Part II of a trilogy. Part I was posted yesterday. Part III will be posted tomorrow.

Bobby threw his duffle bag into the backseat of the new Ford convertible, grabbed the letter Jo Ellen had put under the windshield wiper, and crawled in behind the wheel to read it.

It said she couldn’t leave North Platte. Her mother was ill and needed care. She couldn’t move a thousand miles away to marry a man she’d only seen for 15 minutes nearly three years ago. “I waited to tell you till you were home safely.” it said. “I have a brother still fighting in the Pacific, and I would hate any girl that would break up with with him before he got home.”

The combination of being back in Fort Stockton for the first time, behind the wheel of a brand new car, and losing the only girl he’d ever had, all at the same time, made his head spin and his heart ache. He folded the letter back up and slipped it into the pages of the owner’s manual in the glove box and started up the Ford.

The letter was still in the same place when he traded the Ford in on a new ’51 Lincoln Cosmopolitan convertible five years later. His grandmother’s house out side of town, the one he’d grown up in, and the ten acres it sat on now held a new Howard Johnson Motor Hotel and restaurant. The sale of the property when she passed hadn’t made him rich, but the way he invested the proceeds did. The Cosmopolitan was a celebration of that, and an opportunity rid himself of the uncomfortable feelings he still had for the Ford. He hadn’t clean out the glove box before he traded it in.

Six months later he had business in Denver. He could have taken the train, but decided to put the top down on the new car and see some country. The flathead V8 purred through New Mexico, climbed into Colorado, and deposited him at the Brown Palace Hotel in luxury. Deals were done, papers were signed, and three days later the Cosmo was packed and gassed for the trip back to Texas.

Pulling out of Denver, he knew he should go south. He later told his secretary that it was just a wrong turn that put him on the highway to Nebraska. Fact of the matter was that the Cosmopolitan headed toward North Platte like a moth to a candle and he couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to.

Once in town, a stop at the post office and a few subtle questions let him know that Jo Ellen could be found over on Pine Street. No other details were forthcoming. He slowed the Cosmo down to a crawl as he pulled off Center Street and on to Pine. He spotted Jo Ellen about a half a block down, in the front yard of a prairie style house. She was playing ball with a towheaded little boy that appeared to be about 3 or 4. A handsome guy in his late twenties sat on the steps of the porch instructing them both on the proper way to toss a ball.

Different convertible. Different state. Same punch to the gut. He sped up as he drove by, not noting the double take the car got from Jo Ellen as well as the man on the porch. In the rear view mirror he saw her glance at the Texas plates.

Kansas and Oklahoma made for a bleak drive home, as if the scenery could have improved the situation. The Lincoln could smooth out the pavement, but not the regret. The top stayed up the whole way home.

If he would have just pulled over on Pine Street, he could have met Jo Ellen’s brother sitting on the front porch, as well as her nephew in the yard. Her sister-in-law, in the house making lemonade, could have taken one more Mason jar down off the shelf to help Bobby cool off.

Roads not taken in cars we barely remember. Pieces of the puzzle sliding off the table and getting lost.

Part 3 of the trilogy will be posted tomorrow.