Jane looked around admiringly at the landscape, which wasn’t very developed, aside from the four-lane highway on which they were traveling. It wasn’t hard to imagine what it looked like two hundred years ago.
“Would have been a tough journey, shackled to a man she’d been sold to with his baby on her back,” she commented.
“Whoa!” He whipped his head to glance at her before turning back to the road. “You actually know her story!”
“Hard one to forget.”
“Huh. You surprised me. Nobody ever knows the story or remembers the details.”
“Well, Just-Lars, I guess I’m not ‘nobody’.”
“Means you’re somebody, I guess.”
She knew his words didn’t have any special meaning, but they made Jane smile as she looked out the window at the Gallatin range, thinking again: You’ll be wasted on my cousin.
“Hey, would you like some music?” he asked. “We’ve got a little bit of a drive ahead. An hour or so.”
Jane shifted toward him, recrossing her legs in his direction. “Why not? What’cha got?”
“Mostly they play country out here.”
She gestured to the CD player. “No CDs?”
He didn’t answer her right away and seemed to be considering her question. “I mean, I have CDs. But, they’re—”
“Are they dirty?”
“Wh-what?”
“Dirty. Like, dirty lyrics or something?” asked Jane.
“No!”
“Racist?”
“What? No!”
“Hmmm. Celtic? You into Enya?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Japanese flute?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Sitar? You like Bollywood tunes?”
“You are very strange.”
“I’ve been called worse,” said Jane. She readjusted her cap, tucking some stray curls back under, and trying not to smile.
“Sorry,” Lars said. “That wasn’t professional. Your questions are unusual.”
“Actually, I preferred strange, Just-Lars. I can live with that.”
He sighed. “I like…I mean, I like music from the 60s. When I’m driving alone, that’s what I listen to. That’s what I have on CD.”
And the thing was? Jane loved 60s music.
“Cool. I don’t mind 60s music.”
“Really?”
“Nope. It’s your van. We can listen to it if you want. Where are the CDs?”
Lars flicked his overhead visor down and twelve CDs, neatly arranged in a flat holder, appeared underneath.
“May I?” she asked. Jane reached over, careful not to block his vision with her arm, and collected the twelve CDs one by one, depositing them carefully on her lap.
“Let’s see…”
The soundtrack to American Graffiti, the soundtrack to Peggy Sue Got Married, Top Hits of the 60s, Beach Boys’ Endless Summer, Peter and Gordon—
“This one. Track three.”
She slipped the disk into the slot, only waiting a moment before the familiar guitar riff from “I Go to Pieces” made unexpected tears spring into her eyes. She was instantly jolted back in time to 1995. She was a six-year-old in the back of her father’s car on the way to school, and he was playing this song, telling her it was his mother’s favorite, telling her that it was one of his favorites too.
Do you hear the longing, Janie? Can you hear it? This must be the saddest song in the whole world.
She stared out the window at unfamiliar Montana.
…and I go to pieces and I want to hide, go to pieces and I almost die, every time my baby passes by…
“Hey,” said Lars, “you have a decent singing voice, Jane Mays.”
Jane didn’t realize she’d been singing along.
“I bet you say that to all the girls who end up in the front seat of your van listening to random 60s music in the Bozeman Pass.”
“You found me out.”
“It was one of my dad’s favorites.”
She took a bottle of water from the glove compartment, unscrewed the cap and took a long sip.
“Huh. Mine too. I grew up listening to these songs. My dad loved the 60s stuff, and my mom tolerated it, so…”
“Lots of car rides singing along to 60s music, right? Sounds familiar.”
“I wouldn’t trade those memories,” he said softly.
“Me neither,” she whispered. “Do you mind if I open the window?”
“No, go for it.”
With a good, deep breath of fresh air, Jane allowed her memories to linger. She leaned into them, even, which was unusual for her. It had become difficult, over the years, to differentiate real memories of her father from memories that were actually of her uncle. But, with the old chords drawing her back in time, she thought of her father’s profile, driving her to school, his dirty-blond hair cut short and neat, and his light-blue dress shirt open at the neck. He was very handsome, and he had loved her with no strings attached.
Do you hear the longing, Janie?
She suddenly recalled, with a heart-pounding feeling of elation, that her father’s voice had been slightly grittier than her uncle’s, with a stronger Bostonian accent; almost as if he’d worked harder to hold onto it after moving to California. Hearing his voice in her head after so long was like uncovering a long-forgotten treasure.
“Penny for your thoughts?” asked Lars.
Um, no way. This belongs to me, not to you.
“Oh. Um. I don’t know. I was just thinking that they don’t write songs like these anymore.”
“I agree.” He glanced at her, then back to the road, smiling. “They’re sweet, right? Heartfelt.”
“Heartbreaking,” she murmured.
“Little of that too, I guess.”
“They’re emotion,” she said, looking over at him. “The music now is all so cool and slick. These songs were all heart.”
Lars chuckled. “Sure were. And the way their voices blended, right?”
“Yes! The harmonies. Like butter.” Jane sighed, shuffling through the CDs on her lap. “Hey…do you have the Kingston Trio here?”
“I do at home. But, um, I think I have The Fleetwoods if you’re looking for a three-part sound.”
“Yes! Here it is!”
“Give it to me,” he said.
Suddenly the voices of the late-50s trio filled the car.
“I love this one,” Lars sighed, gently beating his fingers along to “Come Softly.”
Jane leaned back in her seat, letting the soft harmonies and sweet tune envelop her. Come softly, darling. Come to me, stay. You’re my obsession forever and a day…
Her afternoon was not turning out as planned.
She should be doing work on her phone, not listening to obscure music with a hot tour guide. But she was so tired, and the music was so nice. It was such a relief to be far away from New York, and it had been weeks, maybe months, since her father felt so real to her.
She glanced at Lars and felt her stomach flutter. His lips were moving as he sang softly, but she couldn’t actually hear any sound. She watched his lips, almost mesmerized, wondering what it would be like to—