Page 23 of Set to Love

As we merge onto the highway, leaving downtown behind, I relax into my seat.

“Do you mind if I . . .” Max gestures to the CD binder he first noticed on Friday.

“Knock yourself out. Pick your poison.”

He reaches for the binder, flipping through the plastic sleeves with focused intensity. “Oh hello. Chicago.” He slides two CDs out of the case and holds them up. “Do we want the original Broadway cast recording? Or the film soundtrack?”

I bite my lip, navigating a lane change. “Movie. I like the cuts better.”

He laughs and feeds the disc into the player. “I agree. Don’t tell my drama-school teachers, but the orchestration on the film score is top-notch.”

A second later, the brassy punch of the overture fills the cabin. I reach for the dial and crank it up. The volume knob sticks just a little before the speakers give a satisfying thump.

“You’ll probably need to turn it up even more once I start singing,” I warn, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Which I will. But fair warning—my voice isn’t exactly up to your standards. It’ll come out like the people who shout along at a concert.”

“No matter. I come from a family of professional shower singers,” Max says, already tapping his feet against the floorboard in perfect time with the jazz percussion. He glances over, eyes bright with mischief. “And I’d always much rather hear someone sing with passion than perfect pitch.”

As the first few notes of “All That Jazz” kick in, he leans back, but I can see him watching me, waiting for me to take the plunge. It’s the first time in a long time I haven’t felt like I’m being graded on my performance, whether it’s on a court or at a table.

I take a breath, find the beat, and start to belt out the first line.

“Well, listen to you.” Max laughs, turning in his seat to get a better look at me. “That’s a cracking set of pipes you’ve been hiding.”

I point a warning finger at him while keeping my eyes on the road. “No commentary from the gallery.”

He lets out a low, breathy laugh and settles deeper into the upholstery, watching me. When the chorus hits, he joins in, sliding effortlessly into the harmony as if he’s done this a thousand times before. Correction. Make that several million times. His voice is smooth and rich in a way that makes it obvious why people pay to hear him sing eight times a week.

“Okay, that’s just unfair,” I say between lines.

“Not really,” he says innocently. “You invited the theatre kid. But if it makes you feel better, I can change octaves.”

“Just keep the harmony coming,” I say.

We hit the final chorus in a glorious, messy duet, me in my normal mezzo-soprano and Max in a gravelly bass.

“You’re going to hurt your voice if you do that.” I laugh as the track ends. “Just be yourself.”

“As you wish.”

And that’s how we spend the remainder of the drive to Blue Spring State Park.

The highway sign for our destination appears from behind a wall of pine trees and thick palmetto bushes.

“We’re almost there,” I say, easing off the gas as the road narrows into a shaded two-lane drive. We pass beneath the wooden entrance sign and roll up to the ranger station. I pay the six-dollar fee and follow the winding road deeper into the park.

Spanish moss drapes from the branches of towering live oaks, swaying lazily in the thick summer air. The air will be hot and sticky as soon as I turn off the AC, but it’ll all be worth it once we make it down to the river.

A few minutes later, the road opens into a small parking area. I pull into a spot near the water.

Max steps out of the 4Runner and stretches, rolling his shoulders before taking a deep breath. “That smell . . .” He pauses, his brows knitting together.

“Swampy?” I offer.

He laughs. “I was gonna say earthy.”

“Welcome to the real Florida.” I grab my bag and nod toward the trees. “We’ll have to hurry. I booked us on the ten a.m. boat tour. I didn’t want to wait until one. There’ll be too many tourists, and I have other plans for us.”

We follow the wooden boardwalk to the bridge overlooking the spring. When the trees finally open up, the St. Johns River spreads out before us. Its calm surface is the color of strong iced tea. Cypress trees line the shoreline, their knobby roots poking out of the water like crooked fingers.