“Some dive bar.” He didn’t remember the name and didn’t really care. He’d look up the name and address he’d written in his notebook when they got closer to town. Settling deeper in the seat, he angled his body so that he didn’t have to crane his neck to look at her.

“Do you have gigs lined up all the way to New York?” she asked.

“For the most part, but only to Chicago. I’m doing this trip for my dad. He died a few months back. Sudden heart attack.”

“Oh, geez. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He brushed aside her sympathy. He didn’t want it and Jack didn’t deserve it. But maybe if he shared a bit about himself, she’d reciprocate. “Jack made this trip thirty years ago when he moved out to LA. I’m playing in all the same joints he did, the ones that are still around.”

“That’s cool. Were you close?”

“Me and the old man? Nah. My uncle Calvin was more like a father to me. Jack’s death was sudden, which is why I’m doing this now. Figured this trip is a good way to say goodbye.” Not quite true. But he couldn’t legally share more.

“That’s a nice thing to do.” Joy glanced at him, then looked back at the road. Her lips moved, forming his dad’s and uncle’s names. Dylan cringed at his slip, turning his face to watch the passing scenery. He wondered if she’d figure it out. He hadn’t been thinking when he’d strung Jack’s and Cal’s names together. He held his breath, his fingers tapping his knees.

“Your dad wouldn’t happen to be . . . Nah, never mind. No, I gotta ask. Was he Jack Westfield?”

Dylan crossed his arms. His gaze flicked upward. He didn’t respond, but she must have seen the answer in his expression. Her mouth fell open.

“Jack Westfield of the Westfield Brothers?” She sounded amazed and dubious at once.

Damn, she was quick. He’d have to be careful around her. “The one and only.” He scratched at the stubble on his jaw.

“No. Way. They were amazing. I’ve heard them play. I went to one of their concerts. I have their greatest hits album.” She pointed at her iPod. Her voice pitched up an octave, going fangirly. “They have like, what, eight Grammys?”

“Nine.” And Jack’s drive to have Dylan share his limelight was what drove them apart.

“Holy bleep. You’re Dylan Westfield.”

“Did you just say ‘holy bleep’?” He laughed.

“I read about you in Rolling Stone. You’re the Dylan Westfield. You’ve written songs for River District and Sal Harrison. Your lyrics are the awesome of awesomeness. I love them. And . . . and . . .” She snapped her fingers, then pointed in his direction. “Your parents named you after Bob Dylan.”