Love Songs for the Road

by Farrah Taylor

  “I’m over touring. Really. I was already thinking about slowing down, forgetting about big, national tours altogether to concentrate on parenting, on recording, and maybe the odd residency at a smaller club.”

  “Okay…”

  “What I’ve realized since the tour is that I can end that phase of my life, and not have a single regret. But I can’t walk away from you.”

  “Oh, Marcus.” She put her hand on his, and rested it in her lap. The car swiveled slightly. “Sorry, keep watching the road. Look, it killed me to walk away from you, too. I hated ending things the way we did. I hated leaving the kids with barely a word. And I’ve realized some things, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re the best man I’ve ever known, even though you’re a total pain in the butt sometimes.”

  He reared his head back and laughed. “Thanks a lot.”

  “And that I can make compromises, too, if I have to. I cared too much about what other people thought, and I had this stupid idea that no one would ever look at me in the same way, after I’d been on TMZ. But when I got here, nobody even looked at me twice.”

  “You mean people in your Language Acquisition Diagnostic Methodologies class don’t watch TMZ?”

  Ryan laughed. “Exactly. These nerds don’t know who Marcus Troy even is.”

  He eyed her skeptically. “I doubt that.”

  “Marcus…”

  “What?”

  “I think I—”

  “No, I want to say it first.” They were on a leafy side street off Geddes, where there was no traffic at all. He pulled the car over, and turned toward her. “Ryan Evans, I am completely, head over heels in love with you.”

  Without a word, she kissed him. Her lips met his, and then for one aching second, she pulled back, wanting that feeling of delicious anticipation to last just a moment longer. “Marcus Troy, I am completely, totally head over heels in love with you, too.”

  His taste was so familiar, so comforting, the touch of his fingers so erotic, she felt lush and intoxicated and full of life. For a moment, she forgot where they were, and was surprised to look up and see the canopy of trees above her head. The sun was just starting to go down, and as Marcus passionately kissed her, she felt its light playing on her arms.

  In a moment, Marcus said, “Come on. I’ve got something I need to show you.”

  He headed back toward the university, but as he veered right off of Geddes Avenue, Ryan started to have suspicions.

  “What are you up to?” she asked him.

  “Nothing,” he said, smiling back innocently. “Just a nice country drive.”

  After a couple of blocks, though, he took a right onto Avon. Ryan didn’t let on—Marcus couldn’t know that she’d been stalking the house for weeks—as he pulled into the Crane House driveway and parked next to a grey Prius.

  “A country drive, followed by a house tour?” Ryan asked.

  “Maybe. I heard this one was on the market.”

  Marcus parked, and before Ryan could exit from the passenger side, he ran over and opened the door for her. When she stood up, he hugged her. There was now a slight chill in the air, but she felt so warm in Marcus’s arms. He knew, from now on, he was all the shelter she needed.

  A metallic clinking on the ground surprised her. Marcus, his arms clasped behind her waist, had dropped something.

  “Ooh, what’s that?” he asked playfully.

  Ryan looked down and saw a set of keys with a University of Michigan keychain. “No,” she said, still not wanting to let on what she knew and what she didn’t. “I don’t believe it.”

  But he didn’t answer. “Let’s go inside and have a look.”

  “You didn’t!” she yelled.

  “I did.”

  From around the corner walked the brunette real estate agent Ryan had run into weeks earlier. “Well, hello,” she said, obviously recognizing Ryan.

  “Ryan Evans,” she said, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you.” When Marcus turned to open the door, she mouthed, “Please” to the agent, hoping she would understand.

  The agent smiled knowingly, and as Marcus continued to struggle with the lock, nodded in his direction, winked, and gave Ryan an enthusiastic thumbs up. Then, in a chipper voice, she pulled the For Sale sign from the ground and said, “Okay, Mr. Troy, my work is done here. Enjoy your new home!” With that, she was off in the gray Prius.

  Finally, Marcus figured out the lock and swung the door open, ushering Ryan through with a melodramatic wave of the hand. The house was sparsely furnished, but still cozy and warm. She noticed a suitcase lying in the hall.

  “Marcus, I can’t believe you did this,” she said, grasping his hand. “And all just to be closer to me?”

  “I’d do anything to be closer to you.”

  Marcus led Ryan into a room that was outfitted with a simple but beautiful writing desk. A new Mac laptop sat on its surface, still in the box. Behind the door sat a daybed covered in throw pillows. Soft light from a couple of lamps made the room feel cozy and peaceful.

  “You can write your thesis here,” Marcus said. “When you’re ready.”

  “And what about you? What will you do while I’m slaving away?”

  “I’ll be writing songs, playing with the kids, making dinner, whatever.”

  He kissed her, long and deep, and Ryan clung onto him. She would never leave Marcus again. She hadn’t even seen half the house yet, but she didn’t need to. Just being back in Marcus’s arms, she’d found her way home again.

  Epilogue

  A Bigfork in the Road

  “I see three, on the same car!” Miles yelled loudly in the seat next to her. Ryan Troy was driving down the Swan Highway toward the abandoned farmhouse in Polson where Marcus and Smitty were doing the final overdubs for their new record.

  “Three what, Miles?” She put a hand on her belly; the gesture had become instinctive.

  “That makes…” He counted to himself. “…three hundred and twenty-seven.”

  “Three hundred and twenty-seven what?”

  But the inscrutable nine-year-old said nothing, only pointing to the Chevy 4x4 in front of them by way of explanation. “And we’re not even in Texas.”

  Ryan squinted at the truck, but at 4:30 in the afternoon, the November light was already fading, the truck was going almost eighty (100 percent legal in big-sky country) and she couldn’t detect anything special about it. The Chevy looked like any other Montana pickup.

  “Come on, Ryan,” Miles said. “On the bumper?” as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  At last, Ryan saw the three bumper stickers. The truck, apparently, belonged to either one of the state’s last great cattle ranchers, or to some other Montana meatatarian, because the three stickers read: “WWJDFB: What Would Jesus Do For Bacon?” (with a picture of Christ himself gnawing on a tasty-looking piece of pig meat), “There is plenty of room for all of God’s creatures…ON MY PLATE!” and strangest of all, “Cloned Meat: It’s Deja Stew!”

  “You crazy kid,” Ryan said, “You’ve kept counting them, all this time?”

  “Sure,” Miles said. “We all have been. Charlotte and Dad, too.”

  Ryan couldn’t believe the counting of the bumper stickers had continued these last three years, without her knowing it. Sure, she’d been living in Michigan, doing her coursework there, since the tour had ended. But Marcus had spent at least half of his time in Ann Arbor with her, and he’d brought the kids out for vacations at least a dozen times.

  “Didn’t I invent that game?” Ryan asked. “Give credit where it’s due, Miles.”

  “No way. I saw ‘Beef: It’s What for Dinner’ in Houston. I made it up.”

  Ryan laughed. “Keep dreaming.”

  She turned off of Route 35, and onto the interstate road, 93, wondering if this was the very same stretch of road Marcus had chased her down after he’d interviewed her in nothing but briefs and boots. Smiling to herself, she wondered when Mil
es would be old enough to hear that story.

  The plan was to pick up Marcus, Smitty, and Charlotte, who was laying down a guitar solo today on “Fork in the Road,” the new song that Marcus was sure would be the first single on his upcoming album, and head down to the new coal-fire pizza place by Blacktail Mountain. After that last tour—Marcus hadn’t been on the road since then, and had no plans to anytime soon—Charlotte had taken up the guitar, studying with none other than Smitty. According to Marcus, she was already “as good as I’ll ever be” on the instrument, and Charlotte had flipped when Marcus told her he would feature her on the upcoming album.

  Circling through the farmhouse driveway, Ryan parked her F-150 alongside the El Dorado. She was tempted to honk the horn—in her current condition, walking was her least favorite sport. But they were probably still recording, so she and Miles got out of the car and walked toward the studio. Ryan could hear loud music pumping out of the barn, a speedy guitar solo screaming over the top of a full band.

  “That’s got to be Smitty, right?” Ryan asked Miles.

  “Charlotte’s not that good yet.” He started to jog, as if to double-check.

  “Hey, Miles, slow down and give me a hand. Come on, now.”

  The boy stopped in his tracks and walked back to her, offering his arm for support. “Sorry,” he said. Miles required some nagging now and then, but some day soon he would become a gentleman, just like his dad.

  Ryan knocked on the door, quietly, in case they were in the middle of a take. In a moment, Marcus swung the door open. “Hey there!”

  “Are we interrupting?” Ryan whispered.

  “Nope, come on in.” He kissed her.

  The three of them leaned over the mixing board in the makeshift control room in the corner of the huge ground floor of the barn. It wasn’t a fancy, professional studio, but Marcus preferred to work in such scrappy environments. There were two chairs in front of the board, and Marcus pulled out one for his wife.

  “I can stand,” Ryan said. “I want to see.”

  “Ryan, sit your butt down,” he insisted.

  She relented, and Marcus kneeled beside her, gently rubbing his hand over her baby bump. “She been kicking up a storm again today?”

  “Oh yeah,” Ryan said. “Relentless.” She was so close—only five weeks more, and Marcus and Ryan would actually meet this baby girl of theirs. Ryan was so excited, most days she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  She was ABD now, “all but dissertation,” so she’d moved back to Montana in September, hours after the last class of her PhD program had ended. It had been a difficult three years, wanting every moment with Marcus, wanting nothing more than to be with the kids and him, while also facing a grueling schedule of coursework, and outlining the premise of her thesis. Now all she had to do was write the damn thing. And of course, bring their daughter into the world.

  She whispered into her husband’s ear. “Sometimes, I can’t believe all this is happening, can you?”

  He kissed her. “Pinch me,” he said. And she did, twisting a little piece of skin on that beefy bicep of his.

  “Ow, I didn’t mean that literally,” he said. “Come on, let’s listen. She’s almost done.”

  In the far corner of the room, Smitty, guitar in hand, was coaching Charlotte, pointing to the fretboard of her guitar. “You’re great through the first eight measures. Why don’t you try bending into that high A on measure nine? It could work.”

  “Okay,” Charlotte said, very serious. “Let’s try it.”

  Smitty, though, turned around and nodded to the new arrivals, and Marcus pushed the talkback button so they could hear him through the plexiglass window. “How we doing, gang?” Ryan and Miles waved, while Charlotte studiously ignored them. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Marcus made a couple of small adjustments to the fader marked “Charlotte EG solo” and said, “Okay, we’re rolling.”

  Soon, Marcus’s voice appeared over the control-room monitors, singing the chorus that Ryan had memorized long ago, when Marcus had written the song over a weekend at Crane House. She’d easily heard the song, in various permutations, a hundred times since, and she still wasn’t tired of hearing it, especially the soaring chorus:

  Love Me

  Hold Me

  But Don’t You Ever, Ever Leave Me

  “I’m getting a songwriting credit on this one, right?” Ryan asked.

  “You know it.”

  “I still think you should have left in the ‘feed me’ part.”

  Marcus laughed. “I write love songs, not child-rearing manuals.”

  “Why limit yourself? You’re about to become a father of three. You could have a second career ahead of you.”

  “True,” Marcus considered. “And pretty soon, I’ll have Doctor Ryan Troy at my disposal.”

  “And I have a celebrity husband, which is pretty much the only way to get a book deal these days.”

  “Shh,” Miles said sternly. “Here comes the solo.”

  Charlotte, with Smitty standing in front of her like a conductor, nodding his head to the beat, launched into her solo. Her playing wasn’t lightning-quick or flashy, but it was so melodic, even a non-musician like Ryan could appreciate it. She couldn’t believe how good the newly minted teenager had gotten in only three years.

  “She’s so good,” Ryan said.

  “She’ll be playing circles around Smitty soon,” Marcus agreed.

  “I’ll be better,” said Miles, who, not to be outdone by his sister, had started taking bass lessons the previous May.

  “All you’ve got to do is keep practicing,” Marcus said.

  “I know, I know—you keep telling me,” Miles said, kicking his feet in midair.

  Ryan looked at Marcus, then at Miles, Charlotte, and Smitty, and she wished she could freeze this moment in time with the quartet, this session in a dingy Montana farmhouse. But, feeling the life growing inside her, she knew she couldn’t do that. All four—soon-to-be five—of them were works in progress, moving inexorably toward the future.

  “We’ve all got to keep practicing, Miles,” Ryan said, giving Marcus a deep, sweet kiss. She ran her fingers through her husband’s thick, full hair, then pulled back and looked into his beautiful blue eyes.

  “Guys, please,” Miles said, pulling his sweatshirt over his face. “Don’t be gross.”

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to my editor, Stacy Abrams, for taking this chance on me, and to everyone else at Bliss/Entangled who helped along the way.

  About the Author

  Love Songs for the Road is Farrah Taylor’s first novel. Farrah, a lifelong music lover who has spent most of her life savings on concert tickets, is glad to finally be seeing a return on the investment. She lives with her husband, Ty, and son, Latham, in Polson, Montana.

  Visit her online at www.farrahtaylorromance.com, on Facebook, or on Twitter @farrahromance.