Everybody who was anybody in Fort Stockton back in the day had a membership at the Tall Cotton Yacht and Supper Club out on the shores of Lake Leon. There seemed to be competition between the more well heeled as to who could outdo whom in those heady days after the war where everyone was focused on making money and building reputations instead of supporting troops and buying War Bonds.

Making the eight mile trek out to the Club from town, one did not want to be seen in anything that wasn’t worthy of membership in the Tall Cotton. On Friday and Saturday nights there would be a steady stream of Cadillacs and Packards, Lincolns and Buicks on the two lane highway from town towards the reservoir, all of them carrying Fort Stocktons most beautiful out to the Club for evenings of dinner, dancing and the occasional deals to be done over cocktails.

Even in a sea of the finest postwar iron Detroit could crank out, Cort Cooper’s Chrysler Town & Country convertible stood out from the rest. Folks used to say the ash and mahogany woodwork on Cort’s convertible was finer than that which lined the walls of the Gentlemen’s paneled smoking room near the back of the club. Cort’s wood had earned him a reputation in other areas, as well.

One Friday evening in early May of ’47 when it was still cool enough to have the doors and windows open to catch the breezes off the lake, Cort and his wife Casandra were enjoying an intimate dinner for two. Somewhere between the seafood bisque and the Lobster Thermidor, a beautiful young girl wearing a low-cut, strapless yellow dress putting everything she had to offer on display stopped by their table. She planted a wet smooch right on Cort’s lips and walked away saying, “See you later, Sweetie.”

Of course Casandra was livid and fought her first inclination to storm out to the Town & Country, leave the club behind, and head back to town. She fought that urge, kept a smile on her face and said under her breath, “Who the devil was that woman and what did she mean by ‘See you later’”?

“That was my mistress, Lana,” Cort replied as calmly as if he was talking about the weather.

“You have a mistress! And she’s bold enough to walk up to us in public? Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind? I want a divorce!” his wife demanded.

Cort was unfazed. Men tempered by the foxholes of war rarely return to being threatened by the fairer sex. “Dear,” he told her, “she means nothing to me. She’s just some harmless fun. You know I love you and always will.”

Casandra was beside herself. “Not after the way I was belittled tonight!” she retorted. “That was disgraceful.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t do anything like that again,” Cort reassured his wife. “She was just showing off. I’ll make sure she knows better in the future.”

“Do you mean to tell me you plan on seeing that hussy again?” Casandra exclaimed.

“Why, of course, Dear,” he replied.

“DIVORCE!” she threw back at him between clenched teeth. Casandra was seething.

“Now darling, you need to think this through. You know we have a pre-nuptial agreement. If we divorce, you’ll be comfortable. But there will be no more membership in the Club. No more trips to Dallas for shopping at Neiman-Marcus. And certainly no more cruising the country backroads of Pecos county in a Town & Country convertible,” he explained to his exasperated spouse. “I know how fond you are of that Highlander plaid interior. It is perfect with your fair complexion.”

She sat back in her chair and glanced over at the table by the bar. “Isn’t that William from church? Who’s he with? That isn’t Stella!”

“That’s William’s mistress. I believe her name is Laura or Lauren. Something like that,” he said.

“She isn’t nearly as pretty as ours,” Casandra observed.