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don’t play it for anyone.
Really.”
    And the thing was? Jane loved ’60s
music.
    “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 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.”
    The familiar guitar riff from “I Go to
Pieces” made unexpected tears spring into her eyes and jolted her
back in time. In an instant it was 1995 and 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 world.
    She stared out the window at unfamiliar
Montana. I tell my eyes, “Look the other way,” but they don’t
seem to hear a word I say, 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 touring van listening to random ’60s music in the
Bozeman Pass.”
    “You found me out.”
    “It was one of my Dad’s favorites.” She
unscrewed her water bottle 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. Sounds familiar.”
    “I wouldn’t trade it.”
    “Me neither,” she whispered. “Do you mind if
I open the window?”
    “No, go for it.”
    A few minutes later Peter and Gordon were
singing about “A World Without Love” and with a good, deep breath
of fresh air, Jane allowed her memories to linger. She leaned into
then, even, which was unusual for Jane. 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, dirty-blond hair cut short and
neat, 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
his voice had been slightly grittier than her uncle’s, with a
stronger Bostonian accent 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. Think quick.
    “They don’t write songs like these
anymore.”
    “Oh, I agree.” He glanced at her, then back
to the road, smiling. “They’re sweet, right? Heartfelt.”
    “Yeah. Like, the music now is all so cool
and slick. These songs were all heart. I mean, two men
singing about how they can’t bear to live in a world without love?
Can you imagine now?”
    Lars chuckled. “Wouldn’t happen.”
    “And the harmonies. Speaking of”—she
shuffled the CDs on her lap—“do you have the Kingston Trio
here?”
    “I do at home. But, um, I think I have The
Fleetwoods if you’re looking for more harmony. Check your lap.”
    “Yes!”
    “Give it to me.”
    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