We passed the time in the limo learning more about Thunderbirds and Werewolves, or, at least, I did. I guess the others already knew about all that supernatural stuff. But I was like one of those cartoon characters, my ears growing larger as the information absorbed me with its flavors and enhancements. I asked questions, begged for more input, and tried to absorb this whole kingdom I’d never heard of before my time with Timothy. It was a lot to learn, and I still knew next to nothing about the Fae because Ben seemed the most unwilling of all of them to open that magical door. He avoided every question until Timothy suggested that I let that slice of the pie rest for another time. (Yes, I know that’s two metaphors put together that don’t match, but those were Timothy’s words, not mine.)
After we’d ridden in the car for about an hour, I finally sat up, looked around, and wondered out loud exactly where we were going. Of course, I knew a cruise liner would be found at the ocean. Duh, but where precisely was the port located?
Timothy fidgeted in his seat, avoided my eyes, and changed the subject several times, leading us down other paths. But eventually, when I kept returning to the question . . .
I knew that something was up, that he was hiding something from me? But, what?
“Timothy,” I growled, sounding exactly like Bob when he was riled up, except a couple of octaves higher. “You said we were going on a cruise, but where are we catching it, San Francisco . . . or San Diego?”
Timothy sighed as if he’d really hoped to avoid the question longer, blinked once, then said, “Actually . . .”
“Tell her fast. Penelope’s going to flip!” Bob laughed. He received a jarring elbow in the ribs from Terry, as Bob always did when he said something Terry figured wasn’t appropriate, but I was frankly glad that I wasn’t the only one smelling a rat.
Timothy greeted Bob’s interjection with a semi evil look at Bob, followed by a bout of throat clearing, but then my husband (Love the sound of that!) kissed my forehead again and said, “I’m sorry, my darling. It’s not possible to sail from California to France. We have to first take another airplane flight. But you’re an experienced flyer now. This will be as easy as riding the old hobby horse, Molly. Remember that ride? You conquered your fear and had a good time.”
I swallowed some water, dug down deep, and came up with a rather tepid smile. “Sure,” I said. “Piece of cake. How long a flight?”