Part III of a Trilogy.

When his secretary dropped the mail on his desk, she was sure to place what looked like the most interesting correspondence on the very top of the stack.

It was addressed to ‘Bobby’ rather than ‘Robert’ or ‘Mr. Hardin’. In her years of working for him, she had never heard anyone call him that. She made herself busy straightening up his desk till he saw it. It didn’t take long.

He recognized Jo Ellen’s feminine script immediately, having read hundreds of her letters over and over again. The return address on Pine Street in North Platte confirmed what he already knew. He threw the letter in the trash, unopened, and grabbed his hat off the rack as he headed over to the Lucky Lady for lunch and a couple Highballs.

When he got back to the office he was considerably more relaxed. Mrs. Rodgers had emptied the trash, but not before retrieving the letter and placing it back on top of his desk. The letter opener with his initials in brass laid atop the envelope.

The woman had a way.

He leaned back in the leather chair, sliding the letter opener down the top of the envelope, opening a wound that had never healed. “I contacted the same Ford dealer in Fort Stockton you sent me to, back in 1946, to pick up the new convertible you’d purchased,” the letter began. “He was kind enough to give me your address, and tell me you’d never married. I was at the depot that day you came home, around the corner. Watching to be sure you made it back, and got the letter. It broke my heart, but would have been worse if I hadn’t seen you one more time.”

She went on to explain that her mother had passed on only months after she returned home from Texas. Her illness had been further advanced than first thought. Jo Ellen had moved in with her brother and his wife, often helping take care of their children, especially during summers. She had been hired as the librarian at C. J. Cobb Preparatory Academy, named after one of the town’s founders, not Nebraska’s cash crop.

She was a writer on the side and had been awarded Best Short Story of 1955 by the Central-States Amateur Writers, or C-SAW. (Members called it See-Saw, because it was an up and down experience emotionally.) ‘Love Delayed, Love Denied’ was the title of the story, and she was going to be presented the award next month in Oklahoma City. “Would there be any way . . .”

Immediately, orders were being shouted for Mrs. Rogers to book a round trip on the Texas Eagle to Oklahoma City in three weeks, and reserve a rental car for that weekend. “Get the nicest one they have. Make it a convertible. And book a suite at the Colcord Hotel. Make sure it has adjoining . . . . Never mind. I’ll handle the details when I get there.”

The Safire blue over white Super 88 was perfect for a reunion, even if it was a reunion that was a decade late. The globe in the middle of the steering wheel was appropriate; Bobby Hardin was on top of the world as he pulled the Oldsmobile under the front awning of the hotel and tossed the keys to the valet.

She looked even better than the black and white photo he had carried in the straps of his helmet years earlier. After the awards ceremony in the Grand Ballroom, they retired to their separate but adjoining rooms upstairs. Room Service delivered a cart with breakfast for two to his suite the next morning.

The Oldsmobile was never returned to Hertz. He wouldn’t let Jo Ellen out of his sight long enough for her to pack up her things in North Platte. They drove the Super 88 all the way back to Fort Stockton, where he had his attorney send a check to the Hertz office in Oklahoma City to purchase the car outright and gave it to Jo Ellen as an engagement present.

Three years later, he traded it in on a Oldsmobile Fiesta station wagon when Jo Ellen came home and announced that baby number three was on the way. A convertible is a great way to make up time, but a wagon is a better way to get lost in it.