See Jane Fall (3 page)

He rubbed his forehead, staring at the pile
of luggage, suddenly noting the contrast of Jane’s simple duffel on
top of the pile.
She’s just a normal person with a duffel and a
backpack
. Then…
That pile of black Gucci bags must have cost
a small fortune.

As if reading his mind, Jane said, “Don’t
add it up. It’ll hurt your heart. All those starving people in
India…” He looked at her and she shrugged. “Ms. Amaya likes her
comforts.”

Comforts.
The way she said it
reminded him of warm honey.

He had to get some air. He put up his palms
as if to say
Hey, none of my business
. “I’ll get the
car.”

***

Jane didn’t know what to make of Lars.

Rather, Jane didn’t know what to make of
what Lars was making of Jane. She couldn’t remember the last time
someone tried so hard to conceal a quick glance at her chest. Come
to think of it, she couldn’t actually remember the last time
someone had glanced at her chest at all.

She looked over at him as he drove them out
of the airport complex and onto a major highway. He had explained
to her that generally a client would sit in the back and he would
offer them a bottle of water and some trail mix so that they could
relax during the trip to Gardiner. But because of the volume of Ms.
Amaya’s luggage, he had needed to collapse the back seats and Jane
sat up front with him.

“I’m sorry about it, Miss. I didn’t realize
there’d be so much…”

“What? You didn’t realize you were picking
up the luggage of the diva to end all divas? Don’t sweat it. I like
the front seat. By the way…Not Miss. Jane’s good.”

“Well, Jane’s-Good, here’s your water,
here’s your trail mix. Enjoy.” His eyes had sparkled as he turned
her little trick around on her, and she rewarded him with a grin
and an appreciative tip of her cap.

It wasn’t unusual for Jane to get along with
people. By and large, she enjoyed meeting new people and had a
knack for quickly establishing a comfortable, playful rapport.
Representing Samara meant she had to deal with a lot of different
personalities, from easygoing to quite difficult and demanding, but
Jane didn’t really alter herself for anyone, and that seemed to
work for her. Maybe people were so anxious to work with Samara that
they didn’t mess with the gatekeeper, but Jane worked hard to treat
people with kindness and respect, which wasn’t altogether common in
her business. Anyway, it didn’t surprise her that she was getting
along easily with Lars Lindstrom.

What did surprise Jane was how
affected
she was by him. Oh, she was doing a bang-up job
covering it up—you couldn’t be in the same room as movie stars and
models without learning how to control your fawning—but Jane was
really flustered by this guy as she hadn’t been in a very long
time. Which was baffling. And annoying. Because it couldn’t
possibly go anywhere.

But, whew…he was stunning.

A good bit over six feet tall, Lars was
broad-chested like an athlete, like someone who regularly worked
out. “Regularly” meaning hours a day to maintain that sort of form.
He was tan and his face was rugged and maybe a little prematurely
aged in a sexy, outdoorsy sort of way. She guessed he was in his
mid- to late 30s, strong-jawed and hard-bodied. Jane didn’t need
for him to take off his shirt to be certain she’d find a tight
washboard under there. Damn. He owned that body like a Greek god,
she thought, like he didn’t have to work for it.

Despite his body, it was his eyes that had
really startled her. A clear, ice blue, they were almost
supernatural. You didn’t expect someone to have eyes
quite
that blue,
quite
that icy; it was shocking, and if she
wasn’t more practiced at staying composed, she would have stared an
extra minute every time he made eye contact with her. It
helped—him, not her—and was probably no coincidence that his polo
shirt with his company’s logo matched his eyes perfectly. They were
unsettling to her—captivating and a little too intense for Jane’s
general comfort.

Bottom line? Lars was youngish, buff and
unusually good looking. And he’d already proven himself quicker
than most with a couple of witty rejoinders. But all of that
interesting personality would be lost on Samara, of course,
who—Jane predicted from the wealth of five years of
experience—would have Lars in her bed within a day of her
arrival.

When she glanced at him again, he caught her
and offered a friendly grin in return. She didn’t smile back.
Best not to get too attached
, she thought, looking away from
him, out the window.
Already been down that ugly road once
before.

***

A little over a year ago, on one of their
very first international photo shoots, Jane was sent ahead to make
sure everything was ready for Samara’s arrival. Met by her local
contact in Cairo, Ben Abaz, she spent a blissful weekend enjoying
exotic Egypt, being wined, dined and romanced to the hilt by the
handsome modeling agent.

After an instant connection at the airport,
Ben had impetuously kissed her and they had ended up on the floor
of Samara’s hotel suite, quickly consummating their hot little
flirtation. Afterward, Ben had taken her to the ancient
marketplace, held her hand as he pointed out the shoot locations,
made a toast to her sparkling eyes and joined her in bed for two
nights of bliss preceding Samara’s arrival.

But, when Samara arrived, Jane saw an
instant change in Ben’s behavior toward her. He turned from hot and
playful to politely professional in the course of an afternoon.
Jane watched as he followed Samara around like a puppy, eager to do
her bidding, to make himself useful, to make himself indispensable.
Unable to bear the sudden change in his behavior, Jane had pulled
him aside during one of Samara’s costume changes and demanded he
explain the sudden shift.

Ben had touched Jane’s face, running one
long, tapered finger from her forehead down her nose, over her lips
to her chin before pulling away. “Oh, Jane. The sun has come out
from behind the clouds. I am blinded to anything but the sun.”

As if on cue, Samara had exited her tent
half clothed and half painted in sparkling gold body paint,
snake-like gold cuff bracelets circling her arms, and delicate gold
anklets tinkling as she approached.

She had smirked at Jane, and then she
touched her own lips with one manicured, gold-painted fingertip. As
she walked by Ben, she brushed his lips with that fingertip lightly
and murmured, “Later.”

And stupid, pathetic Jane understood. Or
rather, she was cruelly reminded:

Samara was the sun.

Jane was nothing but a shadow, and Samara
wasn’t about to let her forget it.

***

“So, we have the house all set up per your
instructions, and—”

“Later,” said Jane, looking out the window,
adjusting her cap. She wasn’t ready to start working just yet. She
softened her tone, offering him small smile. “We can talk about all
of it later, if that’s okay with you. When we get there.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.” He ran his hands
over the wheel, and she sensed he was wondering if he should make
conversation. He turned to her. “This is the, uh, Bozeman Pass
we’re heading through right now.”

Jane glanced over at Lars, then back out the
window, noting the mountains up ahead, capped with white. The sky
was big and bright blue with picture-perfect puffs of clouds at
pretty intervals. She considered taking out her camera, but you
never got great shots riding along in a car…plus, she was too
relaxed with the afternoon sunlight streaming in through her
window, making her tired body feel mellow and warm.

“Bozeman Pass?”

“Yes, ma’am. To the left over there is the
Bridger mountain range and out your window is the Gallatin Range.
We’re about to pass between the two ranges.”

“Ergo,
pass
.”

“Ergo, pass,” he repeated, seeming to warm
to his subject. “You’ve heard of Sacajawea, right?”

Honestly, it had been a long time since Jane
had studied the history of American exploration, but she had always
admired the story of the intrepid young Indian guide who carried
her infant son on her back from North Dakota to the Pacific and
back again. She had admired her strength and bravery.

She nodded to Lars.

“Well, she guided Lewis and Clark through
this pass.”

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.”

“Whoa!” He whipped his head to glance at her
then turned quickly back to the road. “You actually know her
story!”

“Sure,” Jane conceded. “Hard one to
forget.”

“Huh,” he uttered and Jane heard the
surprise in his voice. “Nobody ever knows the story or remembers
the details.”

“Well, Just-Lars, I guess I’m not nobody.”
She grimaced at her awkward grammar. “Whatever that means.”

“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 and she thought,
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. “Why not? What’cha
got?”

“Oh, I meant the radio.”

She gestured to the radio/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?”

“No!”

“Racist? Like rappers griping about the
’hood?”

“No!”

“Hmmm. Celtic? You into the Enya, yoga,
soothing sort of vibe?”

“No.”

“Japanese flute? Sitar? Or—or Indian? You
like Bollywood movies?”

“You are very strange.”

“I’ve been called worse.” She readjusted her
cap, tucking some stray curls back under, trying not to look at him
and smile.

“Sorry,” Lars said. “That wasn’t
professional. You’re questions are
unusual
.”

“Actually, I preferred
strange
,
Just-Lars.”

He sighed. “I like…I mean, I like music from
the ’60s. When I’m driving alone. I 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.”