Marisol Hemingway isn't looking for love when she meets Paul McCartney on holiday in the summer of 1963. She is nursing a broken heart, and he is on the brink of international success. But the attraction between them is undeniable. Will Paul be the...
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The house was a hive of activity before the sun was fully up. Jim was being treated in Liverpool for his arthritis and had an afternoon doctor's appointment. The McCartneys were taking an early train home.
A driver arrived amid a flurry of goodbyes and hugs and cheek kisses and promises to visit soon. When the front door closed behind Jim and Ruth and Angie, the house seemed oddly quiet.
Marisol turned to Paul. "So."
"So," he repeated, smiling down at her.
"Melody has met your dad, and I'm thinking of rebooking my flight."
He shrugged. "What's the rush? Why don't you at least stay the weekend."
Marisol thought it over. There really was no rush. Paul distracted her from grieving over her grandmother. Melody was happy. It would do them good to relax a few more days before the long trip home. She smiled to herself. He wanted them to stay.
The thing about being swept up in Paul's world was that the pace was so fast, his mind was so quick and his life was so full, that she never had time to be sad when she was around him. Even grieving over her grandmother was temporarily suspended until she got back home and could breathe again. When she was with Paul, they lived fully in the moment. She didn't think about the past or the future, because it took all her concentration just to keep up with him in the present. And that wasn't such a bad way to live.
"What's on the schedule today for a busy rock star?" she asked.
"John's popping round. We're working on a song. And we have to go to the studio tonight. We have a hit album to make."
"Good to know some things never change."
"From your lips to God's ear. I certainly hope they never change. Let's get a cuppa." He lifted Melody from her arms and headed into the kitchen.
Mrs. Kelly was busy upstairs stripping bedding, for which Marisol was grateful. They could have their tea and toast and jam without the older woman's reproachful looks.
It felt like they were playing house as they bustled around in the kitchen, accidentally or intentionally brushing up against one another as they poured tea and made toast and reached inside the icebox for butter and jam. They sat at the table with their knees touching, laughing about silly things Ruth had done or Angie had said. Paul held Melody in his lap, praising her efforts as she concentrated on getting Cheerios from the bowl in his hand to her mouth.
When the bowl was empty, Melody took it with both hands and peered down, seconds from slinging it to the floor.
"No!" Marisol said sharply, wresting the bowl from her daughter's grip and putting it out of her reach. Melody fretted, tilting her head back against Paul's chest.
Paul frowned. "Don't be mean to her."
Marisol snickered. "You're new to this, aren't you?"
He pointed a finger to her chest. "And whose fault is that? Yours."
