different ways of conducting the readings. We finally stumbled on the idea of reading chapters with a lot of dialogue, where Harry read the male MC's part and I read the female part.

This went off the rails a bit in Charleston. We really got into the zone in the story, and basically forgot that we had an audience. It felt as if Harry and I were having a private conversation. Alas, we achieved this Zen-like state in the middle of one of the more torrid scenes in the book. Our concentration was broken when one of our audience members let out a loud gasp and dropped her book. Harry and I looked up from our reading to see the rest of our audience looking around like a bunch of startled tarsiers. To be charitable, maybe she had just nodded off. However, the flushed and embarrassed look on her face had us convinced that she had just had an orgasm! Either way, it seemed like a good time to end the reading. As the poor woman fled the room, I jumped up and hurried after her.

Later, I told Harry the story. I'd found our excitable admirer ensconced in a corner stall of the ladies' room, crying her eyes out. With some soft words, I managed to coax her out of the stall. After sharing a supportive hug, I assured her that her reaction was the absolute highest praise that any romance author could ever hope to receive.

"Really?" she asked in a tiny voice, still sniffling a little. She had an absolutely delightful Low Country accent, and I gave her a tender smile.

"Absolutely. I promise," I replied. "I'll never forget Charleston, that's for sure!"

She blushed, but managed a laugh. "No, I reckon you wouldn't." And just like that, Maddie Middleton was our new friend. We found out later that she became the president of the Charleston chapter of our fan club.

God damn it, Betty was right. Again. Simple interactions, yeah? If meeting Maddie didn't qualify as a 'really good personal contact,' then nothing would!

===

Harry continued his efforts to broaden our palates for Southern cuisine. Fliss had never had hush puppies, and I had never tried grits. Neither of us had ever had she-crab soup. Both of us are now big fans of all three.

However, we finally ran across a food item that even Harry the Irritating Omnivore didn't like; boiled peanuts. We spotted them in a convenience store just outside of Charleston. The store had a whole area set up inside with big steel pots simmering away. Handy styrofoam containers sat nearby, inviting us to ladle in our flavor of choice. Yes, apparently, plain old peanut-flavored peanuts are just so passé. The store had jalapeño-flavored, dill-flavored, Cajun, salt-and-vinegar, garlic... you get the idea. Harry just had to try them and bought a few varieties to share with us back in the WOW.

"Okay, let's try the plain one first." He saw Fliss trying to shell her peanut, and he said, "No, I think you just eat the whole damn thing."

She eyed him dubiously, but when he threw the entire peanut into his mouth, shell and all, she followed suit. I snorted sweet tea (another acquired Southern taste) out of my nose at the expression on Harry's face!

He had given the legume a few tentative chews, then a grimace of extreme displeasure spread across his face. He spit the thing into a napkin, and then tried to wipe off his tongue with another.

"Oh God, that's disgusting. It tastes like dirt that's been boiled in seawater." He gagged slightly, then swiped my tea to rinse out his mouth.

"Hey! I was drinking that!" I complained, laughing.

Then, amazingly, from the front seat, Fliss murmured contemplatively, "Actually that's not bad." She chewed thoughtfully. "Nope, not bad at all. You gonna finish yours?" She looked at Harry hopefully.

He stared at her in horror and passed her the cup.

Trying to hold in my snickers, I ever-so-sweetly suggested that maybe one of the flavored peanuts might be more palatable.

He looked at me skeptically. No doubt searching for signs of duplicity. My boo didn't trust me? I was wounded. I nodded encouragingly at him.

"Okay, if you think so..." He reached for the Cajun-spiced batch.

Two point seven seconds later...

"Oh God," he half-retched again. "Now it tastes like hot dirt that's been boiled in seawater. Gaaah!!!"

I couldn't hold it in any longer, and soon was rolling around on the floor of the RV.

Harry scowled at me with a hurt look. "So mean..." he whined. Tears streamed down my face, and even Fliss was bright red, holding in her laughter.

I took pity on Harry, and offered to try one myself. He watched me carefully, no doubt hoping for a reaction similar to his own. He seemed deeply disappointed when I didn't immediately disgorge it. I think my reaction fell somewhere in between those of my two compatriots. While they were kind of gritty and slimy, they didn't taste quite as bad as Harry's reaction suggested. I wasn't gonna rush out and buy more, but I had eaten worse things.

===

Charleston to Roanoke

HARRY

Portia and I had noticed how Fliss cherished the charnel; her penchant for the perished; and her soft spot for the sepulchral. Thus far, we had just rolled with it. However, Fliss was starting to grow on us, and I wanted to find out more about what made her tick. So, I sat up in the cab and chatted with her as she drove us up through North Carolina on the way to Roanoke.

"I've noticed your fascination with death." Before she could roll her eyes, I said, "I know, I know, my insights are uncanny... and yes, I've been called 'Captain Obvious' more than once."

She snickered, which encouraged me. I said, "It's clear that you're really passionate about the subject. How did you come to be so interested in death? I promise, I'm not judging. I'm honestly curious."

She gave me a considering look, and then sighed. "It goes back to when I was a little girl. One of my grandaunts died, and I had to go to the funeral. It was an open casket service, and my parents led me by her body. I had never seen a dead body before."

"Wow, that must have been scary."

"The thought of seeing her absofuckinglutely terrified me."

"I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Thank you. But you know, a funny thing happened."

She saw my eyebrows got up, and said, "By 'funny', I mean odd. But you know, it was actually funny-humorous in retrospect."

"How so?"

"I had no idea what a dead person was supposed to look like. All the grownups were crying and so sad that I was expecting, I don't know — a monster or something."

My eyes were wide. Fliss saw that and laughed softly. "So, I get up to the casket, expecting some ghastly, horrible thing... And instead, she just looked like she was asleep. So peaceful."

She smiled. "I was so relieved! I told my mom, 'It's okay, Mom! She's just resting.' I wanted to tell that to all of the crying people so that they would feel better."

Her smile saddened. "But my mom just shushed me, and led me out of the church. Then we went out to the cemetery and watched as they put the casket in the ground and buried her."

I glanced back at Portia, who had been listening to us talk. She had stopped typing, and her eyes were brimming with tears. Heck, mine were too.

Fliss said, "My main memory of the whole event was how everyone — everyone — was batshit terrified about death. So terrified that they didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to think about it. But my grandaunt looked so peaceful."

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "So that's when I became the weird little girl who was fascinated with death. Everyone — including my parents — thought it was some creepy phase I was going through. Am still going through. But the more I learned about death and dying, the more desensitized I became. By embracing it, I took away its power to terrify me."

Portia was now sobbing softly behind us. I was getting a little misty myself. Fliss glanced at Portia in the rearview mirror and then at me and smiled. "You guys may have noticed that I don't warm up to a lot of people. That's probably because most people dismiss me or ignore me."

She scrubbed at her nose, steering with her other hand as she gathered her thoughts. I thought I heard the tiniest catch in her voice as she continued.

"But you guys are really great. You've included me in all your activities right from the start, even if you had to practically put me in a chokehold to do it. It pissed me off when you first made fun of me, but then I realized that you guys are constantly razzing each other. And you do it in a really inclusive way that makes me feel part of the group, rather than isolated from it. You treat me just like you treat each other — and you keep doing all of these kind things that indulge my weird... proclivities. So... thank you."

I stared out the window so she wouldn't see me breaking down. Finally, once I'd collected myself, I blew my nose and said, "Geez, Fliss — you're turning into quite the little chatterbox. Heck, you're gonna be overdrawn at the word bank for the rest of the month." I said this as she was taking a sip of water, which resulted in a spit take all over the steering wheel and dashboard.

"Asshole!" But she was laughing as she said it. Fliss — laughing!

"Laughing too — where's that nice quiet goth girl that we hired to just shut up and drive? I want my money back!"

"Motherfucker!" But she had the greatest smile when she said that.

"Thanatophilia!" Portia suddenly announced.

"Uhh, what? Non sequitur much?" I boggled at her. "Are you having a stroke?"

"No, you boob! That's what Fliss is; a thanatophile!" She read from her computer screen in a sing-song voice. "It's derived from the Greek word 'Thanatos,' meaning death, and is 'used to describe individuals with a deep interest or fascination with death, its rituals, the cultural practices surrounding it, and its symbolism.' So there!" And she stuck out her tongue at me.

Fliss tried not to drive off the road.

===

As we ate in Greensboro, I suggested a short diversion on our way to Roanoke via the town of Chatham, VA.

Fliss said, "What's in Chatham?"

"The Simpson Funeral Museum! Doh!"

Portia and Fliss came perilously close to pelting me with corn fritters before I quickly said, "No! Not Homer Simpson — Bill Simpson. This place has been there since the late 1800s."

I read off my phone's browser, "They have 'award-winning antique hearses' on display."

Portia said, "Color me intrigued. I had no idea there were those kinds of contests."

I said, "Me neither."

Fliss said, "Where did you find out about this place?"

"Believe it or not, it's listed on the Virginia is for Lovers website. You guys want to go?"

Fliss's thanatophilic grin was blinding. "Oh, hells yes!"

It was a strange and wonderful museum. I won't list the many marvels we beheld, other than the display of ornate funeral regalia, which was awesome. Fliss took pictures of everything. She typed a ton of notes into her iPad, perhaps for future use at the National Funeral History Museum (if they ever re-hired her). She began planning the assembly of some of her own fantastic regalia based on what she saw there — maybe some for me and Portia as well. I can hardly wait for Halloween.

As we reentered The Magnificent WOW, Portia went to the rear stateroom, where I could hear her rummaging around. Fliss gave me a questioning look, but I was as in the dark as she was, and just shrugged.

I got a clue when she reemerged, holding a vaguely familiar shapeless and unmarked bag in her hands.

Looking at Fliss, she said, "Sorry I didn't get a chance to wrap it properly, honey, but we wanted you to have this." And she held out the bag.

Believe me, I didn't miss the 'honey'. I glanced at Portia, but I don't think she even realized she'd said it.

Fliss, smiling tentatively, opened the bag. She stared for a few seconds, then looked back up at Portia in seeming shock. To my utter astonishment, a tear snuck its way out of the corner of her eye.

"This... this is the one from New Orleans!" she spoke in wonderment, pulling out the skull mask that she had admired while we were there.

It really was a stunning piece of work, not at all your typical touristy schlock. It was bone-white, and designed to resemble a human skull. It looked old, and was covered in intricate patterns and voodoo veves. It was mesmerizing, to be honest, and Fliss stared at it as a few more tears trickled down her cheeks. Then, setting it down carefully, she threw herself at Portia, wrapping her arms around her neck.

"Thank you," she breathed, eyes shut tight.

"You're welcome, sweetie," my wife said in a husky voice, rubbing the girl's back.

Fine time for my allergies to start acting up...

===

The gig in Roanoke was much like the others, but with one notable negative exception. Book lovers tend to be the nicest people on earth. They're smart, they're well-read, they're kind. Mostly.

This time we had a line-cutting asshole in the book signing line. For some reason, his time was much more valuable than that of anyone else in the store, and he wanted his damned book signed for his mom's birthday — now!

We had never had a problem with any of our lines. Fliss ran a pretty tight ship — quiet and efficient. Anyone thinking of jumping the queue was usually pre-intimidated by her appearance. As much as she'd opened up to Portia and me, she was still an all-black-wearing goth terror to the unsuspecting public. When she turned up her glare to eleven, even I backed away.

Today's asshole was too stupid or too egotistical to be quelled by her glare. He kept trying to convince us of his entitlement to move through the line quicker than the other customers. Before I could stand up and have a quiet word, he was suddenly holding hands with Fliss, and not-so-quietly going, "Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow..." Fliss led him out the door and came back in after a minute. But the asshole didn't.

The rest of the gig was rather anticlimactic. Once all the books were signed, Portia pulled Fliss aside. "What the hell just happened?"

"No biggie. He was an asshole, so I convinced him to leave."

"How did you do that?"

"Logic."

"What kind of logic is that convincing?"

"The logic of putting him in an aikido wrist lock, and telling him that I'd break his fucking wrist unless he followed me outside."

"That must be some wrist lock."

"Oh, it is. Let me demonstrate it on Harry."

I was fool enough to let Fliss put her hands on me. A few seconds later, my poor wrist was in a vise — a vise that couldn't possibly be coming from this slender young woman — yet it nearly brought me to my knees in pain. She stopped after a few seconds and I snatched my hand away.

I took a moment to prove to myself that my wrist was not actually broken. "What the fuck was that?"

She said, "It's called nikkyo. Want to see it again?" She smirked.

"Oh, fuck, no! Get away from me! Shoo! Shoo! Portia, help!"

Those brats just laughed at me. Just wait til the next time I demonstrate my rope tricks. Oh, yes, I would have my revenge.

===

AFTERWORD

Just to give y'all a visual reference, the Whorehouse on Wheels, aka the Splendiferous WOW, is very loosely based on the Newmar Dutch Star. With a heaping helping of poetic license.

Part 3 is complete and will be submitted as soon as Part 2 posts.