Some thought the story of Dotty Dornan was finished in 1959. It had really only begun.

“As Gwendolyn swam nearer to him, his strong arms grasped her at the waist and lifted her out of the water, her heaving breasts breaking the surface of the lake and presenting themselves as an offering.  The sun glistened off his muscles as they flexed to lift her ever higher, every inch further into the air lessening her ability to deny him the pleasure he would soon demand.”

So read one of the early chapters of STUD, the latest in a series of romance novels Dotty had banged out on the same Smith-Corona typewriter she’d ordered from the Wards catalog a decade and a half earlier.  Under a series of different pseudonyms,  Dotty Dornan had found success beyond her wildest dreams stirring the deepest emotions of the readers who scooped up her books and read them cover to cover. and over and over.  

The romance novels were even becoming more accepted in the community.  The Ben Franklin had a small display of them in the front window so the housewives and young single women could easily tell when a new title had come in, and not have to go in and ask.  The Piggly Wiggly was even stocking some of them on the same aisle as the personal feminine products so the more conservative men of Fort Stockton wouldn’t notice.  They didn’t even know that aisle existed, much less the products it contained.  Fewer and fewer women were even bothering to crochet fancy covers to slide the books into in order to hide the steamy jackets and titles from prying eyes.

The fact that Dotty had maintained her anonymity through seventeen novels and three motion pictures still amazed her.  The royalties and movie rights had financed her new Buick Electra 225 convertible in ’59, the new pool in her backyard, and her son, Hank’s private education at Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern.  Dotty had freely contributed, always anonymously, to several civic minded projects that benefited the Fort Stockton Library, Daughters of the Texas Revolution, and the “Put the Wild in Wildflower” program that beautified the highways coming into Fort Stockton from either direction.

In 1962 Dotty’s life was about to take another turn. Hank was set to go off to school at Abilene Christian College and she would be in the house alone. Alone with her typewriter and her fans, but alone, nonetheless. In preparation for that transition, she got in her ’59 Electra and made her way down to Buckboard Buick. While the fire engine red convertible only had less than 20,000 miles, the cat-eyed headlights were as dated as her cat-eyed glasses and she was determined to get rid of both.

Her last two novels, Bodies on Fire and Lady Cop had produced enough royalties that she had Hank’s tuition covered for all four years, enough left over to replace her Buick with a new one and purchase one for Hank to take to college, as well. Having never been able to share the full story with Hank of his father’s heroism, she was determined to do everything else she could to provide the best life for him possible without spoiling the boy.

She had called ahead to let her salesman, ‘Porthole’ Patterson, know she was coming.  ‘Porthole’ had been selling Buicks at Buckboard since right after the war and had been her salesman for the ’48 Roadmaster as well as the ’59 Electra Dotty had purchased.  He’d always treated her with respect and she returned the favor by always asking for him.

Porthole knew she’d fall in love with the Camelot Rose Metallic Electra 225 and he was not wrong.  With the fins of the 50s shaved off and the scowl of her ’59 replaced with a more restrained face, Dotty said it was perfect.  She also wondered to herself why the name ‘Electra’ had never occurred to her for one of her romance novels, even though she’d driven one for three years and vowed to make it the moniker of the heroine in Perfume and Pain, the next novel she was due to begin after she dropped Hank off at college.

“It’s perfect,” she told Porthole.  “Write it up.”  Trusting his intuition, he already had the sales contract filled out and ready for Dotty to review and sign.  But not even his highly trained intuition and exceptional sales abilities prepared him for the next words to drop from her lips.  “And I’ll take the white Skylark for Hank.”

“The little sporty convertible will be the perfect way for him to go off to college.  Dependable, not too big, not too much for him to handle,” Dotty noted.  

Porthole couldn’t remember writing up two contracts for the same customer at the same time before.  “This is like something from a novel!” he exclaimed.  Dotty tried not to snicker, but couldn’t hide the smile.

Flint LaCrosse couldn’t remember later if it was the smile, the chuckle, or the fact that she was buying two new Buicks at once that made him come over and introduce himself. Flint was the Regional Manager of Parts and Service for the West Texas / New Mexico / Arizona Region of the Buick Division and just happened to be in town for his monthly dealership visit when he saw Dotty.

It had been twenty years since a man had shown interest in Dotty and she wasn’t sure how to respond to his outstretched hand.  Small talk led to him offering to drive the Skylark home for her, since she couldn’t drive two new Buicks at once.  Begrudgingly, Dotty accepted the offer.  Hank was as thrilled to see the new Skylark as he was confused by the man driving it.

Flint asked if he could take them both to dinner to celebrate. Dotty politely refused. She did, however, slip a note into the palm of his hand as he left with her name and number written on it. “Call me next time you’re in town and Hank is away at school,” it read.

Four weeks later, the phone next to Dotty’s Smith-Corona rang. She thought it might be Hank, reporting on his first exam results. Instead, it was Flint LaCrosse. “I’m in town,” he said. “I believe you owe me dinner.” Before she could argue the point, he followed up with, “I’ll pick you up at 7:00. It’s a beautiful evening. We can put the top down on your new Electra. I’ll make reservations at the Silver Slipper Supper Club.” With that, he hung up.

Dinner was thrilling. Emotions were stirred. Dotty was fighting the impulse to slide over next to Flint on the mauve tinted leather bench seat on the way back home, but feared folks in Fort Stockton might see and get the wrong impression. Once the Electra was tucked back under the carport at her ranch home in RoadRunner Estates, they made a quick entrance through the side door into the kitchen.

Losing herself in the moment, Dotty had his Van Heusen unbuttoned and his pants around his ankles right there on the linoleum. Somehow she was able to leave his tie on while removing his shirt and drug him through the living room using it. Once in her bedroom, door shut and locked, Dotty acted out the best six scenes she’d written in Venus in Mink. For his part, Flint was able to showcase his expertise in both Parts and Service, using all his parts to service Dotty. She became the Wildcat to his Roadmaster, then they both fell asleep in a satisfied, crumpled pile, just like her heroine, Gwen Morgan, in Glad to be Bad. Flint never made it back to his room at the Cattle Baron Hotel.

Flint LaCrosse’s trips to visit Buick dealerships in West Texas became increasingly more frequent, to the detriment of those New Mexico and Arizona. When Hank came home from School for Christmas, he couldn’t help but notice his mother seemed exhausted all the time. She seemed different in other ways he couldn’t quite place. The next door neighbor mentioned to him that she hadn’t seen much of Dotty out in the yard that fall, and there was a different new Buick in the driveway all the time.

It was in January before Flint told Dotty that he was married. Had it been any sooner than that, she would have had the will to cut it off and be done with him. But by then she had grown to love him and wanted him under any circumstances she could have him. Not only had he stirred passions within her that she’d forgotten existed, but he was an inspiration for her writing. Her stories became steamier, if that was even possible; each filled with details lifted right from her own satin sheets.

She’d never shared with Flint just how she made her living, just like she’d never shared with Hank the truth about his father. Dotty was living in a maze of secrets and half truths that eventually found their way into the novels she wrote. When her publisher finished Divorce Bait, he called Dotty immediately and told her it was going to be her biggest seller, yet.

The following fall, Hank was starting his sophomore year at Abilene Christian, her new Camelot Rose Metallic Electra had less than 4,000 miles on the odometer, and Flint had noted a difference in Dotty’s demeanor. In September of 1963, Dotty began writing Murder on the Side.